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Athelstan would have loved to question Sir John but the noise was absolutely deafening. The coroner was busy shaking his fists at the cheeky apprentices who tried to jump up to catch his arm. Cranston would roar and shake himself as a bear would rage at baiting dogs. Athelstan trailed desolately behind, trying not to pay any attention to the shouts, the haggling and bartering. He was bumped and knocked by peasants, craftsmen and townsfolk. Now and again he would stumble and have to profusely apologise to some lady trying to walk arm in arm with her gentleman. As they went down La Reole, towards Vintry and the less salubrious parts of the city, Athelstan kept his hand on his purse. Here the quacks and fortunetellers had set up their temporary booths and attracted the pickpockets and cutpurses. These always gathered in such places, as quickly as bees round honey or, as Sir John would more caustically put it, ‘flies round a turd’.
At last Athelstan glimpsed the rigging of ships and, on the morning breeze, smelt the fresh, tangy air of the river. Cranston, now in a black mood and taking copious swigs from his miraculous wineskin, turned down an alleyway leading to the Barque of St Peter. A relic-seller came whining up, carrying in his hands a box allegedly contain-ing the toenails of the Pharaoh who had persecuted Moses. Cranston pulled back his cowl.
‘Oh, Lord save us!’ the man yelled and fled like a whippet back into the shadows.
The Fisher of Men was sitting on a bench outside his chapel. He was surrounded by his strange coven, beggars and lepers, their faces and hands covered with sore open wounds. Some were so disfigured they wore masks. Beside the Fisher of Men stood Icthus. The boy had no eyebrows or eyelids; he looked like a fish and could swim like one. Sir John stopped and bowed: he had great respect for the Fisher of Men.
‘Good morning, Sir John.’
‘And you, my lovelies.’ Cranston smiled whilst Athelstan sketched a blessing in their direction.
The Fisher of Men rose, hands by his side, and bowed from the waist. ‘Welcome to our humble church, Sir John.’ His watery eyes shifted. ‘And you, Brother Athelstan. Once again death brings us together.’
‘The corpse of Edwin Chapler?’ Cranston asked.
The Fisher of Men handed his pottle of ale to Icthus, opened the chapel door and beckoned Cranston and Athelstan forward. The inside was a long, narrow shed. Against the far wall a makeshift altar had been set up; on it stood two candlesticks either side of a huge crucifix. On the flanking wall were paintings, crudely drawn with charcoal then filled in with paint. One depicted Jonah being swallowed by the whale. The other showed Christ and his apostles, who looked suspiciously like the Fisher of Men and his coven, sailing in a laden barge across the Sea of Galilee. An eerie place, lit by rushlights and oil lamps. Down either side were tables; on each a corpse, plucked from the Thames, lay underneath a dirty piece of canvas. The air smelt stale and, despite the huge herb pots beneath each table, Athelstan detected the sickening odour of corruption. The Fisher of Men, however, seemed all at home, chattering to himself as he led them forward. He stopped at a table and pulled back the sheet. The corpse of a young man lay sprawled there, his hair, body and clothes soaked in river water, eyes half-open, face a liverish white. Athelstan noticed faint crusts of dried blood on the corners of the mouth.
‘It was no accident,’ the Fisher of Men intoned. He turned the corpse over.
Athelstan, trying to control his nausea, studied the mass of loose flesh on the back of the young man’s head.
‘Any other wounds?’ Cranston asked, helping himself to his wineskin.
This time Athelstan accepted the coroner’s kind offer and took a deep mouthful himself.
‘None that I could see.’ The Fisher of Men held out his hand. ‘Three shillings, Sir John! Three shillings for pulling a murder victim from the Thames!
‘The Guildhall will pay you,’ Cranston retorted.
The Fisher of Men smiled; his hand remained outstretched. ‘Come, come, Sir John, don’t play cat and mouse with me. If you go to the Guildhall for three shillings, three shillings you’ll get. If I go, I’ll be beaten round the head and rolled down the steps.’
Cranston sighed and handed the money over.
‘He was struck on the back of the head,’ the Fisher of Men declared. ‘We know he was Edwin Chapler, his seals of office were found in his pouch. Being a royal clerk, we sent these to the Regent at his Palace of the Savoy.’
‘Anything else?’ Cranston asked.
‘A few coins but…’ The Fisher of Men shrugged.
Athelstan turned the corpse over and, kneeling down, began to whisper the words of absolution. The Fisher of Men waited patiently whilst Athelstan sketched the sign of the cross over the young man’s face and whispered the Requiem.
‘He was struck on the back of the head,’ the Fisher of Men continued. And, knowing the run of the river, I believe he was thrown from London Bridge three evenings ago.’
‘Wouldn’t his body be bruised by the starlings and bridge supports?’
‘No, Sir John, the river runs fast and furious between the arches of the bridge. He was certainly thrown down there: as his body swirled in the water, bits of seaweed became entangled in his clothing. If you climb down and look at the arches underneath the bridge, it’s one of the few parts of the river where seaweed is caught and held.’ The Fisher of Men laughed. ‘But I’m showing off, Sir John. One of my lovely boys out there, he talks to old Harrowtooth, the witch, the wise woman, who lives in a hovel near the city end of the bridge. Three evenings ago she went into the chapel of St Thomas a Becket, and met a young man who matches this man’s description.’
‘Of course,’ Sir John breathed. ‘And behind the chapel is a small, deserted area. It’s well known as a place for suicides. What time did Harrowtooth see him?’
‘Well after Vespers, the sun had disappeared. Very agitated he was, praying just within the porch, as if he didn’t really want to be there.’
‘I know old Harrowtooth,’ Athelstan added. ‘I’ll have a talk with her.’
‘And the corpse?’ the Fisher of Men asked.
‘Keep it for twenty-four hours,’ Cranston replied. ‘If no one claims it, send it to the priest at St Mary Le Bow for interment. There’s a plot in the cemetery there… ’
‘I can’t do that,’ the Fisher of Men responded. ‘They refused the last one and will continue to do so until the graveyard is cleared and a new charnel house is built.’
Athelstan stared down at the corpse, full of pity at this young life so brutally wiped out.
‘Send it to St Erconwald’s,’ he declared. ‘If no one wants him, St Erconwald’s will take him.’
Athelstan abruptly turned as the door swung open. Havant, the Fisher of Men’s coven protesting and fluttering like a group of starlings around him, swept into the corpse house.
‘Oh, for the love of God!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Don’t say I’m going to see you on the hour every hour, Sir Lionel?’
‘A rash of deaths, Sir John. Another clerk has been murdered.’
‘In the river?’ the Fisher of Men asked hopefully.
Sir Lionel didn’t even bother to acknowledge him. ‘Luke Peslep was killed on the privy at the Ink and Pot tavern: stabbed through the belly and the gullet. The assassin has vanished like smoke.’
‘Robbery?’ Cranston asked.
‘Nothing taken from him except his life, though this was left.’
Havant handed across a dirty piece of parchment; the ink was dark blue, the writing sprawling. Cranston passed it to Athelstan.
‘My eyes are rather bad this morning.’ Cranston’s usual explanation when he’d drunk too much.
Athelstan read it in the light of an oil lamp.
‘Two riddles,’ he said slowly. ‘The first reads: “A king once fought an army. He defeated them but, in the end, victor and vanquished lay in the same place.”’