‘That’s caused by the river,’ Icthus explained in his high-pitched voice. ‘The body always swells.’
Athelstan was more concerned by the dreadful black-red wound high in the man’s chest, and the feathered crossbow bolt embedded deep.
‘Do you want me to remove that?’ the Fisher of Men said.
‘No, no.’ Athelstan lifted a hand.
For a while, his companions remained silent as he quickly performed the rites for the dead.
‘He was a soldier,’ Cranston observed. ‘You can tell that from the wounds on his body – look at the cuts.’
‘A fighting man,’ Icthus agreed. ‘The muscles on his arms and shoulders are strong.’
‘If he was a fighting man,’ Cranston declared, ‘how was he killed like that? Whoever held that crossbow must have been very close. Where did you find him?’
‘Beneath London Bridge,’ Icthus replied. ‘We were out this morning looking for Sigbert. I saw him, floating near the starlings, the wooden supports. A great deal of rubbish is dumped there, the reeds cluster thick and rich. He was trapped by it, floating face down, pushed up by the reeds underneath, as well as the refuse.’
‘If he was there,’ Athelstan asked, getting to his feet, ‘where was he thrown into the river?’
‘He was found just under the bridge,’ the Fisher of Men replied, ‘almost beneath the chapel of St Thomas, so I would guess he was thrown directly over.’
‘But,’ Athelstan gestured at the corpse, ‘he’s stark naked. Even at night the bridge is busy. How does a fighting man allow an enemy to get so close and release that deadly crossbow? If he was killed on the bridge and fell over, then he would still be in his clothes, sword belt on. I find it hard to imagine someone meeting the Judas Man in the centre of London Bridge, killing him with a crossbow, stripping his corpse and throwing it over, without being observed. Are you sure he wasn’t killed elsewhere on the river?’
‘Brother, you know religion,’ the Fisher of Men replied, ‘and I know the Thames. I can’t give you all the answers, but this man was thrown over London Bridge and his corpse trapped in the reeds below.’
Athelstan examined the corpse but could find no other wound, no blow to the head or stab wound to the back. He crossed himself and walked out of the barque, plucking at the Fisher of Men’s sleeve.
‘Tell me now,’ he said, ‘another matter. How many years have you worked here?’
‘I know what you are asking.’ The Fisher of Men shaded his eyes against the bright glow of the setting sun. ‘It’s my business to know everything which goes on along the river. The robbery of the Lombard treasure? I was here then. I and my company.’ He made a face. ‘Though it was different then. Icthus was yet to be born, but his father was just as good. Well, we were paid to comb this river for the treasure. I swear the only thing we found was that barge, many miles downstream, trapped in the reeds where it is very marshy, few people go there.’
‘So do you think the attack took place at the Oyster Wharf?’ Athelstan asked.
‘No, I don’t. I never did. Quaysides are busy places.’
‘So why do you think you were told to look there?’
‘I don’t know. Our orders were to comb both sides of the river as far down as Westminster. Apart from that barge there was nothing else.’
‘And the barge?’ Cranston asked.
‘Empty, nothing but a floating piece of wood.’
‘Tell me,’ Athelstan asked, ‘you know the Thames. If you had to wait at night to take possession of a treasure chest, without others knowing or being seen?’
The Fisher of Men pointed south-east across the river.
‘Somewhere between Southwark and Westminster, where the banks are flat and firm, and you can see both the river and the land behind you.’
‘Is it possible,’ Athelstan asked, ‘for four men to be killed and their bodies to be—’
‘Hidden? Weighted down?’ the Fisher of Men asked. ‘I doubt it. Perhaps one corpse, but four? I know the story, Brother. If those four men were attacked at the dead of night, their assailants would be moving quickly, clumsily. You can tie rocks to a corpse, weigh down its clothes, but time and the river will take care of that. I’ve always said this, and I’ll say it again: if those men were killed by the riverside, their corpses were taken elsewhere.’
‘Buried along the banks?’ Cranston asked.
‘But that would take time,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘You’re not talking of a shallow grave, but a burial pit. I know enough about the river. Earth and soil are shifted; eventually their bodies would be uncovered.’
The Fisher of Men clasped Athelstan’s shoulder. ‘If you ever wish to become our chaplain, Brother, you are most welcome. You are correct. If those men were killed, their corpses must have been taken away. Is there anything more I can do to help?’
Athelstan shook his head, clasped the man’s hand and made their farewells to Icthus and the rest of the company.
‘Where to now?’ Cranston asked as Athelstan walked up an alleyway leading from the quayside.
‘Why, Sir John, the bridge.’
Athelstan kept to the alleyways as he and Cranston discussed what they had seen and heard at the Barque of St Peter. The coroner was full of observations. Athelstan, half distracted, kept thinking about what the Fisher of Men had said.
