The House of Crows

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 flligreed 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 Ranulf s 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