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humble church, Sir John.’ His watery eyes shifted. ‘And you, Brother Athelstan. Once again death brings us together.’
    ‘The corpse of Edwin Chapler?’ Cranston asked.
    The Fisher of Men handed his pottle of ale to Icthus, opened the chapel door and beckoned Cranston and Athelstan forward. The inside was a long, narrow shed. Against the far wall a makeshift altar had been set up; on it stood two candlesticks either side of a huge crucifix. On the flanking wall were paintings, crudely drawn with charcoal then filled in with paint. One depicted Jonah being swallowed by the whale. The other showed Christ and his apostles, who looked suspiciously like the Fisher of Men and his coven, sailing in a laden barge across the Sea of Galilee. An eerie place, lit by rushlights and oil lamps. Down either side were tables; on each a corpse, plucked from the Thames, lay underneath a dirty piece of canvas. The air smelt stale and, despite the huge herb pots beneath each table, Athelstan detected the sickening odour of corruption. The Fisher of Men, however, seemed all at home, chattering to himself as he led them forward. He stopped at a table and pulled back the sheet. The corpse of a young man lay sprawled there, his hair, body and clothes soaked in river water, eyes half-open, face a liverish white. Athelstan noticed faint crusts of dried blood on the corners of the mouth.
    ‘It was no accident,’ the Fisher of Men intoned. He turned the corpse over.
    Athelstan, trying to control his nausea, studied the mass of loose flesh on the back of the young man’s head.
    ‘Any other wounds?’ Cranston asked, helping himself to his wineskin.
    This time Athelstan accepted the coroner’s kind offer and took a deep mouthful himself.
    ‘None that I could see.’ The Fisher of Men held out his hand. ‘Three shillings, Sir John! Three shillings for pulling a murder victim from the Thames!
    ‘The Guildhall will pay you,’ Cranston retorted.
    The Fisher of Men smiled; his hand remained outstretched. ‘Come, come, Sir John, don’t play cat and mouse with me. If you go to the Guildhall for three shillings, three shillings you’ll get. If I go, I’ll be beaten round the head and rolled down the steps.’
    Cranston sighed and handed the money over.
    ‘He was struck on the back of the head,’ the Fisher of Men declared. ‘We know he was Edwin Chapler, his seals of office were found in his pouch. Being a royal clerk, we sent these to the Regent at his Palace of the Savoy.’
    ‘Anything else?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘A few coins but . . .’ The Fisher of Men shrugged.
    Athelstan turned the corpse over and, kneeling down, began to whisper the words of absolution. The Fisher of Men waited patiently whilst Athelstan sketched the sign of the cross over the young man’s face and whispered the Requiem.
    ‘He was struck on the back of the head,’ the Fisher of Men continued. And, knowing the run of the river, I believe he was thrown from London Bridge three evenings ago.’
    ‘Wouldn’t his body be bruised by the starlings and bridge supports?’
    ‘No, Sir John, the river runs fast and furious between the arches of the bridge. He was certainly thrown down there: as his body swirled in the water, bits of seaweed became entangled in his clothing. If you climb down and look at the arches underneath the bridge, it’s one of the few parts of the river where seaweed is caught and held.’ The Fisher of Men laughed. ‘But I’m showing off, Sir John. One of my lovely boys out there, he talks to old Harrowtooth, the witch, the wise woman, who lives in a hovel near the city end of the bridge. Three evenings ago she went into the chapel of St Thomas à Becket, and met a young man who matches this man’s description.’
    ‘Of course,’ Sir John breathed. ‘And behind the chapel is a small, deserted area. It’s well known as a place for suicides. What time did Harrowtooth see him?’
    ‘Well after Vespers, the sun had disappeared. Very agitated