The House of Crows

CHAPTER 1

It was Execution Day on the large, bare expanse of Smithfield. Usually the place was busy with various markets selling horses, cattle and sheep; the area around Smithfield Pond would be thronged with stalls and booths offering leather, meat and dairy produce. The crowds always flocked there to see the freaks and performing animals, whilst the puppet-masters, fortune-tellers and ballad-mongers from all over London, the quacks, the gingerbread women, the sellers of toy drums and St Bartholomew babies would do a roaring trade. Men and women of every kind came to Smithfield: nobles and courtiers in their silks and taffetas, merchants in their beaver hats, the red-headed whores from Cock Lane. Their children would frighten themselves, and each other, by staring into the glassy eyes of the severed pigs’ heads which were piled high on the fleshers’ stalls. Nearby, in the Hand and Shears tavern, the Court of Pie Powder would deal out summary justice to those caught pickpocketing, foisting or indulging in any other form of trickery. Consequently the blood-spattered pillory posts were always busy. Wednesday, however, was Execution Day. The great six-branched gibbet would dominate the marketplace, nooses hanging; the condemned felons would be brought down from Newgate, past St Sepulchre’s, stopping at the Ship tavern in Giltspur Street so that the condemned felons could have one last drink before they were turned off the ladder.

Sir John Cranston, King’s Coroner in the city of London, always hated such occasions but, on that particular Wednesday, the feast of St Hilda, it was his turn to be king’s witness to royal justice being carried out. He sat on his great, black-coated destrier, chain of office around his neck, his large fat face pulled into a mask of solemnity, his kindly blue eyes now cold and hard. Now and again his horse would whinny at the crowds thronging behind him but, apart from scratching his white beard or twirling the ends of his moustache, Sir John hardly moved.

‘I should be home,’ he moaned quietly to himself. ‘Sitting in the garden with Lady Maude or watching the poppets chase Gog and Magog.’

Sir John had four great passions: first, his wife and children; secondly, a love for justice; thirdly, his great treatise on the governance of the City and finally, a deep affection for his secretarius and assistant in rooting out murder and horrible homicides, Brother Athelstan, the Dominican parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark.

‘And your claret,’ Sir John whispered to himself. ‘Not to forget your London ale and sweet tasting malmsey.’

Sir John never knew in what order these passions should really be listed. In fact he loved them all together. Cranston’s idea of heaven was a spacious London tavern full of sweet-smelling herbs and blossoming roses where he, Athelstan, Lady Maude and the poppets could sit, talk and drink for all eternity.

‘I should be home,’ Sir John growled again.

‘I beg your pardon, my lord Coroner?’

Cranston turned and gazed at Osbert, his court clerk, whose brown berry face was wreathed in concern, his dark little eyes screwed up against the morning sunshine.

‘Nothing,’ Cranston muttered. ‘I just wish the buggers would hurry up and get here from Newgate.’

As if in answer, the crowd at the far end of Smithfield gave a great roar and began to part, allowing through the garishly painted death-wagon, driven by the executioner and his assistant all clothed in black from head to toe. The horses they managed had their manes hogged with purple-dyed plumes nodding between their ears. In the cart stood three men, dressed in white shifts, shouting and gesturing at the crowd. On either side walked lines of soldiers from the Tower garrison, halberds over their shoulders. Behind the cart two bagpipers played a raucous tune.

Why all this mummery? Cranston thought. In his treatise on the governance of the City, he would recommend to the young king that such executions be abolished and confined to the press-yard of Newgate Prison. Cranston stood high in his stirrups: he gazed over the heads of the crowd pushing against the wooden barricades guarded by city bailiffs and beadles.

‘The pickpockets and foists will be busy, Osbert,’ he remarked. ‘They love a crowd like this.’ Sir John glared, as if his popping eyes could seek out and threaten any one of the myriad of footpads so busy slitting purses and wallets.

The execution cart drew closer; finally it entered the bare expanse in front of the scaffold. The three prisoners, their faces dirty and unshaven, were pulled down, their hands tied. The Franciscan, also standing in the cart, eased himself off, still intoning the prayers for the dying, though, from the expression on the faces of the three felons, they couldn’t care a whit.

‘Let’s make it quick!’ Cranston snapped, raising his hand.

The heralds on either side of him lifted their trumpets, but the mouthpieces were full of spittle and they could only squeak.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Cranston barked as a chorus of laughter greeted their efforts.

The heralds mumbled an apology, lifted their trumpets again. This time a shrill blast silenced the clamour of the crowd. Cranston nudged his horse forward and stopped in front of the three condemned felons.

‘You are to be hanged!’ Sir John declared. He nodded at Osbert to unroll the parchment.

‘You, William Laxton,’ the clerk proclaimed in a loud voice, ‘Andrew Judd and William the Skinner have been found guilty by His Grace’s judges of assize of rape, abduction, stealing hawks’ eggs, stealing cattle, poaching deer, letting out a pond, buggery, desertion from the royal levies, coin-clipping, cutting purses, robbery on the king’s highway, filching from the dead, conjuring, sorcery and witchcraft. For these and divers other crimes you have been sentenced to be taken to this lawful place of execution. Do you have anything to say before sentence is passed?’

‘Yes. Bugger off!’ one of the condemned shouted.

Cranston nodded to the executioner but the fellow just stood, eyes glaring through the eyelets of his mask.

‘What’s the matter, man?’ Cranston barked.

‘They’ve got no goods, no chattels,’ the executioner replied. ‘The law of the city is,’ he continued sonorously, ‘that the goods, chattels and clothes of the condemned felons belong to the hangman — but they’ve got bugger all!’

‘I wouldn’t accept that!’ one of the felons shouted. ‘If you’re not being properly paid, let’s all go home!’

Cranston closed his eyes. Behind him he could hear the murmur of the crowd who had sensed that something was wrong. He looked at the officer of the guard but he just shrugged, hawked and spat.

Cranston dug into his purse and, ignoring the jeers of the felons, tossed a coin at the executioner who deftly caught it in his black-gloved hand.

‘And there’s my assistant.’

Another coin left Cranston’s purse.

‘And there’s the bagpipers.’

Cranston threw one more coin.

‘And what about the horse’s bedding and straw?’

Cranston’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword.

‘Now, don’t get angry!’ the executioner called out.

Sir John leaned down from his horse. ‘Satan’s tits, man! Either you hang these men now or I’ll do it for you. Then I’ll hang you, your assistant, and there’ll still be room left for the bloody bagpipers!’

The executioner took one look at Sir John’s red face and bristling white moustache and beard. ‘Lord save us!’ he mumbled. ‘You can’t blame a man for trying. I have a wife and children to support. Oh, well, come on, lads!’

The executioner and his assistants, aided by the soldiers, put the nooses round the felons’ necks and pushed them up the ladder. Sir John raised his hand. Behind him, four boys started beating a tattoo on the tambours.

‘God have mercy on you!’ Cranston called out.

He closed his eyes, his hand dropped, the ladders turned, leaving the three felons kicking and twirling in the air. The crowd fell silent even as Cranston, his eyes still closed, turned his horse’s head, muttering at Osbert to find his own way home.

Sir John was through the throng, almost into Aldersgate, when he heard his name being called. He stopped, pulling at the reins of his horse. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

A young knight, dressed in chainmail, his coif pulled over his head, his body covered by the red, blue and gold royal tabard, pushed his horse closer and took off his gauntlet.

‘Cranston, the coroner?’

‘No, I’m the Archangel Gabriel!’ Sir John replied.

The young man’s face broke into a smile. He crinkled his eyes, giving his hard-set face a boyish look.

‘I’m sorry,’ Cranston growled, clasping the man’s outstretched hand. ‘I just hate Execution Days.’

‘No man likes dying, Sir John.’

‘And your name?’

‘Sir Miles Coverdale. Captain of the guard of John of Gaunt, His Grace the Regent.’

‘Lord John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, Knight of the Garter, the king’s beloved uncle.’ Cranston grinned as he recited the long list of titles. ‘And what do you want with me, Coverdale?’

‘I don’t want you, Sir John. I have enough problems at Westminster.’ Coverdale pulled back his chainmail coif and wiped the sweat from his face.

Sir John noticed how the man’s moustache and neatly clipped beard covered a deep, furrowed scar just below his lower lip.

‘His Grace the Regent sent me,’ Coverdale continued. ‘He’s at your house in Cheapside.’

Cranston closed his eyes and groaned. ‘There was no need to send you,’ he muttered. ‘I’m going there direct.’

‘Your Lady Maude thought different,’ Coverdale replied, keeping his face straight. ‘She mentioned a possible assignation in the Holy Lamb of God.’

Cranston turned his horse’s head and, tugging at its reins, continued his journey, secretly marvelling at Lady Maude’s God-given ability to read his mind.

They went down St Martin’s Lane, through the muck and offal of the Shambles, and left into Cheapside: the market was doing a roaring trade, yet the area outside Sir John’s house was strangely deserted. His front door was ringed by burly Serjeants wearing the royal tabard, and archers dressed in the livery of Sir John of Gaunt. As the crowd swirled by these, Cranston caught their dark looks and muttered curses.

‘The regent.’ He leaned over. ‘Your master is not popular.’

‘No man who governs is, Sir John.’

Cranston pulled a face and dismounted, his eyes surveying the crowd. ‘Leif!’ he roared. ‘Leif, you idle bugger, where are you?’

Some of the bystanders looked round in surprise but then quickly made way for the skinny, red-haired, one-legged beggar who came hopping through with the agility of a spring frog.

‘Sir John, God bless you, is it time for dinner?’

The beggar leaned on his crutch and, gaping round Sir John, stared at Sir Miles. ‘You have company, Sir John?’

‘Look after the horses,’ Cranston snapped. ‘And, when my guests leave, take mine across to the Holy Lamb of God.’

Leif hopped in excitement: if Sir John had company, that not only meant gossip which Leif could dine out on, but also, perhaps, one of Lady Maude’s tasty pies and a cup of the coroner’s best claret. Sir John, a deep sense of foreboding furrowing his brow, led Sir Miles through the cordon of soldiers into the house. The maids huddled in the kitchen, terrified of the men in half-armour who thronged the hallways and passageways. Sir John brushed by these, marched up the stairs, along the gallery, and threw back the door to his solar with a resounding crash. Lady Maude sat at the far end of the canopied fireplace. On either side of her, Cranston’s twin sons, bald, blue-eyed, two perfect peas out of the same pod, clung to her green sarcanet dress, their eyes fixed on the gorgeously dressed stranger who now dared to slouch in their beloved father’s chair. The stranger rose as Cranston came in, straightening the murrey-coloured houppelonde or tunic which fell down to long, leather, Spanish riding boots. Around his neck was an ornate, heavily jewelled collar clasped by a golden brooch carved with the double ‘S’ of the House of Lancaster.

Cranston drew himself together and bowed. ‘My Lord, you are most welcome to our house.’

His guest’s sunburnt face broke into a smile: he languidly stretched out his jewelled fingers for the coroner to clasp.

‘Cranston, it’s good to see you.’

Sir John stared into the light-green eyes of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, quietly marvelling at Edward Ill’s most handsome son. He reminded Cranston of a silver cat with his light blond hair, neatly cut moustache and those eyes — never still — betraying the man’s vaulting pride.

Gaunt let go of his hand. ‘Whenever I see you, Sir John, I always remember my dearest brother, the Black Prince,’ Gaunt smiled. ‘He spoke so highly of you.’

‘Your brother, God rest him, was a powerful prince, a noble warrior,’ Cranston replied. ‘Every day, your Grace, I remember him in my prayers. I deeply regret that he did not see his own son crowned king.’

‘My dear nephew also sends his regards,’ Gaunt replied sardonically. ‘He talks of you, Sir John. You and that secretarius of yours, Brother Athelstan.’

Behind him Lady Maude had risen, her small, pretty face creased in concern: she warned Sir John with her eyes and a slight shake of her head not to bait this most powerful of men.

‘You wish wine, Sir John?’ she called out.

‘Aye, a glass of Rhenish, chilled,’ Cranston replied, winking at her quickly. He knelt, stretching out his arms. ‘And some marzipan for my boys.’

The two poppets staggered from their mother’s skirts and ran across, bumping into each other, almost knocking the regent aside as they threw themselves at their father’s embrace. Cranston kissed them quickly on their hot, sticky faces.

‘Fine sons,’ Gaunt smiled down at him.

‘Go and play,’ Cranston whispered.

‘Dog not play,’ Stephen stuttered. He pointed to the far end of the solar where Cranston’s two wolfhounds, Gog and Magog, lurked beneath the table. Cranston grinned. The dogs were frightened of no one except Lady Maude. He could tell by their woebegone expressions that they had both received the sharp edge of her tongue, warning them to behave whilst guests were in the house. The boys left, following their mother outside whilst Cranston took his own chair, waving at Gaunt to take Lady Maude’s. Blaskett, Sir John’s steward, served them wine on a tray, his large, sad eyes watching his master intently. From the passageway outside, one of the poppets began to wail. Blaskett raised his eyes heavenwards, put the wine cups on a small table between Cranston and Gaunt, and silently withdrew. Cranston picked up his cup, toasted the regent and slurped noisily.

‘I am a busy man, Cranston.’

‘Then, my Lord, we have something in common.’

‘And what great crimes confront you now?’ Gaunt taunted back.

Cranston could have given him a list a mile long. The foist he was pursuing, the counterfeiters, the pimps and apple squires, the defrocked priests dabbling in sorcery. . Still, as the poor Cranston concluded, the rogues were always with him.

‘Cats,’ he announced bluntly: he enjoyed seeing Gaunt almost choke on his drink.

‘My lord Coroner, you jest?’

‘My lord Regent, I do not. Someone is stealing cats from Cheapside.’

‘And should that be the concern of the city’s coroner?’

‘My lord, have you ever met Fleabane?’ Cranston replied.

‘He’s a trickster, a cunning man. If it moves, Fleabane will steal it. If he can’t move it, Fleabane will try to sell it. Now and again I catch him. He’s punished, but he always returns to his old way of life, regarding my hand on his collar as a part of life’s rich tapestry. In other words, my lord Regent, the criminals of London will remain as long as the city does. However, there are other crimes where the innocent are truly hurt, and the theft of these cats is one of them. An old lady in Lawrence Lane has lost six, her only companions. A merchant in Wood Street, two. Now the old lady in Lawrence Lane has lost her family, the merchant in Wood Street possibly his livelihood. You see, he buys in fruit and cereals from outlying farms and stores them in his warehouses. If there is no cat, the mice and rats thrive, bringing infection and spoiling what is good.’

Gaunt put the goblet down on the table, fascinated. ‘And you don’t know who is stealing them?’

‘No, I don’t know how they are taken, by whom or where they go. But the Fisher of Men has dragged at least four or five dead cats out of the river-’ Cranston slurped at his wine goblet — ‘which is some consolation. At first I suspected they were being killed for their fur, or that some flesher in the Shambles had run short of meat.’ He saw the regent’s face go pale. ‘Aye, my lord, it’s not unknown for cooks, be they working in a royal palace or a Cheapside tavern, to serve up cat pie, the meat well stewed and garnished with herbs.’

‘Yes, yes, quite.’ The regent lifted his cup but then thought differently. ‘Sir John,’ he declared, ‘you will have to leave all that. You have heard of the Parliament my nephew the king has summoned at Westminster?’

‘Yes, you need more taxes, whilst the Commons want reforms.’

‘My lord Coroner, I am pleased by your bluntness but, yes, yes that’s true. Now the Commons do not like me. They draw unfair comparisons between myself and my brother, God rest him. The war in France is not going well. Our coastal towns are attacked by French pirates. The harvest was poor and the price of bread is three times what it was this time last year. Now, I am doing what I can. Grain barges are constantly coming up the Thames, and the mayor and aldermen of the city have issued strict regulations fixing the price of bread.’

Cranston’s eyes slid away. He knew about such regulations, more honoured in the breach than the observance, but he decided to keep his mouth shut.

The regent leaned forward. ‘Now all was going well,’ he continued. ‘The Commons assembled in the chapter-house of Westminster Abbey. The speaker, Sir Peter de la Mare, is a good man.’ Gaunt paused.

In other words, you’ve bribed him, Cranston thought, but still kept his mouth shut. The regent ran his tongue round his lips.

‘Some of the members are amicable; others, particularly those from Shrewsbury and Stafford, are proving intractable. They are a close-set group comprising, Sir Henry Swynford, Sir Oliver Bouchon, Sir Edmund Malmesbury, Sir Thomas Elontius, Sir Humphrey Aylebore, Sir Maurice Goldingham and Sir Francis Harnett-’

‘And?’ Cranston intervened.

‘These knights are lodged at a hostelry, the Gargoyle tavern. On Monday evening Sir Oliver left his companions abruptly: next morning his body was found floating face-down near Tothill Fields, no mark on the corpse. We do not know whether he was pushed or suffered an accident. Anyway, the corpse was pulled out and taken back to the Gargoyle, where his fellow knights planned to hire a cart to carry it back to Shrewsbury. Now, to recite prayers during the death-watch, a chantry priest was hired. He entered the tavern late last night and apparently took up his post in the dead man’s chamber. Later on, a servant wench passed the chamber: she saw the door ajar and went in. There was no sign of the priest. Sir Oliver still lay sheeted in his coffin, but beside him on the floor was Sir Henry Swynford, a garrotte string round his throat.’

Gaunt paused. Stretching out his hand, he played with the silver filigreed ring on one of his fingers. ‘Both deaths might be murders.’ He glanced up. ‘Both men received a warning before they died: a candle, an arrowhead and a scrap of parchment bearing the word “Remember”.’ Gaunt cleared his throat. ‘Each of the corpses had also been slightly mutilated, small red crosses being carved on either cheek as well as on the forehead.’

‘And no one knows what all this means?’ Cranston asked.

‘No. Oh, there are the usual stories: both knights were loved and admired. Men of stature in their community.’ Gaunt smirked. ‘The truth is both men were bastards born and bred. They served in the wars in France, where they amassed booty and plunder to come back and build their manor houses and decorate the parish church. Apparently they had no enemies at all which,’ he added bitterly, ‘is the biggest lie of all, if anyone ever bothered to talk to their tenants.’

Gaunt put his goblet down and rose to his feet. ‘Now, I don’t care, Cranston, whether they are dead or alive, in heaven or in hell. But I do care about the whispers and the pointed fingers which claim that both men were murdered because they opposed the regent, as a punishment for them and a warning to the rest.’ He leaned over Sir John, gripping the arms of the other man’s chair, his face only a few inches from Cranston’s. ‘Now, my lord Coroner, get yourself down to Westminster. Take your secretarius, Brother Athelstan, with you. Discover the assassin, stop these murders and, when you are finished, you can come back to Cheapside and find out who is stealing its cats.’

‘Is there anything else, my lord?’ Cranston held the regent’s gaze and nonchalantly sipped from his goblet.

‘Yes.’ Gaunt straightened up, pushing his thumbs into his swordbelt. ‘Sir Miles Coverdale, captain of my guard, is responsible for the king’s peace in the palace of Westminster. He will assist you.’ Gaunt stepped back and sketched a mocking bow. ‘My thanks to your good lady.’ He walked to the door.

‘My lord Regent.’ Cranston didn’t even bother to turn in the chair.

‘Yes, my lord Coroner.’

‘I was thinking of cats, my lord. Do you have any?’

Gaunt shrugged. ‘What does it matter?’

‘Nothing much.’ Cranston replied over his shoulder. ‘Our king is young, his father’s dead. I was thinking of the proverb, “When the cat’s away, the mice will play”.’ Sir John sipped from his cup and smiled as he heard the door slam behind him.

In the parish church of St Erconwald’s of Southwark, Brother Athelstan, much against his will, was holding a full parish council near the baptismal font just inside the main door. He sat, as usual, in the high-backed sanctuary chair brought down especially for the occasion: across from him were the members of his parish council who sat on stools in a semi-circle waiting for his judgement. On the wooden lid of the baptismal font sprawled the huge, tattered tom-cat, Bonaventure, which Athelstan secretly considered his only true parishioner. Now and again Bonaventure’s one good amber eye flickered open, and the cat would stare at Ranulf the rat-catcher as if he knew Ranulfs secret desire to buy him. After all, Bonaventure’s prowess as a mouser and a ratter was known throughout the parish. Today, however, when Athelstan should be doing the parish accounts and letting Bonaventure hunt, he had to hold this special meeting: Watkin, Pike and the bailiff Bladdersniff had all taken the sacrament at Mass this morning then solemnly sworn how they had seen a demon crouching in the death-house.

‘It was black,’ Watkin trumpeted so loudly that even the hairs in his great flared nostrils seemed to bristle with anger. ‘It was huge with bright eyes, hideous face, blue and red round the mouth and it moved like lightning.’

‘You were drunk,’ Mugwort the bell-ringer snorted. ‘Pernell the Fleming woman saw the three of you: you had not one good leg amongst the six.’

‘More like nine,’ Crispin the carpenter added, but no one seemed to understand this salacious reference.

‘Drunk or not,’ Pike screeched, tilting his face and pointing to the great red weals across his cheeks. ‘Who did that, eh?’

Athelstan pushed his hands further up the sleeves of his gown and rocked gently to and fro. He stole a look at Benedicta: he expected to find her eyes dancing with merriment and those lovely lips fighting hard not to smile, but the widow-woman looked concerned.

‘What do you think, Benedicta?’ Athelstan asked before Watkin’s bellicose wife could intervene to take up the cudgels on her husband’s behalf.

‘I believe they saw something, Father.’ Benedicta played with the tassel of the belt round her slim waist. ‘I dressed Pike’s wound: savage claw marks. Any higher,’ she added, ‘and he could have lost an eye.’

‘You are always telling us. .’ Tab the tinker spoke up. ‘You are always telling us, Father,’ he repeated, ‘how Satan prowls, seeking those whom he may devour.’

‘Yes, Tab, but I was speaking in a spiritual sense, about that unseen world of which we are only a part.’

‘But that’s not true,’ Watkin’s wife intervened. ‘In St Olave’s parish, Merry Legs claimed a devil was dancing round the steeple as I would a maypole.’

‘And I have heard imps whispering in the corner,’ Pernell the Fleming intervened. ‘Small, Father, no bigger than your fingers. I heard them scrabbling at the woodwork.’

Athelstan closed his eyes and prayed for patience.

‘What did it look like?’ Huddle the painter asked, and pointed to the far wall of the church where he was busily sketching out, in charcoal, a marvellous vision of Christ’s harrowing of hell.

‘Never mind,’ Athelstan intervened. He glanced quickly at Simplicatas, a young woman from Stinking Alley who had whispered after Mass how she wanted to talk to him about her missing husband. ‘We have other matters to discuss.’

‘But this is important.’ Bladdersniff drew himself up on his stool, wrinkling his fiery red nose and blinking drink-sodden eyes. ‘If you don’t believe us, Father, let’s go to the death-house. Let’s see for ourselves.’

His colleagues did not seem quite as enthusiastic, but Athelstan saw it as a way of pacifying them all.

‘Come on.’ He got to his feet.

‘Father, I’m frightened,’ Pernell wailed.

‘Don’t worry.’ Athelstan fingered the wooden crucifix hanging round his neck. He shooed Bonaventure off the baptismal font, unlocked and lifted the wooden lid then, taking the small enamel bowl held by Mugwort, scooped some of the holy water out.

‘If there’s a devil in the death-house,’ he declared, ‘the cross and holy water will soon make him flee.’

Led by their priest, Bonaventure stalking solemnly beside him, the parish council left the church. They crossed the cemetery, following the beaten path around the headstones and crosses to the great black-painted shed in the far corner. The door was still flung back on its hinges, a sure sign of the three men’s flight the previous night. Athelstan turned and winked at Benedicta.

‘Now, stay here. All of you.’

Holding the crucifix in one hand, the cup of holy water in the other, Athelstan strode across and stopped outside the death-house. He looked at the earth, scuffed where Pike and his two companions had fought to get out.

I never asked them what they were doing, he thought. Probably drunk: I just hope they didn’t have Cecily the courtesan with them. The only people who are supposed to lie in this graveyard are the dead. Athelstan went into the death-house and, as soon as he did, caught a fetid, pungent smell.

‘For God’s sake, man!’ he whispered to himself.

He put the cup of holy water on the long, stained table and stared around. The smell caught the back of his throat and made him cough. Athelstan took a tinder out of his pocket and, trying to keep his hands from trembling, lit the tallow candle and held it up, filling the dark, cavernous place with dancing shadows.

‘“Arise, O Lord,’” he whispered, quoting the psalms, ‘“and defend me from my enemies!”’

He walked carefully round the death-house. He always kept this place clean. He scrubbed the table and swept the floor every week. There was a small window high in the wall, and when a corpse lay in the room he always burnt incense, as he had only two days ago when Mathilda the seamstress had lain here awaiting burial. So what was the source of that horrible smell? Athelstan put the candle down and picked up the cup of holy water, blessing the place. ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost,’ but, even as he did so, his mind teemed with possibilities. He recalled a recent letter from the master general of his Order about the signs of demonic activity: violence, unexplained phenomena.

‘Aye,’ Athelstan whispered to himself, ‘and a terrible smell which curdles the mind and frightens the soul. Nonsense!’ he added.

‘Father?’

Athelstan spun round. Benedicta was standing in the doorway. The widow-woman stepped into the death-house and then, covering her nose and mouth with her hand, abruptly backed out. Athelstan followed her.

‘Benedicta, what is the matter?’

The widow-woman’s face was pale. ‘Last night, Father. I didn’t want to mention this, but I was in my garden just after dusk, and under the apple tree I saw a dark, hideous shape.’

Athelstan stared into Benedicta’s frightened eyes. ‘Surely, woman, you don’t believe all this?’

‘Athelstan!’

The friar looked round. Sir John Cranston was standing at the far end of the graveyard, legs apart.

‘Oh Lord save us!’ Athelstan breathed. ‘Having the Lord Satan in Southwark is bad enough, but Cranston as well. .!’