By Murder's Bright Light by Paul Doherty Page B

collect the proceeds. Some goes to the crew, with a large portion for the captain, some to the exchequer. Of course, Sir Henry, if he had been alive, would have received his portion.’
    ‘Go on,’ Athelstan urged, looking at Cabe.
    ‘Well, the crew were given shore leave. We began to check the ship for damage done, repairs to be made, stores to be bought.’
    ‘And Roffel’s body?’
    ‘Oh, the first mate, Bracklebury, took that ashore at first light – that and the captain’s personal possessions. He handed them over to his widow.’
    ‘Were there any visitors during the day?’
    ‘I came on board,’ Crawley replied, ‘for the usual inspection and routine questions.’
    ‘You were not upset that you’d lost a good captain?’
    Crawley shrugged. ‘He wasn’t a good captain, Father. He was a good seaman. Personally, I couldn’t stand him. I know, I know, the man’s dead, God rest him, but I’ll say it now, I did not like him!’
    ‘Then in the afternoon,’ Cabe quickly picked up the conversation, ‘as is the custom, some whores came on board.’ He looked away sheepishly. ‘You know how it is, Father? Men at sea for some time, especially the young ones, if they don’t get their greens, they desert.’
    Cranston coughed. ‘And the whores did their business?’ he asked.
    ‘No,’ Cabe replied tartly. ‘They stood in the stern and sang carols!’ He caught the warning look in Cranston’s eyes. ‘Of course they did, but we had them off the ship before darkness fell, when most of the crew left.’
    ‘Were there any other visitors?’
    ‘Bernicia,’ Minter the surgeon said with a smirk.
    ‘Who’s she?’
    Now even Crawley was smiling.
    ‘Well, come on man, share the joke!’
    ‘She’s a whore, Sir John. Well, Roffel’s mistress. A pretty little thing. She has a house in Poultney Lane near the Lion Heart tavern. She didn’t know that Roffel was dead.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘When we told her the captain was dead, coffined and sent to his wife, she started blubbing. We let her stay for a while in the captain’s cabin, smacked her bottom and sent her ashore. No more bloody fingers for her.’
    ‘What do you mean, bloody fingers?’ Cranston asked.
    Cabe leaned forward, out of the shadows.
    ‘When we took ships, Sir John, we were always in a hurry. We boarded them, despatched the crew, grabbed the plunder, sank the ship and left. Roffel always scrutinised every corpse for valuables, particularly rings. If they didn’t come off fast enough, he hacked the fingers off. He thought it was a joke. He used to give the rings, fingers still in them, to Bernicia his doxy.’
    Athelstan looked away in disgust. He had heard about the war at sea, bloody and vicious on both sides, but Roffel seemed the devil incarnate. No wonder his wife could hardly be described as the grieving widow.
    ‘And after Bernicia had left?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘Everything was done. Bracklebury fixed the watch – himself and two other reliable fellows. We had our purses full of coins, so we took a bumboat and went ashore.’
    ‘Wasn’t the watch rather small in number?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘Not really,’ Crawley said. The ships are moored in fine on the Thames. An officer and at least two men should stay on each vessel, one at the stern and one in the bows.’ His eyes fell away.
    ‘But not really enough?’ Cranston insisted.
    This is the devil’s own ship, Sir John,’ Coffrey said. ‘We wanted to get off. Especially after . . .’
    ‘After what?’ Athelstan asked quietly.
    ‘Children’s nightmares.’ Crawley laughed. I’ve heard of this.’
    ‘During the afternoon,’ Cabe explained, ‘when the day began to die and the mist started rolling in, some of the men said the ship was haunted by Roffel’s ghost.’ He shrugged. ‘You know sailors. We’re a superstitious lot. They talked of feeling cold, of an unseen presence, of scrabbling noises from the hold. They put this to the mate, he asked for two volunteers to