The House of Crows

CHAPTER 6

Dame Mathilda Kirtles’ house in Cottemore Lane was both stately and smart. Built on a foundation of brick, the broad beams which stretched up to the red-tiled roof were painted a glossy black, whilst the plaster in between was a dainty pink. Windows on all three floors were of the lattice type, filled with mullioned or leaded glass. The garden on either side of the pebble path had been tastefully laid out, with small rose-bushes interspersed with raised banks of fragrant-smelling herbs.

‘And this is a brothel!’ Athelstan exclaimed.

Banyard, grinning from ear to ear, pointed at the door-handle of yellow brass carved in the shape of a young, sensuous girl holding a pitcher of water. Athelstan gazed speechlessly at this, then at the end of the bell rope where the weights were carved in the shape of a man’s penis. Cranston, huffing and puffing, not knowing whether to be embarrassed or laugh, pulled at the rope then moved his hand quickly away.

Thank God the Lady Maude can’t see me here, he thought. Oh Lord and all his saints forfend she ever does!

The sweet sound of the bell inside the house was answered by a patter of footsteps and the door swung open. In any other circumstances Athelstan would have thought the young girl was a novice: a white, gold-edged veil covered her lustrous hair, and she was dressed in a high-necked grey gown, but this was flounced at the hem and her nails were painted a deep red. What Athelstan had first thought was a white cloth over her bosom, was instead a rather thin gauze veil over ripe, luscious breasts.

‘Good morrow, sirs.’ The girl smiled at them. She clutched at her gown and raised this slightly, showing the thick white petticoats beneath. She gestured airily to Athelstan. ‘Come in, Father. You will not be the first friar we have had here.’ She fought back the laughter in her voice. ‘And you will certainly not be the last. Any friend of Master Banyard’s is a friend of ours.’

‘Master Banyard is leaving,’ Cranston growled, regaining his wits and pushing by Athelstan. ‘And you, my little hussy, should know that I am Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the city.’

‘Coroners are also welcome,’ the girl answered pertly. ‘Though the lady of the house — ’ she pouted at Cranston’s warbelt — ‘does not permit swords.’

Banyard sniggered, but when Sir John whirled round, pulled his face straight. ‘Sir John, I have to go back.’

‘Dame Mathilda Kirtles,’ Cranston pushed his face towards the young woman. ‘I want to see her now or it will be the bailiffs. And don’t tell me they’d be most welcome as well!’

The young girl, covering her mouth with her hand, stepped back and led them along an airy passageway and into a sweet-smelling parlour. She told them to wait, closed the door behind her. Athelstan sat in a cushioned windowseat, mouth half open as he stared around.

‘Oh, come, come, Brother,’ Cranston called out. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t been in a molly-house before!’

Athelstan quietly raised his hands. ‘Sir John, I swear, I have never seen a place like this.’

The friar stared down at the floor where the boards were so highly polished that they caught the sunlight. Here and there lay thick woollen rugs. The walls were half covered with wooden panelling, above this the plaster had been painted a rich cream shade. Tapestries, full of colour, hung there. Athelstan, craning his neck, studied one. At first he thought it was a young maiden listening to the song of a troubadour, but he blushed as he realised the troubadour was naked, whilst the young lady had her dress split down the middle.

‘Yes, yes, quite,’ he murmured.

‘Have you ever been with a maid?’ Cranston asked.

‘Sir John, that’s for me to think about and you to wonder. .’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘At first glance, this could have been an abbess’s parlour.’

‘Knowing some of the abbesses I do,’ Cranston growled, ‘you’re probably right!’

‘Doesn’t the city try to close them down?’ As he spoke Athelstan heard a sound from the wall just next to the canopied hearth. He glanced quickly over; he was sure he glimpsed a wooden shutter being drawn closed.

‘Who would shut a place like this down?’ Cranston answered. ‘Dame Mathilda and her “Jolies filles” could sing a song which would embarrass many an alderman.’

‘Aye, and a few others!’

Cranston whirled round. A tall, severe lady, dressed in a white veil and grey dress, stood just within the doorway. Her hair was grey, her face thin and haughty, her eyes sharp and watchful. She walked across, fingering the golden girdle tied round her waist. Athelstan felt like pinching himself: she walked and talked like some venerable mother superior.

‘I am Dame Mathilda Kirtles.’ She stared down at Athelstan. ‘You are the Dominican from St Erconwald’s, aren’t you? One of your parishioners, Cecily, often talks about you.’

Athelstan was too tongue-tied to reply.

‘And you, of course, must be Sir John Cranston: the fattest, loudest and most bibulous of coroners!’ She held a hand out. Cranston grasped and kissed it.

‘Madame, I am your servant.’

‘No you are not,’ Dame Mathilda snapped, ‘you have nothing to do with whores, Sir John, more’s the pity.’ Her eyes softened a little. ‘But they say you can’t be bribed, and that makes you unique.’ Dame Mathilda swept away and sat down on a small cushioned chair before the fireplace.

‘Sir John, you are not here for pleasure, so what is your business?’

Cranston sat down in the windowseat next to Athelstan. For some strange reason he felt like a little boy again, quietly throwing stones into the stewponds and being reproved by one of his elderly aunts.

‘I’d offer you some refreshment,’ Dame Mathilda declared, ‘but I’ll be honest, Sir John, the sooner you’re gone the better!’ She smiled thinly. ‘Banyard cackles like a goose. No one will dare come near the house whilst you are here.’

‘Including the honourable representatives from Shrewsbury?’ Cranston asked. ‘They were here last Monday night, Dame Mathilda. Bellies full, deep in their cups.’

‘Aye, and their purses full of silver. They came here about two hours before midnight.’ She continued. ‘My girls entertained them. .’ She indicated with her head at the ceiling. ‘Each went their separate ways with the girl of his choice.’

‘All of them?’

‘One left.’

‘Who?’ Athelstan asked.

‘The small, funny one. He sat for a while with one of my girls, boring her to sleep with chatter about animals, beasteries and what he had seen in the Tower. He looked at the hour-candle, gabbled an excuse and left.’

‘And he did not return?’

‘I did not say that. He came back just before the rest left. And, before you ask, Cranston, I don’t know where he’d gone or what he’d been doing: his cloak was damp so I think he had been on the river. Mind you, if he stayed,’ she continued tersely, ‘he’d have been as useful as the rest.’

‘What do you mean?’ Cranston asked.

‘Sir John, these are men of middle years, mature in wisdom, their bellies full. They may still hold their lances straight, but not in the bedchamber.’

‘Yes.’ Cranston glanced quickly at Athelstan, but the friar seemed totally bemused at what Dame Mathilda was saying. ‘And I suppose, good lady, when your guests stay here, you keep an eye on them?’ The coroner gazed round. ‘Even in this room there must be eyelets and hidden peep-holes?’

‘Sir John, you are wiser than you look.’

‘And they talked to the girls?’

‘Sir John, come, come!’ Dame Mathilda clasped her hands demurely in front of her. ‘Do you really expect me to tell you that?’

‘Well…’ Sir John stretched out his legs and folded his arms. ‘You can either tell me here or I could ask the bailiffs to accompany you to the Guildhall tomorrow.’

‘They boasted, Sir John, like all men do: what barns they had, what granges, how fat their sheep, how high their own standing. .’

‘And what?’

‘How they were members of the Commons and would not lift a finger to help the regent unless he met their demands.’ Dame Mathilda got to her feet. ‘And that, Sir John, is all I can tell you, either here or in your Guildhall.’ She walked towards the door then turned. ‘Brother Athelstan, have you found out where Perline Brasenose is?’

‘Why no.’ The friar got to his feet. ‘You know him?’

‘Yes, I do.’ Dame Mathilda came back. ‘Years ago his mother worked here. Perline was, how can I put it, an unexpected result of a night’s work here.’

‘He’s a member of my parish, he’s married to Simplicatas.’

‘Oh, is that what she’s calling herself now?’

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ Athelstan smiled and stared down at his hands.

Perline and his mother had come to Southwark a few years ago, then Simplicatas had suddenly appeared in their household. Perline had always claimed she was a very distant kinswoman. When he had married her at the church door of St Erconwald’s, all Athelstan had been concerned about was that there was no kinship of blood between them, as laid down by canon law. He closed his eyes and recalled Simplicatas’s pale, elfin face, her blonde hair and green smiling eyes.

‘Well I never,’ he murmured. He glanced up. ‘You know Perline is still missing?’

‘Yes, yes, I do.’ Dame Mathilda opened the door. ‘It’s a small world, Brother Athelstan, especially if you are a whore. Simplicatas has asked for our help.’ The woman glanced impishly at Sir John. ‘There is little that happens in London that we whores do not know about. Now, Sir John, I really must insist. .’

Once outside the house, Cranston put his arm round Athelstan’s shoulders and roared with laughter. He held the small friar away. ‘Brother, Brother.’ He swallowed hard and blinked his popping blue eyes, watering after laughing so much. ‘Don’t you know anything about your parishioners?’

‘Apparently not, Sir John.’ Athelstan’s shoulders sagged. ‘Simplicatas seemed so demure.’

‘And so she is,’ Cranston linked one arm through Athelstan’s and walked back into Cottemore Lane. ‘If you are a woman, poor and lonely in London, being a whore is better than starving. Simplicatas is not a prostitute. She probably earned her dowry and left as soon as she could. But,’ he asked, ‘now her husband has fled?’

‘Yes, and it’s not like him,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Perline is a madcap but he loves Simplicatas. No one seems to know where he is. He liked his job as a soldier in the Tower. He was paid and well fed.’

‘And if he’s not back soon,’ Cranston muttered, ‘they’ll hang him for desertion.’

At the end of Cottemore Lane, Athelstan withdrew his arm and stared back towards the riverside.

‘You look tired, Brother,’ Cranston remarked, staring at the dark circles under the friar’s eyes.

‘I am worried, Sir John — about Perline, Simplicatas, the devil loose in Southwark, not to mention Pike the ditcher whispering about the great revolt in the corners of taverns. He thinks he’s so clever, yet the tapboy who serves his ale could be the regent’s spy.’ Athelstan pointed to the soaring towers of Westminster. ‘And now there are these murders.’

He allowed Cranston to steer him up a narrow alleyway leading towards Fleet Street. ‘And what do you make of this business?’ Cranston asked.

‘Well. .’ Athelstan paused to collect his thoughts. ‘We know our noble representatives are lying, Sir John. The knights have got a great deal to hide, but I suspect they are frightened men and cluster together, except for Sir Francis Harnett. The night Bouchon died, he left Dame Mathilda’s and went upriver. Now, whether it was to meet Bouchon or on some other business, I don’t know. What I also keep wondering about,’ he continued, ‘is why should the killer chant the “Dies Irae” as he throttled Swynford’s life out?’

‘Do you think he could be a priest? Or even a monk?’

‘Such as Father Benedict?’ Athelstan recalled the tall, severe Benedictine monk. ‘But why should he hate Swynford or Bouchon? The only connection between him and those knights is that a former friend, Father Antony, once served in the same Shropshire abbey where these knights once held their Round Tables.’

Athelstan blew his cheeks out. ‘So far, Sir John, we haven’t learnt enough. If we returned to the Gargoyle, Sir Francis would spin us a story which would neither prove nor disprove why he left the brothel. I am sure that one of his companions would solemnly swear that Sir Francis was telling the truth.’ He nudged the coroner. ‘What we have to do, Sir John, is wait. There will be another murder.’ He sighed. ‘And there’s little we can do to stop it.’

‘What about Coverdale?’ Cranston asked. ‘He’s young, strong and hails from Shropshire. He could have met Bouchon, knocked him on the head and thrown him in the river. He could also have entered the Gargoyle dressed as a priest and garrotted Swynford. We could go back and question him.’

‘And he would ask us why,’ Athelstan replied. ‘What motive does he have for killing two knights?’

‘Revenge?’ Cranston answered. ‘His father was a petty landowner in Shropshire. Coverdale, nursing wrongs and grievances, may have seized this opportunity to settle scores. And, of course, he is one of Gaunt’s henchmen.’

‘And that is the weakness of your case,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Why should Bouchon agree to meet one of Gaunt’s men at night? And Coverdale entering a busy taproom, even disguised as a priest, would be highly dangerous. Moreover,’ Athelstan stopped and stared up at the red-streaked sky, ‘Coverdale is shrewd. We are here investigating these murders precisely because Gaunt does not wish to be blamed for them. Unless, of course, Coverdale is not really Gaunt’s friend,’ he added. ‘In which case, Sir John, we are like dogs chasing our tails.’

‘Which is why I am returning to Cheapside.’ Cranston called over his shoulder as he strode on. ‘I may not be able to help my lord Regent. .’ he stopped and tapped his fleshy nose. ‘But perhaps I can assist your search for Perline Brasenose.’

They went up on to Holborn Street. The sun was beginning to set, and that broad thoroughfare which swept out of Newgate was full of traders, carters, hucksters and peasants making their weary way home after a day’s business. A hedge-priest, his battered wheelbarrow full of tattered belongings, stopped and begged a penny off Athelstan.

‘Blessings on you, Brother!’ He sketched a benediction. ‘And if I were you I would hurry. The crowds around Newgate are thicker than flies on a cowpat. They’re getting ready to hang a man.’ He then seized his wheelbarrow and hurried on.

Cranston and Athelstan crossed the street where the coroner, using his ponderous bulk and booming voice, stopped a wine cart loaded with tuns and casks. The lord Coroner of the city, together with his secretarius, sat like two boys at the end of the cart, legs dangling, as the wine trader, eager to be in London before curfew, cracked his whip and urged the great dray horses forward. They rattled by Pontypool Street, Leveroune Lane, the Bishop of Ely’s inn, then turned right at Smithfield, past Cock Lane where the whores thronged. One of them recognised Cranston. She steadied the orange wig on her bald head and turned to her sisters. ‘There goes Lord Fat Arse!’

The rest of the group took up the shouts. Cranston smiled beatifically back, sketching a sign of the cross in the air towards them. Athelstan hid his face and just prayed they would reach Newgate without further mishap. They were forced to stop just alongside the great city ditch where the stinking refuse was piled in mounds as high as their heads. The stench was indescribable. Convicted felons, under the supervision of bailiffs, their mouths and eyes covered by scraps of dirty rags, were sprinkling saltpetre over the mounds of slime. Others, armed with bellows, stood round great roaring braziers, fanning the burning charcoal. Athelstan pinched his nostrils and tried not to look at the corpses of rats and other animals which protruded out of the heaps. Cranston, however, shouted encouragement to the bailiffs.

‘Good lads! Lovely boys! It will be ready before nightfall?’

‘Oh yes, Sir John,’ one of them shouted back, leaning on his shovel, ‘Once the curfew bell tolls, we will light the fire.’

‘Thank God,’ Cranston breathed. ‘The ditch is full enough: when the winds come from the north-west, they make Lady Maude sick.’

One of the felons shouted, pulling down the muffler from his face. ‘It’s good to see, how the lord Coroner has now got his own carriage, suitably furnished.’

Cranston peered through the shifting columns of smoke. ‘Is that Tolpuddle? So, you’ve been caught again, you little bastard!’

‘Not really, Sir John,’ the felon shouted cheerily back. ‘Just a little misunderstanding over a baby pig I found.’ Tolpuddle came closer. Athelstan noticed how one eye was sewn up, the other was bright with mischief.

‘Misunderstanding?’ Cranston asked.

‘Aye, the bailiffs caught me with it two nights ago.’

‘So you had stolen it?’

‘No, Sir John.’ The felon leaned on his rake. ‘The saints be my witness, Sir John. I found the little pig wandering alone in the streets. It looked so lonesome. I simply picked it up, put it under my cloak. I was going to take it back to its mother.’

Cranston laughed, dug into his purse, and flicked the man a penny. At last the wine trader saw an opening in the crowds. He cracked his whip and the cart trundled on. Tolpuddle stood, cheerily waving goodbye, until a bailiff clapped him on the ear and sent him back to his work.

The cart rattled on through the old city walls, and Cranston and Athelstan got down in front of Newgate. The great bell of the prison was tolling. On a high-branched scaffold just outside the double gates, a man was about to be turned off. Around the foot of the scaffold thronged men-at-arms and archers wearing the regent’s livery; these held back the crowds, even as a herald in a royal tabard proclaimed how Robert atte Thurlstain, known as the ‘Fox’ and self-proclaimed leader of the so-called ‘Great Community of the Realm’ had been found guilty of the horrible crimes of conspiracy, treason, etc. On a platform next to the scaffold a red-garbed executioner was already sharpening his fleshing knives, laying them out on the great table. The hapless felon would be thrown there after he had been half hung: his body would be cut open, disembowelled, quartered, salted, and then placed in barrels of pickle before being displayed over the principal gateways of London and other cities.

Athelstan watched as the priest at the foot of the ladder quickly gabbled the prayers for the dying, whilst the executioner’s assistant, who bestraddled the jutting arc of the gibbet, placed the noose over the prisoner. The executioner bawled at the priest to hurry up; the crowd didn’t like this and grew restless. Bits of refuse and rotten fruit were thrown at the hangman even as the herald stopped his declamation and a drumbeat began to roll. Athelstan went cold as he recalled the warnings given by Joscelyn, the one-armed taverner of the Piebald. Hadn’t he said that a man calling himself the ‘Fox’ had been one of those Pike had secretly met? He tugged at the coroner’s sleeve.

‘Come on, Sir John,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s be away.’

Cranston agreed, though he paused to grasp the hand of a foist who was busy threading his way through the streets. The coroner seized the man’s wrist, drew out the very thin dagger the felon had concealed up his sleeve, and sent it spinning into a pile of refuse. Sir John tapped the man on the head with his knuckles.

‘Now be a good boy and trot off!’ the coroner growled, and shoved the pickpocket after his knife into the pile of refuse.

‘Did you know anything about that execution?’ Athelstan asked as they hastened down the Shambles into Cheapside.

‘Not a whit,’ Cranston replied. ‘The poor bastard was probably tried before King’s Bench: the regent always demands immediate execution.’

They turned a corner into the broad thoroughfare, which was now emptying as traders dismounted stalls and weary-eyed apprentices stowed away their masters’ belongings into baskets and hampers. Even the stocks had been emptied, and the city bellman strode up and down ringing his bell and proclaiming:

‘All you loyal subjects of the king. Your business is done. Thank the Lord for a good day’s trade and hasten to your homes!’

Rakers were busy cleaning up the refuse and rubbish. Cranston stopped and, shading his eyes against the sunlight, looked down Cheapside.

‘Aren’t you going home?’ Athelstan asked hopefully.

‘I’d discover nothing about Perline Brasenose there.’ Cranston smiled. ‘But it would be good to kiss the poppets.’

They walked towards Cranston’s house.

‘I want Leif the beggar, the idle bugger,’ Cranston growled. ‘I want him to deliver a message.’

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the tall, emaciated, red-haired beggar hopped like a frog out of an alleyway.

‘Sir John, Sir John, God bless you! Brother Athelstan, may you send all demons back to hell!’

‘So, you have heard?’

‘Aye I have,’ Leif replied, resting on his crutch, head cocked to one side. ‘They say a butcher in Southwark caught the demon in a cellar. It was in the shape of a goat: the butcher cut his throat, sliced the goat into collops and invited everyone-’

‘That’s enough,’ Cranston interrupted. ‘How is the Lady Maude?’

Leif smiled slyly. ‘In a fair rage, Sir John. The two dogs have eaten your pie: left out on the table, it was, cooling for supper, broad and golden with a tasty crust. She thinks the poppets took it down and gave it to the dogs. The Lady Maude is also complaining about the stench from the ditch. She says if they fire the refuse tonight, it will be impossible to dry sheets in the morning.’

‘Yes, yes, quite,’ Cranston growled, and glanced hurriedly down the street to the Holy Lamb of God inn. He cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps, Brother, it’s best if we let the Lady Maude’s anger cool for a while.’

‘I am all a-hungered, Sir John,’ Leif wailed. He peered at Athelstan. ‘And so are you, aren’t you, Father?’

Athelstan nodded. He felt hungry, his legs were aching, and he couldn’t refuse Sir John’s generous offer to help.

‘Perhaps ale and something to eat at the Holy Lamb, Sir John?’

‘Shouldn’t you go home?’ Leif asked innocently.

‘Affairs of state. Affairs of state,’ Cranston breathed.

‘I am hungry as well, Sir John,’ Leif slyly added. ‘The Lady Maude is waiting for me.’

‘Well, you can join us,’ Cranston replied. ‘But first go round the streets. Seek out the Harrower of the Dead. Tell him Sir John requires his presence at the Holy Lamb of God! Yes, yes.’ He thrust a penny into Leifs outstretched hand. ‘I understand, you’ll need some sustenance on the way.’

The beggar was about to scamper off, but Cranston seized his arm. ‘And what news in Cheapside, Leif?’

The beggar scratched his nose. ‘More cats have gone, Sir John.’ Leif pointed down to a great, high-sided dung cart.

‘People have lost confidence, Sir John. They are even paying Hengist and Horsa to look for their cats.’

‘Are they now?’ Cranston murmured. ‘Well, you trot off, Leif, and deliver my message.’

The beggar left as fast as a whippet, eager to be back at the Holy Lamb for the supper Sir John had promised. Cranston marched down towards the two dung-collectors. They were cleaning the sewer in the centre of Cheapside, digging out the mess and slops, cheerily throwing the muck into their huge, stinking cart.

‘God bless you, sirs,’ Cranston greeted them.

Both men paused, pushing back their hoods.

‘Lovely lads!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Brother Athelstan, this is Hengist and Horsa. Dung-collectors of Cheapside.’

Both men grinned in embarrassment. Twin brothers, their dirty, wart-covered faces were identical, except that Hengist had one tooth whilst Horsa had none.

‘Good morrow, Sir John,’ they chorused.

‘So, you are searching for the stolen cats?’ Cranston asked.

‘Aye, Sir John, and a great pity it is how the poor animals are disappearing.’

Hengist leaned his shovel against the cart and wiped his fingers on his red leather apron. Athelstan noticed that Horsa’s leather apron was cut much shorter. The fellow noticed Athelstan’s gaze.

‘It’s cut like that, Father, so people can tell us one from the other.’

‘Have you found the cats?’ Cranston growled.

‘No, Sir John.’ Hengist clasped his hands together as if in prayer. ‘The poor creatures seem to have disappeared into thin air.’

‘And you have found no signs to indicate who has taken them?’

‘None whatsoever, Sir John.’ The fellow’s eyes grew large. ‘But we have all heard about the demon in Southwark.’

‘You’re taking payment for your searches?’ Cranston insisted.

‘Oh yes, Sir John, but not hide nor hair can be seen.’

Cranston took a step closer and stared into the dung-collector’s watery eyes.

‘Now, my bucko,’ he said quietly, ‘if you can discover neither hide or hair, why are you taking pennies from petty traders and poor old ladies?’

‘Sir John, we haven’t taken much. People have only asked for our help.’

‘Aye, in which case,’ Cranston grated, ‘they must be truly desperate.’ And, shouldering past the man, he made his way further down Cheapside.

‘Sir John, you were unduly harsh,’ Athelstan declared, hurrying up beside him.

Cranston just shook his head and lengthened his stride, heading like an arrow for the Holy Lamb of God. Once inside, he took off his cloak and tossed the empty wineskin at the landlord’s wife; she came bustling out from the kitchen to greet Sir John as if he was a long-lost brother.

‘Some ale!’ Cranston tweaked her plump cheek. And one of your pies — freshly baked, mind you, not yesterday’s.’

‘Sir John, as if we’d ever…’ the woman simpered back.

Cranston moved his bulk towards the windowseat quickly vacated by two traders who knew Sir John and his habits. The coroner sat down and stared out through the open window at the garden beyond.

‘So, you think I’m harsh, Brother. I wouldn’t trust either of that precious pair as far as I could spit.’ He paused as the ale-wife brought over two brimming tankards of ale. Cranston sipped at his and leaned back against the wall. ‘But there again, my dear friar, perhaps I am harsh. Except as far as those two are concerned, it’s a case of much suspected but little proved. Anyway, “sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof”. Come on, Brother, relax.’ He cradled his tankard in his hands and watched Athelstan under half-closed eyelids. ‘I just wonder what our beloved regent is plotting.’ He murmured. ‘All this hubbub, deaths at Westminster, and a public execution. I suspect there’s a purpose behind it all but I’m damned if I can see it!’

‘And young Perline?’ Athelstan asked hopefully.

‘I’ve sent for the Harrower of the Dead,’ Cranston replied. ‘Perline lived and worked at the Tower, and there’s nothing that happens along the alleyways of the city which the Harrower doesn’t know about.’ He sat up as the ale-wife brought back two bowls, each containing a pie hot and spicy, neatly cut in four and covered with an onion sauce. Cranston took his horn spoon out, cleaned it carefully on a napkin, and began to eat.

‘And there’s also the cats?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Aye, Brother, the Harrower might know something about that.’

They continued their meal in silence and were almost finished when Leif hopped into the tavern. ‘Sir John, he’s coming! He’s coming!’

The coroner pointed to a far corner of the tavern. ‘Well, Leif, bugger off and sit over there! Eat and drink what you want but don’t go back to the Lady Maude and tell her where I am! Do you understand?’

Leif raised his right hand and solemnly swore. The beggar was hardly settled in his favourite nook when a cowled, hooded figure slipped like a shadow into the room.