‘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 him to my shop.’

‘Shop?’ Athelstan queried.

‘You’ll see.’

Cranston looked warningly at Athelstan.

‘But there was no one else?’ the Coroner asked. ‘You saw no one around?’

The fellow shook his head.

‘No one at all. I tell you, Sir John, the place was deserted. I saw no one. I heard no one.’

‘But how?’ Athelstan broke in. ‘How can someone approach Sturmey, stick a knife in his heart then disappear like a puff of smoke?’

The Fisher of Men shrugged and drained his wine cup. ‘I only takes the bodies out,’ he replied. ‘I don’t account for why they died. Come, I’ll show you.’

He led them out of the tavern, down a side street and turned into a narrow alleyway. He stopped beside a long barn-like structure and opened the padlocked door. Athelstan immediately covered his face and mouth against the terrible stench. The Fisher of Men lit torches, the pitch spluttered into life and Athelstan gazed round at the trestle tables, about a dozen in all, which filled the room. Some were empty but others bore bundles covered by leather sheets.

‘Now, which one’s Sturmey?’ the Fisher of Men muttered to himself. He pulled back one sheet. ‘No, that’s the suicide.’ He stopped, a finger to his lips, and pointed to another covered bundle. ‘And that’s the drunk. So this,’ he said triumphantly pulling back the sheet, ‘must be Sturmey!’

The dead locksmith lay sprawled there, his face a ghastly white, his hair and clothes sodden. In the centre of his chest was a dark purple stain. Beside the corpse lay a long knife. Athelstan picked it up gingerly.

‘The same type, ‘he murmured,’ as used on Mountjoy.’ He took another look at the corpse. Cranston turned away and busily helped himself to his wineskin.

‘How do you know it’s Sturmey?’ Athelstan asked.

‘He had a list of provisions in his wallet with his name on,’ the Fisher of Men replied. ‘And My Lord Coroner had already directed myself and others of my Guild to search for this man.’ His face became even longer. ‘The rest you know. Have you seen enough?’

‘Hell’s teeth, yes!’ Cranston snapped. ‘Cover his face!’

‘When you pay the threepence, Sir John, I’ll release the corpse.’

Cranston took another swig from the miraculous wineskin. ‘All right! All right!’ he exclaimed crossly. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Athelstan, let’s get out of here!’

Cranston and Athelstan walked back to collect their horses from the stable.

‘A cup of claret, Brother?’

‘No, Sir John. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Tell me, have you remembered why you knew Sturmey’s name?’

Cranston shook his head. ‘But one thing I do know: Brother, Sturmey was killed because he knew something. He could solve the mystery of how the chest was robbed.’ Cranston stared as two lepers, garbed completely in black, crept along the street, fearful of being recognized. ‘Sturmey was lured,’ he continued, ‘down to Billingsgate. But why? What forced a reputable locksmith to become involved in treason and robbery?’