occupational hazard whilst others moaned and cried for water. Athelstan quickly studied their faces, relieved to see none of his parishioners placed there. At the entrance to the bridge Cranston stopped and pounded on the iron- studded door of the gatehouse. There was no reply so the Coroner, ignoring Athelstan’s questions, kicked on it, bawling, ‘Come on, Burdon, you little bastard! Where are you?’
The door was flung open and a small, hairy-faced little creature appeared. A veritable mannikin. Athelstan smiled at Robert Burdon, father of at least thirteen children and constable of the gate tower.
‘Oh, it’s you, Cranston. What do you want?’
‘Can I come in?’ Sir John asked.
‘No, you bloody well can’t! I’m busy!’
Cranston stared up at the spikes above the gatehouse and their grisly burdens: the decapitated heads of traitors and malefactors.
‘Fine,’ Cranston breathed. ‘But who’s stealing the heads?’
‘I don’t bloody well know!’ Burdon replied, sticking his thumbs in his belt, his little dark eyes glaring at Athelstan. ‘What am I supposed to do, Father? My job is very simple. I’m to guard the gatehouse and place the heads on the spikes, and I always look after them. However, if some vile viper wishes to come and steal them, what can I do?’ He puffed his little chest out till he reminded Athelstan even more of a cock sparrow, I am a constable, not a guard.’
‘Robert!’ The woman’s voice inside was soft and alluring.
‘My wife,’ Burdon explained. ‘She’ll tell you the same. I don’t know what happened, Sir John. I goes to bed, the heads are there. I wakes up and, though there’s a guard here, the heads are gone.’ He leaned closer. ‘I think it’s witch hags,’ he whispered, ‘The night riders.’
‘Bollocks!’ Cranston roared.
‘Well, that’s the only bloody answer you’re going to get from me, so sod off!’ Burdon disappeared, slamming the door behind him.
Cranston sighed, shook his head and took a generous swig from the wineskin.
‘Come on, Brother.’
‘Who do you think is stealing the heads?’ Athelstan asked, threading Philomel’s reins round his wrist and riding alongside Cranston.
‘God knows, Brother. This city is full of every fiend in Hell. It could be a warlock or witch. The Corporation were particularly angry at the disappearance of the head of that French privateer, Jacques Larue — you remember, the one taken off Gravesend? Mystery after mystery,’ Cranston moaned. He stopped outside the chapel of St Thomas built midway along the bridge.
‘Forget the stealer of heads,’ he muttered. ‘Who gives a damn? Burdon doesn’t, and the guards of the Corporation are half-sodden with drink.’ He nodded at the iron-studded chapel door. ‘Years ago, when I was lean and lithe, a veritable greyhound, Oliver Ingham and I came here to take our vows as knights and consecrate our swords to the service of the King. So many years ago.’ The tears pricked at Sir John’s eyes.
‘Now I’m fat and old and Oliver lies murdered, left stinking in his bed, with the rats gnawing at his corpse, by a hard-hearted harridan from hell. She murdered him! You know that, Athelstan. I know that. She knows that.’
‘And so does God,’ Athelstan added gently. ‘Come on, Sir John, leave it be.’
They crossed the bridge and turned right into Billingsgate where the fish market was in full swing. The din of the cries and commotion of both sellers and buyers beat against their ears like the buzzing of a hornet’s nest. The whole of the wharf seemed to be covered in hand barrows: some laden with baskets, others with sacks. Alongside the river bank, the tangled rigging of the fishing boats reminded Athelstan of seaports; the smell of fish, whelks, red herrings, sprats and cod was almost overpowering.
‘Handsome cod, best in the market!’ a stall owner bawled at them. ‘Beautiful lobsters, good and cheap! Fine cock crabs, all alive!’ another shouted.
Cranston and Athelstan led their horses past stalls where the white bellies of turbot shone like mother-of- pearl next to blood-scarlet lobsters. Brown baskets full of wriggling eels stood round bowls of whelks being boiled alive above steaming cauldrons.
‘Where are we going to?’ Athelstan whispered.
Cranston pointed to a large tavern which stood in splendid isolation at the far end of the market. ‘The Ship of Fools,’ he said.
Athelstan groaned. ‘Oh, Sir John, you have had claret enough.’
‘Sod that!’ Cranston shouted back above the din. ‘We are here to see the Fisher of Men.’ But he refused to elaborate any further.
In the tavern yard an ostler took their horses and they walked into the great taproom which stank of beer, ale and salted fish.
‘Your servant.’ A bandy-legged tavern keeper touched his forelock, his small, greedy eyes never leaving the heavy purse on Sir John’s belt.
‘A cup of claret for me, some…’
‘Ale,’ Athelstan supplied.
‘Ale for my clerk, and another cup of claret for the Fisher of Men. I, Sir John Cranston, Coroner, wish to see him.’
The landlord’s manner became even more servile. He conducted Cranston and Athelstan as grandly as he would any prince to a small alcove with a table beneath a window overlooking the river. He fetched two deep bowls of claret, a stoup of ale, and gushingly assured Sir John that he had already sent a boy for the Fisher of Men.
‘Who is this?’ Athelstan asked.
‘The Fisher of Men,’ Cranston replied, sipping from his cup, ‘is a Crown official. There are five in all, working the banks of the river. This one has authority from the Fish Wharf near St Botolph’s down to Petty Wales next to the Tower.’
‘Yes, but what do they do?’
‘They fish bodies from the Thames. Murder victims, suicides, those who have suffered accidents, drunks. If a man’s alive they are paid twopence. For a murder victim threepence. Suicides and accidents only a penny.’
‘Sir John.’
Athelstan looked up as a tall, thin figure silently appeared beside them. Cranston waved to the stool and cup of wine.
‘Be our guest, sir.’
The man stepped out of the shadows. As he sat down Athelstan fought to hide his distaste. The fellow had red, lanky, greasy hair which fell to his shoulders and framed a face as grim as a death mask, alabaster white, a mouth like that of a fish, a snub nose and black button eyes. Cranston made the introductions and the Fisher of Men glanced expressionlessly at the friar.
‘You have come to view the corpse?’
Athelstan nodded.
‘Bobbing he was,’ the man replied. ‘Bobbing like a cork. You see, most murder victims are loaded with stones but this one was strange.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, you see, Sir John,’ the man sipped from his wine cup, face rigid, eyes unblinking, ‘it’s very rare I meet my customers before they die,’ he explained. ‘But yesterday, later in the afternoon, just after the market closed, I came out of St Mary at Hill for my usual walk along the wharf. I like to study the river, the currents, the breeze.’ The strange fellow wanned to his theme. ‘The river tells you a lot. If it’s rough or the wind is strong, the corpses are taken out mid-stream. Yesterday I thinks: The river’s calm, she means me well. The corpses will be lapped into shore.’
Athelstan hid a shiver.
‘Now there was a man walking up and down, up and down, as if he was waiting for someone. Oh, I thinks, a suicide if ever I saw one. However, I didn’t wish to be greedy, so I walks away. The man was standing behind the stalls, between them and the riverside. I hears a cry. I looks around. The man has gone.’ The fellow sipped from his wine cup. I runs back along the quayside and there he is, bobbing in the river, arms extended, blood gushing from a wound in his chest. I had my fishing line.’
The fellow tapped the leather pouches round his waist. ‘I had him in, clipped my mark on his chest and took
