Free By Murder's Bright Light by Paul Doherty Page B

tentatively.
    ‘I was William Roffel’s paramour.’ Bernicia held up a hand and sniggered softly behind beringed fingers. Her nails were painted a deep purple.
    ‘Ah, yes!’ Cranston’s unease grew. ‘And he visited you often?’
    She spread her hands and looked around the room.
    ‘Captain Roffel was generous for the favours I gave him.’
    ‘And did you love him?’ Athelstan asked.
    Again the pretty snigger and the quick movement of her hand.
    ‘Oh, Father, don’t be ridiculous! How can you love someone like Captain Roffel? A blackguard born and bred! He was generous and I was available.’ She pursed her lips. ‘You know he was a defrocked priest?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Oh, yes.’ She laughed gaily. ‘Roffel was once a curate in a parish near Edinburgh. He became involved in some trouble and had to leave his parish rather quickly.’
    ‘What was this trouble?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘And you met him where?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘In a tavern.’
    ‘Which one?’
    She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I forget.’
    ‘Did you ever meet his wife?’
    ‘Oh Lord, that sour bitch. Never!’
    ‘Did you give Captain Roffel anything before he left on his last voyage?’
    ‘A nice, big kiss.’
    ‘And are you suspicious about his death?’
    ‘Oh, no, the evil bastard always had a weak stomach.’ Bernicia shrugged. ‘Now he’s gone’ – she fluttered her eyelashes – ‘and I’m available again.’
    ‘Do you know anything about his last voyage?’
    ‘Nothing. I went on board the ship. They wouldn’t even let me go to his cabin, so I came ashore.’
    ‘Did Roffel have any enemies?’
    Bernicia rocked with laughter. ‘I think the question, Sir John, should be, "Did he have any friends?" He had enemies all along the river Thames. Roffel may have been one of the king’s captains but he was also a pirate.’ Bernicia lowered her voice. ‘You’ve heard the stories, surely? Roffel was not above attacking any ship. Many a sailor’s lonely widow curses him before she falls asleep at night.’
    ‘Have you visited his coffin in St Mary Magdalene?’ Athelstan asked. He, too, had caught Cranston’s unease and was studying the woman carefully.
    ‘No, I haven’t and I don’t intend to.’
    Perhaps it was the way that she said it, moving her face sideways. Or perhaps, in the light of the fire, Cranston caught a glimpse of hair on her upper lip not quite covered by the white paste she had rubbed there. Suddenly the coroner leaned forward and grabbed her by the knee.
    ‘Well, aren’t you the pretty one?’ he growled. ‘What’s your real name, Bernicia?’
    She tried to struggle free. Sir John’s hand went further up her thigh. He shrugged off Athelstan’s warning glance.
    ‘I have heard of your type,’ he said. ‘I wonder, if I kept moving my hand up to your privy place what I’d find, eh?’ He placed his other hand gently on her rather flat chest, his fingers gently pressing back the muslin. ‘Bernicia the whore,’ he said softly, ‘you’re no woman. You’re a man!’
    Athelstan’s jaw sagged. He gaped at Bernicia and then at Sir John. Bernicia tried to struggle free.
    ‘The truth,’ Sir John demanded. ‘Otherwise I’ll have the beadles brought in and have you stripped. You can’t hide what God gave you!’ He leaned forward and touched Bernicia’s hair. ‘I know where you met Roffel,’ he continued. ‘In the Mermaid tavern down near St Paul’s Wharf. What’s your real name? Come on, what is it?’
    ‘My name is Roger-atte-Southgate.’
    Athelstan could only keep gaping.
    ‘I once served as a cabin boy with Roffel. I was, I am a woman in a man’s body.’ Bernicia looked into the fire. ‘I used to envy the whores, the way they moved, the clothes they could wear, the excitement they aroused in the sailors. And then, one night, I discovered there were others like me.’
    ‘If the sheriffs discover you,’ Cranston warned, ‘they’ll burn you as a sodomite at Smithfield! Isn’t