fetched a sconce torch. He hurried back to the priest’s house, plucked one from the wall, lit it with a tinder and ran back before Cranston’s litany of curses became too audible.
They crossed into the cemetery. Even in summer time it was a sombre place. Now, under a carpet of white snow, the branches of the yew trees spread like huge white claws over the forlorn mounds of earth, crude crosses and decaying headstones. Athelstan felt a deep sense of isolation. An eerie stillness hung like a cloud and even the breeze seemed softer. The trees were motionless. No night bird sounded. In places, the shadows seemed oppressively dark, sinister hiding-places where some demon or evil sprite might lurk. Athelstan held up his torch and Cranston looked around this most benighted of God’s acres.
‘By the sod, Athelstan!’ he whispered. ‘Who would come here in the dead of night, never mind pluck corpses from their final resting place? Where are the graves?’
Athelstan showed him the forlorn, shallow holes in the ground, the mud piled high on either side as if some demented creature had clawed the corpses out. Cranston knelt down next to them and whistled softly through his teeth. He looked up, fat face distorted by the torchlight.
‘Brother, you said that only the corpses of beggars and strangers have been stolen?’
‘Yes, Sir John.’
‘And how were they buried?’
‘The corpse, wrapped in canvas, is placed on a piece of wicker-work in the parish coffin. During the funeral ceremony this is covered by a purple canopy and removed when the body is lowered into the soil.’
‘And you found no trace of the grave robbers?’
‘None whatsoever.’
Cranston stood up, wiping the slushy mud from his hands. ‘We have three possibilities, Brother. First, it could be a macabre joke. Some of our idle rich young fops think it funny to place such a corpse in the bed of a friend, but there’s no rumour of such an evil prank recently. Secondly, it could be animals, either four-footed or human. Oh, yes,’ he murmured at Athelstan’s shocked expression. ‘When I served in France I witnessed such abominations outside Poitou. However,’ he stamped his feet and looked up at the darkened mass of the church, ‘no one, not even in Southwark can be that degenerate. Finally, mere are Satanists, the Astrasoi, those born under an evil star.’ He shrugged. ‘You know more about such people than I do, Brother. The corpse may be used as an altar or the blood drained to raise a demon or they may need one of the limbs. You have heard of the hand of glory?’
Athelstan shook his head.
‘The hand of the corpse is hacked off; the name of the person whom the witch or warlock wishes to hurt is placed between its fingers and then it’s buried at the foot of a gibbet on the first stroke of midnight.’
Athelstan rubbed his face. ‘But how can I stop such desecration, Sir John? The ward bailiffs and beadles are not interested. No citizen will guard our cemetery.’
‘I will see what I can do,’ Cranston murmured. He turned quickly. ‘There’s someone here.’ He pointed to two dark shapes over near the charnel house at the far side of the cemetery. ‘Look there!’ He strode across the snow-covered grass like a charging bullock, Athelstan hurrying behind him.
‘Stop!’ Sir John bellowed. ‘In the King’s name, stop!’
Two cloaked figures turned and slowly walked towards them. At the sound of the clatter of wooden sticks and the soft tinkle of a bell, Cranston hurriedly stepped back.
‘Lepers!’ he whispered, and grabbing Athelstan’s torch, held it up before him. ‘By the sod!’ Cranston breathed, and stared pityingly at the white-hooded faces. He looked round at Athelstan. ‘You let them stay here?’
He nodded. ‘During the day. At night it is easier for them to wander unmolested.’
‘Have they seen anything?’
Athelstan shook his head. ‘They are mutes but I doubt if they would become involved. It would be a
They crossed into the cemetery. Even in summer time it was a sombre place. Now, under a carpet of white snow, the branches of the yew trees spread like huge white claws over the forlorn mounds of earth, crude crosses and decaying headstones. Athelstan felt a deep sense of isolation. An eerie stillness hung like a cloud and even the breeze seemed softer. The trees were motionless. No night bird sounded. In places, the shadows seemed oppressively dark, sinister hiding-places where some demon or evil sprite might lurk. Athelstan held up his torch and Cranston looked around this most benighted of God’s acres.
‘By the sod, Athelstan!’ he whispered. ‘Who would come here in the dead of night, never mind pluck corpses from their final resting place? Where are the graves?’
Athelstan showed him the forlorn, shallow holes in the ground, the mud piled high on either side as if some demented creature had clawed the corpses out. Cranston knelt down next to them and whistled softly through his teeth. He looked up, fat face distorted by the torchlight.
‘Brother, you said that only the corpses of beggars and strangers have been stolen?’
‘Yes, Sir John.’
‘And how were they buried?’
‘The corpse, wrapped in canvas, is placed on a piece of wicker-work in the parish coffin. During the funeral ceremony this is covered by a purple canopy and removed when the body is lowered into the soil.’
‘And you found no trace of the grave robbers?’
‘None whatsoever.’
Cranston stood up, wiping the slushy mud from his hands. ‘We have three possibilities, Brother. First, it could be a macabre joke. Some of our idle rich young fops think it funny to place such a corpse in the bed of a friend, but there’s no rumour of such an evil prank recently. Secondly, it could be animals, either four-footed or human. Oh, yes,’ he murmured at Athelstan’s shocked expression. ‘When I served in France I witnessed such abominations outside Poitou. However,’ he stamped his feet and looked up at the darkened mass of the church, ‘no one, not even in Southwark can be that degenerate. Finally, mere are Satanists, the Astrasoi, those born under an evil star.’ He shrugged. ‘You know more about such people than I do, Brother. The corpse may be used as an altar or the blood drained to raise a demon or they may need one of the limbs. You have heard of the hand of glory?’
Athelstan shook his head.
‘The hand of the corpse is hacked off; the name of the person whom the witch or warlock wishes to hurt is placed between its fingers and then it’s buried at the foot of a gibbet on the first stroke of midnight.’
Athelstan rubbed his face. ‘But how can I stop such desecration, Sir John? The ward bailiffs and beadles are not interested. No citizen will guard our cemetery.’
‘I will see what I can do,’ Cranston murmured. He turned quickly. ‘There’s someone here.’ He pointed to two dark shapes over near the charnel house at the far side of the cemetery. ‘Look there!’ He strode across the snow-covered grass like a charging bullock, Athelstan hurrying behind him.
‘Stop!’ Sir John bellowed. ‘In the King’s name, stop!’
Two cloaked figures turned and slowly walked towards them. At the sound of the clatter of wooden sticks and the soft tinkle of a bell, Cranston hurriedly stepped back.
‘Lepers!’ he whispered, and grabbing Athelstan’s torch, held it up before him. ‘By the sod!’ Cranston breathed, and stared pityingly at the white-hooded faces. He looked round at Athelstan. ‘You let them stay here?’
He nodded. ‘During the day. At night it is easier for them to wander unmolested.’
‘Have they seen anything?’
Athelstan shook his head. ‘They are mutes but I doubt if they would become involved. It would be a
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