The Assassin's Riddle by Paul Doherty

murder and reassuring her that Sir John Cranston, for all his love of claret, had a mind as sharp as a razor and a passion for justice.
    They went round to the front of the church and Athelstan smiled at his parish council.
    ‘We’ve been waiting, Father. You’re late!’ Hig the pigman bellowed, his dark-set face made even more ugly by a scowl.
    ‘I had to anoint a corpse,’ Athelstan explained. He introduced Alison.
    ‘Don’t you go lecturing our priest.’ Watkin the dung-collector came down the steps, almost knocking Hig the pigman flying. Watkin’s bulbous face was red, his eyes popping and, even from where he stood, Athelstan could smell his ale-drenched breath. ‘I am leader of the parish council.’ Watkin turned. ‘I am the one who speaks to Father.’
    ‘Not for long!’ Pike the ditcher’s wife called out from the back.
    Athelstan clapped his hands. ‘Come on! Come on!’ The friar intervened before a fight broke out.
    Ranulf the rat-catcher, dressed in his black tarred hood and jerkin despite the weather, opened the church door and ushered them in. Athelstan plucked the sleeve of Cecily the courtesan. She was climbing the steps slowly, clutching at her dress and swinging her bottom provocatively at Pike the ditcher.
    ‘Cecily,’ Athelstan whispered.
    ‘Yes, Father?’ The woman’s cornflower-blue eyes and lovely girlish face, framed in a mass of golden curls, looked more angelic than ever.
    ‘Cecily, when will you learn,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘that only those who are dead are supposed to lie down in the graveyard?’
    ‘Why, Father.’ Cecily’s eyes rounded even further. ‘I only went to pick some flowers.’
    ‘Is that the truth?’
    ‘No, Father, but that’s all I’m going to tell you.’ And the minx scampered off.
    The parish council met near the baptistry, sitting on benches formed in the shape of a square. Watkin took the place of honour on Athelstan’s right, Pike the ditcher on the left, followed by the usual fight for places amongst the rest. Benedicta and Alison found seats on the bench opposite Athelstan and he began the meeting with a prayer. There were the usual items of business: the grass in the cemetery needed cutting; the arrangements for tomorrow’s funeral. Everyone looked sympathetically at Alison. Pike offered to dig the grave, Hig and Watkin to carry the coffin. Athelstan asked who had been drinking raucously two nights previously just outside the church. No one answered, though Bladdersniff the bailiff, Pike and Watkin stared at the floor as if they had never seen it before.
    ‘Now,’ Athelstan continued. ‘The preparations for Holy Rood Day. In about a month’s time, on the fourteenth of September, we celebrate the feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross.’
    That was the signal for everyone to get up and admire Huddle’s new crucifix. The painter, his long, horsy face bright with pleasure, described how he had achieved his masterpiece. Everyone ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’, followed by general agreement that, this time, Huddle had surpassed himself.
    ‘Now,’ Athelstan continued when they had resumed their seats. ‘Rood Day is a holy day. We will have Mass followed by a solemn blessing of the crucifix.’
    ‘I will carry it,’ Watkin bellowed.
    ‘You bloody won’t!’ Pike roared back. ‘You do everything, Watkin!’
    ‘I don’t lie down in the cemetery,’ the dung-collector hissed spitefully.
    ‘What’s that?’ Pike’s virago of a wife leaned forward.
    ‘Hush now.’ Tab the tinker, sitting next to her, grasped her hand. ‘You know Pike has to dig the graves and look after them.’
    Pike smiled across at the tinker and Athelstan sensed there were new shifting alliances on the parish council.
    ‘After the blessing,’ he continued, ‘we will have church ales and some games, followed by the parish feast in the evening.’
    ‘What about the ceremony?’ Pernell the Fleming pulled her hair away from her face.
    Athelstan quietly groaned: