The House of Crows

CHAPTER 11

They walked back towards the quayside, Cranston still loudly declaiming against an ape being named after the king’s own coroner. Athelstan pulled the cowl over his face, nodded gravely, and hoped Sir John would not realise he was fighting hard not to laugh. Outside the priory of St Mary Overy, however, Cranston’s mood suddenly changed. He turned to face his companion squarely.

‘You don’t really believe that scapegrace has anything to do with Harnett’s death, do you?’

‘No, Sir John, I don’t.’

Athelstan glanced away; he studied an old beggar clad in tattered rags who stood at the mouth of an alleyway. The man’s face was covered in bluish stains, as if he had been disfigured in some terrible fire.

‘Well?’ Cranston asked. ‘Brother!’ he exclaimed. ‘What on earth are you staring at?’

Athelstan held a hand out. ‘Stay there, Sir John.’

The friar marched towards the beggar, whose eyes widened in alarm as he recognised his parish priest.

‘Mousehead!’

Athelstan seized the beggar by his stocky shoulder. The beggar flinched, but the friar held him fast as he scraped a finger down Mousehead’s face, removing the dirty coating of powder and paint.

‘Father!’ The beggar began to hop from one foot to another.

‘Mousehead!’ Athelstan warned. ‘If I have told you once, I have told you a thousand times! To beg if you are unable is acceptable to the Lord, but to beg when you are able and pretend you are the opposite, only makes the good Lord angry.’

Mousehead stared fearfully at the friar, his buck teeth even more protuberant, his nose twitching faster than usual. Athelstan pushed him away.

‘Now go and see Widow Benedicta. You will find her at St Erconwald’s. She’ll have a task for you: tell her you can help Perline.’

‘But Perline has gone missing, Father, and there’s a demon near your church.’

‘There’s no demon, Mousehead, and Perline’s not missing. You’ll find him there.’

Mousehead scampered off. Athelstan walked back to where Cranston stood leaning against the wall, staring up at a cat which sat in an open window. Athelstan followed his gaze.

‘Don’t worry, Sir John, I think there’s a solution to your missing cats.’

‘And Perline and Harnett?’ Cranston asked. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

Athelstan sighed. ‘I’d swear on the cross that Perline had nothing to do with Harnett’s death. However, Harnett did go into the lonely Pyx chamber at a time when he and his companions were being stalked by a killer. Now, why should he do that? What would draw Harnett out away from the rest?’

‘Some conspiracy perhaps?’ Cranston replied. ‘Or Perline Brasenose?’

‘Or Perline Brasenose,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘No, no, Sir John, I am not talking in riddles. What I think happened is that someone knew about Harnett’s secret negotiations with that young soldier. Somehow or other, the killer used Perline’s name, and the prospect of buying a Barbary ape, to lure Harnett into the Pyx chamber where he was killed.’

‘But, apart from Brasenose, the only people who would know that would be Harnett’s companions, wouldn’t it?’

‘Not just them, Sir John.’ Athelstan linked his arm through Cranston’s as they walked down towards the quayside. ‘You must never forget Sir Miles Coverdale, who hates the knights and also hails from Shropshire. Or, again, His Grace the Regent who, I believe is dabbling in this matter even though he acts the role of the aggrieved observer.’

Cranston stopped and took a swig from the wineskin. ‘Riddle upon riddle. . But come, Brother, these cats?’

Athelstan began to explain as Moleskin, sweating and cursing against the rising swell of the tide, took them across river to St Paul’s Wharf. This time Athelstan totally ignored the boatman, but whispered his conclusions to an increasingly irascible Sir John. Only when they had disembarked, and Cranston had gone storming up the water-soaked steps, did Athelstan talk to the boatman.

‘Moleskin.’

‘Yes, Father?’

‘Row back to the Southwark side, tie your boat up and go to St Erconwald’s. Benedicta will tell you all about Perline and the demon you have been pestering me about.’

‘Are you sure, Father?’ Moleskin’s face broke into a grin.

‘You have just ignored me all the way across.’ He pointed to Cranston striding up and down the quayside like Hector. ‘Why do cats make Lord Horsecruncher so angry?’

‘In time I’ll tell you about that as well,’ Athelstan replied and, leaving a mystified Moleskin, he hurried up the steps.

The coroner had now worked himself into a fine rage. He’d already hired a boy to take a message to his bailiffs, and would have gone storming into Cheapside but for Athelstan grasping his sleeve.

‘Sir John, Sir John, the afternoon is growing on. The market will soon be finished and your bailiffs will be in place when that message is delivered.’ Athelstan stopped speaking, his hand going to his mouth.

‘What’s the matter, monk?’

‘Friar, Sir John, friar! I’m just wondering who could possibly have found out about Harnett’s meeting with Perline Brasenose?’ He steered Sir John towards a tavern. ‘I mean, Harnett saw the Barbary ape on Sunday. On Monday he met Perline but, after that, our young soldier went into hiding. Now,’ Athelstan scratched his chin, ‘Perline can’t write, so who told Harnett to go to the Pyx chamber?’

They entered the dingy tavern. Its walls were greasy and the ceiling beams blackened, but Athelstan knew the proprietor was one of the best cooks along the riverside, and might provide delicacies to distract Sir John’s temper. They found an empty table well away from the sailors and fishermen who flocked there.

‘You are forgetting one thing,’ Cranston announced, leaning back and smacking his lips at the savoury fragrance coming from the buttery.

Athelstan raised his eyebrows.

‘On Monday evening, Sir Francis left the brothel where the others were cavorting. They knew he’d gone.’

‘Of course,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘And we know he went to Southwark, then on to the steel yard. Ergo. .’ Athelstan paused as the barrel-shaped landlord served Sir John his favourite fish pie and a cup of white Alsace.

‘Anything for you, Father?’

‘Oh, some ale, Bartholomew. Please.’

‘Ergo,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘either Harnett was followed from that tavern — ’ he ticked the points off on his fingers — ‘and his pursuer discovered what he was looking for; or, Harnett told one of his companions before he left, who later used that information to commit murder.’

‘Coverdale could also have done that,’ Cranston argued between mouthfuls of pie. ‘Either he or some other of the regent’s minions.’ He sipped from his goblet. ‘I am beginning to agree with you, Brother, the regent cannot be totally blameless in this matter. I am sure these worthy knights would flee back to Shrewsbury if it wasn’t for him. But, there again,’ Cranston slammed his cup down, ‘Sir Edmund Malmesbury and the rest can hardly be described as John of Gaunt’s most fervent supporters.’

Cranston ate on in silence. Athelstan could tell the coroner was becoming morose; even the pie and the wine didn’t seem to cheer him. They left the tavern and went up an alleyway, along Thames Street, past run-down warehouses to a bare expanse of land where the Fleet river poured its filth into the Thames. Here all the great dung carts in London congregated to deposit the filth and muck cleaned from the streets into the Thames. Cranston, stamping his feet, glowered around, then caught sight of his bailiffs, two burly individuals who came striding towards him.

‘You are here at last,’ he growled.

‘Sir John,’ one of them replied, ‘we came as fast as we could. The markets are closed.’ He pointed to one of the dung carts. ‘They are all empty, ready to go back to clean up during the night.’

‘And our precious pair have flown,’ Cranston grunted. ‘Go back up Knightrider Street,’ he ordered. ‘When you catch sight of them, come back and tell me!’

The two bailiffs hurried off. For a while Athelstan and Cranston stood around, but the stench from the carts and the slime-coated Fleet grew so offensive that they, too, walked up Knightrider Street. The bell from St Paul’s began to toll for evening Mass. Athelstan glimpsed the spires of Blackfriars and was wondering what Father Prior was doing when one of the bailiffs came running back.

‘Sir John, Hengist and Horsa are here.’

‘Good!’

With Athelstan hurrying behind him, Cranston strode up Knightrider Street, where Hengist and Horsa had been stopped by the bailiff. Both the dung-collectors protested loudly.

‘This is against all the law and its usages, Sir John!’ one of them squeaked. ‘Any delay means longer working, so when the mayor and aldermen complain-’

‘Shut up!’ Cranston bellowed, grasping Hengist by the front of his dirty jerkin. ‘You, my buckos, have been stealing cats!’ Cranston snapped his fingers, and Athelstan handed over one of the small muzzles. The coroner shoved this in front of the man’s face. Hengist spluttered and glanced fearfully at his companion. ‘You mean-minded bastards!’ Cranston roared.

Both men started to protest. Athelstan walked round, studying the cart carefully, noticing how its high sides were simply boards nailed across huge upright posts. At the back he saw how one of these boards served as a small door or drawer, kept in place by newly attached bolts in their clasps. He summoned the bailiffs.

‘Whilst Sir John argues,’ he whispered, ‘open that!’

The bailiff pressed his dagger between the boards, working the bolt free. Athelstan, pinching his nose at the fetid smell, crouched down and stared in. Five or six cats lay there, eyes glowing in the darkness. The poor creatures were bound hand and foot, and muzzles, similar to the one he had found, were tightly clasped round their jaws. One of the bailiffs gently took the cats out, cutting their thongs and muzzles free. The cats, backs arched, tails up, spitting furiously, danced round the carts and then fled away like arrows up Knightrider Street. The bailiff would have gone after them.

‘Don’t worry,’ Athelstan called the man back. ‘They’ll all find their way home. I can personally vouch for that. It’s Sir John I’m worried about.’

Cranston, who had witnessed all this, now had the two dung-collectors up against the wall, banging their heads slowly against it. At Athelstan’s instruction, the two bailiffs gently squeezed their way between the irate coroner and his victims. Sir John, breathing heavily, stepped back glowering at the trembling cat thieves. He waved a finger at them.

‘You heartless bastards!’ he shouted. ‘And don’t lie that they were all strays. You pull that cart round the streets, and whenever you could you enticed some cat with a bit of meat or fish, covered with some sleeping potion. You then tied their feet together, muzzled them, and put them into that crevice beneath the cart. When you came down to the riverside to throw your refuse into the Fleet, you’d go along to the grain barges and offer the cats for sale. Isn’t that right?’

Hengist nodded fearfully.

‘A lucrative, profitable experience,’ Athelstan spoke up. ‘The barge-masters bring up grain and, where there’s grain, rats and mice thrive. The barge-masters buy the cats, put two or three in each hold and the vermin are cleared.’ He shook his head. ‘Of course you couldn’t care whether the poor cats were used to a ship or barge.’ He took a step closer. ‘And did you really care about the feelings of those who owned those animals? Did you ever think of the terror of those poor cats locked in the stinking black hold of some barge? Did it ever occur to you that some of them might even try and escape, being drowned in the river or ill-used by their new owners?’

Athelstan, catching some of Cranston’s anger, thrust his hand under Hengist’s chin and pushed his face up.

‘What you did was wicked!’ he whispered.

‘No one cares.’ Horsa sneered back; he wished he hadn’t spoken as Athelstan seized his mouth between his fingers and squeezed it tightly.

‘Haven’t you read the scriptures?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Not a sparrow falls from heaven that the Father doesn’t know about.’ He stepped back, wiping his hands, and stared at Horsa’s leather apron. ‘Do you know how we found out?’ Athelstan taunted. ‘Your own greed trapped you. You couldn’t even be bothered to buy the leather to make the muzzles for the poor animals.’ He poked Horsa’s chest. ‘You used the leather from your own apron to fashion those; the outside was black, but when I examined it more carefully, the inside matched the leather you wore.’

‘Wilful destruction of city property will be added to the list of offences,’ Cranston boomed.

‘What will happen to us?’ Horsa wailed.

Cranston scratched his head and smiled bleakly at them.

‘Well, the silver you’ve collected will be seized. A fine will be levied. However, if you give us the names of the barge-masters to whom you sold the cats, mercy might be shown. Perhaps a period digging the city ditch to reflect on your crimes? And who knows? Unless we get all the cats back, a nice long sojourn in the stocks with a placard advertising your crimes.’ Cranston snapped his fingers at the bailiffs. ‘Put both of them in the cart. Take them to Newgate. Let them kick their heels there whilst I consider their punishment.’

Hengist fell to his knees. ‘Sir John, we’ll tell you everything.’

‘Good.’ Cranston patted the man heartily on the top of his balding head. ‘That’s my boys. I want to know where the silver is and I want to know the names of the barge-masters or else. .’

And, leaving the dung-collectors to the mercy of the bailiffs, a more satisfied and harmonious Sir John, followed by Athelstan, made his way back towards the riverside.

‘A good day’s work!’ Cranston growled as they climbed into the skiff to take them downriver to Westminster. He shaded his eyes against the glare of the setting sun. ‘But not good enough, Brother.’ He yawned. ‘I feel sleepy, yet we have to examine those archives.’ He turned suddenly as Athelstan’s head came down on his shoulder; the friar, lulled by the rocking of the boat, was already fast asleep.

They disembarked at King’s Steps, Westminster. The sun now hung like a blood-red ball in the west, turning the brickwork of the abbey to a soft, golden yellow. The day’s business was drawing to a close; the king’s justices, lawyers, serjeants, plaintiffs and defendants were streaming along the narrow alleyways, either up towards Fleet Street, or down to their waiting barges on the river. Convicted felons, all chained together, were carted off by drunken bailiffs towards the Fleet or Newgate Prisons. Tipstaffs and chamberlains, clerks and scribes now thronged into the taverns and drinking-houses. Quite a few stopped to chat with the young whores gathered round the gates and porticoes. For a while Cranston and Athelstan sat on a bench under the spreading branches of a great oak tree, intent on enjoying the coolness and beauty of the evening.

As Athelstan stared round, however, he felt a deep sense of despondency, of sin, of staring into the heart of human darkness. All these men in their silks, satins and samite robes, their furlined hats, leather, bejewelled gauntlets, gaudy baldrics, purses and dagger sheaths, their coiffed hair and the swagger in their walk. Athelstan experienced the wealth, power and the all pervasive corruption of such men, who gathered to dispense justice but practised so little morality themselves. Cranston was dozing now, so the friar kept his thoughts to himself. Yet, not for the first time, Athelstan felt a deep empathy for men like Pike the ditcher. Perhaps the Lord, he thought, should come back to his temple and cleanse it of these money-changers, land-grabbing landlords, arrogant clerks, justices and lawyers puffed up like peacocks.

Suddenly the crowd streaming across the abbey grounds grew bigger as representatives of the Commons, their day’s work done, returned to their taverns and hostelries. Although they must have talked all day, this had only whetted their appetite to hear further the sound of their own voices. Athelstan closed his eyes and half listened to the different accents; men from Yorkshire, Somerset, Norfolk, the Scottish and Welsh march. He heard their comments about the regent, and grumbled complaints about his wealth and ostentation.

‘‘‘He that is without sin among you,’’’ Athelstan murmured, quoting from the Gospels, ‘‘‘let him first cast a stone.”’

He wiped the sweat from his brow and half smiled at the success of the day. But these murders at Westminster? He glanced quickly at Cranston, but the coroner had his head back and was snoring lightly. Now and again he’d smack his lips and mutter, ‘Refreshments!’ Athelstan recalled the corpses of Bouchon, Swynford and Harnett. What had he and Cranston learnt? He quietly ticked the points off in his mind.

Primo: Bouchon had left the tavern abruptly on Monday evening, therefore he was going to meet someone. The knight had already received the arrowhead and the other premonitions of his death. Where was he going? Whom was he meeting? Why hadn’t he gone back to his chamber to collect his sword? Athelstan opened his eyes.

‘We should check the river once more,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps one of the boatmen can remember.’ He closed his eyes.

Secundo: Bouchon had few marks on his corpse except that terrible bruise on the back of his head, the black marks under his fingernails and the crosses etched on his dead face.

Tertio: He had been found bobbing amongst the reeds near Tothill Fields, so he must have been killed in the early hours, just as the tide changed and the Thames ran swollen to the sea.

Well done, Friar, he thought. Was Bouchon’s corpse ever meant to be discovered? If those reeds hadn’t caught it, it might well have been taken down to the estuary and out into the sea.

Quarto: Swynford. He had gone to pray over Bouchon’s corpse: the priest who had arrived and left so mysteriously had garrotted him. Swynford, too, had received warning of his death. And why was it so important that the words of the Dies Irae be chanted by the killer? And why was that false priest so confident that Father Gregory would not arrive? And why, again, had those crosses been etched on Swynford’s dead face?

Quinto: Who knew about Harnett’s secret negotiations with Perline Brasenose? How had Sir Francis been lured to the Pyx chamber of Westminster Abbey? Surely the only person who could slip so easily out of the abbey was a soldier or another member of the Commons? Athelstan recalled Harnett’s severed head; his features had not been disfigured. Why? Had the assassin been in a hurry?

Sexto: What was missing amongst Harnett’s possessions? And, now he reflected on it, from the belongings of the other knights?

Septimo: Who had followed Bouchon and then Harnett? Pursuing them so easily, trapping and killing them?

Octavo: What had these knights done which was so terrible?

And why didn’t they just flee Westminster and go back to Shropshire?

Nono: What role did the regent play in all these deaths?

How could he have influence over knights who, in the Commons, so bitterly opposed his demands?

‘Wake up, monk!’

Athelstan opened his eyes. Cranston was grinning at him. Athelstan blinked.

‘Sir John, I was not sleeping, just thinking.’

‘As I was!’ the coroner answered portentously. He stared across at the thinning crowds. ‘Anything in particular, my learned friar?’

Athelstan heard the faint cries of a boatman shouting for custom.

‘Well, Sir John, we know Sir Francis went to Southwark, but did any boatman take Sir Oliver Bouchon?’

Cranston took a swig from his miraculous wineskin and shook his head.

‘My bailiffs have already made such inquiries,’ he declared.

‘So far as they can discover, no boatman took any member of the Commons either up- or downriver that evening.’

Athelstan rose to his feet and stretched. ‘Is it possible, Sir John, that Bouchon didn’t leave Westminster? That he was knocked unconscious here and thrown into the Thames?’

Sir John pulled a face. ‘I hadn’t thought of that, Friar.’ He stared across the abbey gardens, narrowing his eyes against the dying sun. ‘If this corpse had been thrown in, let’s say near Dowgate, not far from London Bridge, from what I know of the Thames the body would have been taken out into mid-stream.’ Cranston stretched his legs. ‘However, at Westminster the tide loses some of its force: Bouchon’s corpse would be taken rather sluggishly, which is why it was trapped in the reeds at Tothill. Where does that leave us?’ He shrugged and sighed. ‘Today is Thursday, let’s be honest, Friar, we have made little progress this week.’ He dabbed the sweat around the collar of his shirt. ‘On Saturday the young king comes down to talk to his Commons; a few days later parliament is dissolved and Sir Edmund and his party will probably ride post-haste back to Shrewsbury.’ Cranston stared up at the gables and gargoyles along the abbey walls. ‘I wish I was home,’ he murmured. ‘A man should spend his nights sleeping with his wife. Ah well, Athelstan, one final call.’

They trudged round the abbey. Now and again some official tried to stop them to demand their business, but at Cranston’s growl the official would hastily back away. At last they entered a small courtyard and made their way across to a low-storeyed building. The coroner hammered at the door. An old, bleary-eyed monk, eyes screwed up against the light, ushered them into a low but very long chamber, full of manuscripts resting on shelves or spilling out of coffers and caskets. The old monk, his hand all a-tremble, stared up into Cranston’s face, his eyes growing sharper.

‘I know you!’

‘Of course, you do, Brother Aelfric!’ Cranston embraced the old monk, planting a juicy kiss on each of his dry, seamed cheeks.

‘Why bless me, it’s Jack Cranston! Good Lord, man, what are you doing here? And who is this?’

‘Master Aelfric, Brother Athelstan, who, for his sins, is a Dominican and, for his love of drink and beautiful women, parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark.’

Aelfric peered at Athelstan. ‘Don’t worry, Brother,’ he murmured. ‘I know Jack Cranston’s humour. I was one of his masters in the abbey school. If I had a pound for every time I switched his buttocks, I’d be richer than the Cardinal Archbishop of Spolero. Jack, do you remember the time you stole the ox from the crib?’

‘Yes, yes.’ Cranston put an arm round the old man’s shoulders. ‘But we are not here to reminisce, Master Aelfric. I have a task for your keen wits and sharp eyes.’

‘Not so keen as they once were,’ the old monk mumbled, ushering Cranston and Athelstan to stools next to his own high-backed chair.

Cranston stared round the chamber. ‘Master Aelfric, this is the king’s muniment room?’

‘That’s right, Jack. All the king’s records are kept here.’

‘What about Shropshire?’

‘What about it, Jack?’

‘Well, what records do you have from that county?’

The monk pulled a face and scratched his chin.

‘Well, we have the sheriff’s returns at Michaelmas, Christmas, Hilary and Midsummer. We have petitions to the king’s council, bailiff’s accounts.’

‘What else?’

‘Oh, yes, cases heard before the king’s Justices in Eyre, gaol deliver, oyer and terminer.’

‘Yes, yes.’ Cranston held a hand up. ‘Brother, you have heard about the murders at Westminster?’

Aelfric’s eyes moved, for a few seconds Athelstan caught the cunning, shrewd nature of this old archivist.

‘Who hasn’t, Sir John?’ be replied quietly.

‘And do the names mean anything to you?’ Cranston added.

‘Sir Oliver Bouchon, Sir Henry Swynford, Sir Francis Harnett?’

The old monk shook his head. ‘Until the brothers whispered their names in the refectory,’ he answered, ‘their names meant nothing to me.’

‘You are lying!’ The words were out of Athelstan’s mouth before he could stop them.

Cranston turned in surprise. Old Aelfric’s mouth opened and shut.

‘You are lying,’ Athelstan repeated, getting to his feet. ‘I shall tell you what happened, Aelfric: no less a person than the Lord Regent has been here and asked you the same questions we have. He took certain records and examined them carefully. If he returned them, he told you to keep your mouth shut, should anyone else come here making similar inquiries.’

Aelfric blinked.

‘Why do you lie?’ Athelstan continued. ‘Why do people like you, a priest and Ii monk, enter into complicity with those in power just because they tell you to? You called my colleague Jack; you hail him as a friend, you know what we are searching for. Indeed, you must have expected us.’

Aelfric half rose, then sat down again. ‘You’d best leave,’ he declared. ‘Sir John, I do not like you, your companion even less.’

Cranston stretched out a hand towards his old teacher, but Aelfric didn’t turn. Athelstan tugged at the coroner’s cloak.

‘Come on, Sir John. We are wasting our time.’

Cranston followed him out of the chamber; they were halfway across the courtyard when he stopped and grasped Athelstan’s arm.

‘You shouldn’t have said that, Brother.’

‘Why?’

Cranston flinched at the anger in Athelstan’ s eyes. The friar shook his arm free. ‘Why, my lord Coroner, shouldn’t I say that? Three men have been found slain and the regent sits all innocent and a-feared. Now, I can accept that. The psalmist says, “Put not your trust in princes”. He also said, “All men are Liars”, but I didn’t think that applied to friends and brother priests. A short while ago, Sir John, I sat under an oak tree and watched the power and the corruption seep like slime round this great abbey.’ Athelstan glanced away. ‘I just thought that an old monk would tell the truth.’ He tapped Cranston’s arm. ‘You know he’s lying, Sir John. Gaunt has been down here, that’s how he could blackmail those knights, the representatives of the Commons. God knows what they have done,’ he added fiercely, ‘but the regent found out and Master Aelfric helped him!’

Cranston, surprised by the little friar’s vehemence, walked on, then stopped. ‘Come on, Brother,’ he called. ‘Don’t be angry with old Jack!’

Athelstan joined him and they made their way out of the abbey grounds and back to the Gargoyle tavern.

The taproom was full of boatmen and fishermen: Athelstan glimpsed Sir Edmund Malmesbury and his company in the far corner, but whispered to Sir John to keep well away from them. Banyard came sweeping out of the kitchen, his sweaty face wreathed in smiles. He greeted Sir John and took them out into a small garden. Cranston, happy at the thought of veal in black pepper sauce and a deep bowl of claret, was his old self. Athelstan found it difficult to match his companion’s humour, so they ate in silence until Athelstan apologised for his surliness.

‘I’d best go back to my own chamber,’ he concluded. ‘Sir John, I shall see you in the morning.’

The friar went into the tavern and made his way up to his own chamber. He still felt restless and, for a while, lay on his narrow cot-bed. He tried to pray but, strangely enough, the only words he could summon up were those sombre sentences of the sequence from the Mass of the Dead, ‘O day of wrath, O day of mourning. See fulfilled the prophet’s warning!’