By Murder's Bright Light Read Free

Furthermore’ – he glared at the hate-filled face of the fat woman – ‘you are bound over to keep the peace between yourselves and Mistress Eleanor Raggleweed, your neighbour. What do you say?’
    ‘But that toad came on our property!’ she whined.
    ‘Ah, yes.’ Cranston turned to Eleanor Raggleweed. ‘Eleanor Raggleweed, your toad who is called Thomas’ – Cranston fought to keep his face straight – ‘is guilty of trespass. You are fined the smallest coin of the realm, one farthing.’
    Eleanor smiled. Cranston glared at the toad, which now croaked merrily back.
    ‘You, Thomas the toad, are made a ward of this court.’ He glared at the Frogmores. ‘So, if anything happens to it, you will have to answer!’
    This is not fair!’ Frogmore whined. ‘I will appeal.’
    ‘Piss off!’ Cranston roared. ‘Bailiffs, clear the room!’
    Eleanor Raggleweed picked up the toad and joined the priest, who gently murmured his congratulations. The Frogmores, with crestfallen expressions, dug into their purses and reluctantly handed over their fine to Osbert. Cranston rested his head against the high-backed chair and rewarded himself with another generous swig from the wineskin.
    ‘Devil’s bollocks and Satan’s tits!’ he breathed. He looked at the hour candle on its iron spigot. ‘It’s not yet ten in the morning and I’m already tired of this nonsense.’ He glanced swiftly at Osbert. ‘Have you ever heard such rubbish?’
    Osbert licked his thin lips and shook his head wordlessly. He always liked to be scrivener in Sir John’s court; the fat, wine-loving coroner was known for his bluntness and lack of tolerance of fools as well as for his scrupulous honesty.
    ‘Never once—’ Osbert told his chubby-faced wife and brood of children, ‘never once have I seen Sir John swayed by fear or favour. He’s as true as an arrow shot from a bow.’
    The scrivener stretched over and picked up a greasy roll of parchment. He loved studying the coroner’s moods.
    ‘Well, Sir John, you are going to enjoy this next one.’
    ‘Tell me,’ Cranston growled.
    ‘Well, Rahere the roaster owns a cookshop in an alleyway off Seething Lane. Next door is his rival, Bernard the baker. There’s little love lost between them.’
    ‘Yes?’ Cranston snapped.
    ‘Rahere had new latrines dug.’
    ‘Well?’
    ‘Bernard maintains that, out of spite and malice, Rahere had them dug so that all the refuse from them drained into the cellar of his bakery.’
    ‘Oh, fairy’s futtocks!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Always remind me, Osbert, never to eat in either place.’ He smacked his lips and thought of the gold-crusted quail pie that the innkeeper’s wife at the Holy Lamb of God was preparing for him. ‘Must I hear the case now?’
    The scrivener mournfully shook his head. ‘I fear so, unless there’s other pressing business.’
    Cranston leaned his elbows on the table and rested his fat face in his podgy hands.
    ‘Ah well!’
    He was about to roar at the bailiffs to bring the next litigants in when there was a thunderous knocking on the chamber door. Edward Shawditch, under-sheriff to the city, swept into the room, his lean, pockmarked face red with fury. Cranston noticed that Shawditch hadn’t shaved; his chin was marked by sharp hairs. His small green eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep and his lips twisted so sharply Cranston wondered if he was sucking on vinegar. The under-sheriff removed a gauntlet and combed back his sweat-soaked red hair.
    ‘A word, Sir John.’
    You mean a thousand, Cranston thought bitterly. ‘What is it, Shawditch?’ He respected the under-sheriff as a man of probity, but the fellow was so officious and so churlish in his manner that he put Cranston’s teeth on edge.
    Two matters, Sir John.’
    ‘Let’s take one at a time,’ Cranston barked.
    ‘Well, there’s been a burglary, another one!’
    Cranston’s heart sank.
    ‘The sixth,’ Shawditch declared flatly.
    ‘Whose house this