Cranston and Athelstan arrived back at St Erconwald’s. Whilst the Coroner relaxed in the priest’s house, Athelstan unlocked the church and knelt at the entrance of the rood screen to recite Divine Office. He found it difficult to concentrate on the words of the psalmist and was taken by the phrase, ‘A sea of troubles’. He stopped to reflect on the problems which faced both himself and Cranston as well as the possibility that, even in this little parish of St Erconwald’s, the Regent had his spies. The friar leaned back on his heels and stared up at the crucifix. He hoped tonight’s visitation would be the first and the last; Athelstan quietly vowed that, if it was, he would apply all his energies to this Ira Dei and the horrible murders perpetrated in the Guildhall and elsewhere.

He stared across at the new, beautifully carved statue of St Erconwald, the patron saint of his parish. Athelstan smiled. Erconwald had been a great bishop of London, a man who had faced many problems here in this bustling city, before retiring to the solitude of a monastic house at Barking. The friar could feel sympathy with him and stared at the fixed, pious face, so lost in his thoughts he jumped at a soft touch on his shoulder.

‘Father, I am sorry.’

Athelstan turned to see Benedicta anxiously looking down at him.

‘Father, you did say to return at Vespers?’

Athelstan rubbed his eyes and smiled. ‘Benedicta, it’s good of you to come. Wait here.’

He mounted the sanctuary steps, opened the tabernacle, took out the sacred oils and collected from the small sacristy a stoup of holy water with an asperges rod. These he placed in a small, leather bag and went back to Benedicta.

‘I suppose,’ he said with mock severity, ‘everything is well enough in the parish?’

‘As quiet as the sea before the storm,’ she teased.

They left the church, locked it and went across to find Cranston seated in Athelstan’s one and only chair, head back, mouth wide open, snoring his head off, whilst Bonaventure lay curled in his generous lap.

‘Oh, foolish cat,’ Athelstan whispered, and gently lifted him off before shaking Cranston awake.

The Coroner awoke, as usual, lips smacking, greeted Benedicta then, at Athelstan’s urging, went into the buttery and dashed cold water over his hands and face. Cranston returned refreshed and bellowing that he was ready to do battle with the devil and anyone else.

All three left St Erconwald’s, each lost in their own surmises of what might happen, and made their way through the narrow alleys and runnels of Southwark. It was just before dusk. Shops and stalls now closed, the crowds were dispersing to their own homes. The day’s business was done and Southwark’s violent night hawks, roisterers and denizens of the underworld would only emerge from their rat holes once darkness had fully fallen. They stopped before crossing the great thoroughfare leading down to London Bridge and watched a party of mounted knights pass, bright in their multicoloured surcoats, their great war helmets swinging from saddle horns. Squires and pages rode behind holding shields and lances. After them came two long lines of dusty archers marching through Southwark towards the old road south to Dover.

‘There’s a lot of such toing and froing,’ Cranston observed. ‘The French are now attacking every important seaport along the Channel and the Regent is desperate for troops. If he withdraws any more from Hedingham and the other castles north of London, it might spark off the revolt.’

Cranston watched as the archers trooped by-crop-haired, hard-bitten, with weather-beaten faces — veterans who would make short work of any peasant levies.

‘What will you do?’ he suddenly asked Athelstan. ‘I mean, when the revolt comes?’

The friar pulled a face. ‘I’ll send Benedicta away with anyone else who wishes to escape the eye of the storm. I’ll stay in my church.’

Athelstan, too, studied the soldiers. They stirred memories of his brother Francis and himself during their short and inglorious foray with the English armies in France. He had come home, leaving Francis to be buried in some communal pit. As usual, when thinking of his brother, Athelstan closed his eyes and breathed a quick requiem for the repose of his soul.

They continued their journey and at last arrived at the Hobdens’ narrow, three-storied house. Athelstan looked up. He glimpsed a single candle glowing in an upper-story window, and shivered.

‘Christ and all his angels protect us!’ he breathed as he knocked on the door.

‘Don’t worry!’ Cranston urged. ‘Jack Cranston’s here!’

‘Yes,’ Benedicta whispered. ‘I suppose angels come in all shapes and sizes!’

Cranston was about to make a tart reply when the door swung open. Walter and Eleanor Hobden greeted them. Athelstan took an instant dislike to both of them. The man seemed sly and secretive, whilst the sharp-featured, gimlet-eyed Eleanor looked a veritable harridan.

‘Father, you are welcome.’

The Hobdens stood aside and ushered them in. Athelstan entered the darkened passageway, trying to control his anxiety, as well as a shiver of apprehension which made him flinch and tense as if expecting a blow.

‘I have brought Sir John,’ he declared haltingly. ‘Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the city. And this is Benedicta, a member of my parish council.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘In these cases it’s best to have witnesses.’

The Hobdens, standing on either side of the fire, just stared hard-eyed and Athelstan fought to control his mounting unease. What was happening here? he wondered. Why did this house make him feel so apprehensive? He scarcely knew the Hobdens and yet he found the atmosphere in their house oppressive, redolent of an unspoken evil.

‘Where is your daughter?’ he asked, conscious of how subdued both Cranston and Benedicta had become. He glanced over his shoulder. Cranston’s usual cheery expression was now grave and sombre as if the house had taken some of his usual ebullience away.

‘Elizabeth’s upstairs,’ Waiter muttered. ‘Father, have you brought the oils and water?’

‘Of course.’

‘It will begin soon,’ Eleanor Hobden spoke up. ‘Once darkness falls the demon manifests itself.’

‘In what ways?’ Cranston snapped before Athelstan could stop him.

Walter shook his thin shoulders. ‘Father Athelstan knows that,’ he whined. ‘Elizabeth speaks but with her mother’s voice. Then there’s the knocking on the walls, the smell, the accusations.’ His voice trailed off.

‘How did your wife die?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I mean, your first wife?’

‘Of an abscess inside her,’ Eleanor replied brusquely. ‘We called the best physicians but they could do nothing. She just faded away. I was a distant cousin of Sarah’s and, when she fell ill, I came to nurse her. Father, there was nothing that could be done.’

Athelstan turned as a bent old woman crept, like a shadow, into the room.

‘This is Anna,’ Walter announced. ‘Elizabeth’s nurse.’

The old woman drew closer, her wrinkled face creased into a hapless smile.

‘Elizabeth has driven even me away,’ she moaned. ‘She will have nothing to do with me at all.’

Athelstan studied Anna’s black button eyes, wispy grey hair and narrow nose, and sensed a malice which only deepened his unease.

‘Do you want some wine?’ the Hobdens offered.

‘No, no.’ Athelstan grasped the bag holding the oils and stoup of holy water even tighter.

‘Can I assist?’ Anna offered.

‘No,’ Eleanor Hobden intervened harshly. ‘Anna, go back to the scullery. Walter and I can deal with this.’

Athelstan tensed as he heard a voice calling: ‘Walter! Walter!’

He looked at Hobden whose face had become even more pallid.

‘It’s beginning again,’ the man whispered. ‘It begins like this every night.’

‘Tush, man, it’s only your daughter calling you.’