The House of Crows

of themselves, though I noticed Bouchon looked quiet and withdrawn. They drank deep.’ Banyard pulled a face. ‘But why should I object? Well, on that particular evening, the gentlemen were discussing business of a different sort, the pleasures of the flesh.’
    ‘You mean a bawdy house?’
    ‘Yes.’ Banyard looked uncomfortable. ‘Now, there’s nothing of that sort here, sirs. I keep a respectable house, though I confess I turn a blind eye to whomever they bring back.’
    ‘This bawdy house?’ Cranston demanded.
    ‘Dame Mathilda Kirtles conducts a discreet establishment,’ Banyard replied. ‘In Cottemore Lane, a little further down the riverside.’
    ‘And did Sir Oliver leave with them?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Oh no. Towards the end of the meal, Sir Oliver rose, put his cloak on, pulled his hood up and left the tavern. The others called after him but the man was lost in his own thoughts. He was gone in the twinkling of an eye.’
    And you don’t know where?’
    My lord Coroner, I was busy that night. Ask any of the servants here. I never left the tavern. We closed well after curfew. We have a licence to do so,’ he added hastily.
    Athelstan sipped from his blackjack and stared round the tavern. It was, he thought, a veritable palace amongst hostelries: the plaster walls were freshly painted, the rushes underfoot were green and crisp and, when he pressed his sandal down, he could smell the rosemary sprinkled there. The tables were of oak and finely made. There were stools, proper benches, and even a few high-backed chairs. Glass and pewter plates stood on shelves. Above them on the mantelpiece was a colourful depiction of a gargoyle fighting a knight which curled writhed around its opponent’s sword. The food was well-cooked and, from Cranston’s murmurs of pleasure, the ale was undoubtedly London’s finest.
    ‘You do a fine trade here, Master Banyard,’ Athelstan commented.
    ‘Oh, most comfortable, Brother.Most comfortable indeed.’
    ‘Do you know most of the people who come here?’
    Banyard’s eyes moved quickly. ‘Yes I do, Brother. And, if they are strangers, they always come back. I can tell from the cut of a man’s cloth what he is: a boatman, a serjeant-at-law, courier, a bailiff, or one of the royal officials from the Exchequer or Chancery. But, before you ask, I saw no strangers, nothing out of the ordinary.’
    ‘And Sir Oliver’s body?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘It was found downriver,’ Banyard replied. ‘Some fishermen found it amongst the weeds near Horseferry.’
    ‘Oh, of course.’ Cranston leaned back. ‘I remember playing there as a boy.’ He declared. ‘The weeds grow long, lovely and thick.’ He smiled over at Athelstan. ‘Just near Tothill Fields.’
    ‘How did they know it was Sir Oliver?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Oh, he had some documents in his wallet, water-stained but still legible, so the fishermen called a clerk. He could tell from the cut of the corpse’s clothes that he was a man of importance;. the body was brought back into Westminster Yard, where Sir Miles Coverdale, who is responsible for guarding the precincts of the palace, recognised the corpse and sent it back here.’
    ‘And was a physician called?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘The man was dead and smelt of fish, Sir John. But no,’ Banyard added hurriedly, seeing the coroner frown. ‘He was taken upstairs. In the afternoon his companions came from the chapter-house. I hired an old woman from Chancery Lane. She stripped the body and laid it out in a shift.’ Banyard glanced at the timbered ceiling. ‘But I’ll be glad when they move it and the other to the death-house at St Dunstan’s in the West.’
    ‘Quite so,’ the coroner nodded. He waved his empty tankard in front of Banyard’s nose, hoping the taverner would refill it, but Banyard, used to such tricks, refused even to notice it. ‘There was no mark on the corpse?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘So the old woman said.’
    ‘And Sir Henry?’
    ‘Well, he seemed the most upset of Bouchon’s companions. I offered to send for a chantry priest to come and conduct the death-watch. He agreed. Now Father Benedict, he’s a Benedictine monk,’ Banyard explained, ‘and chaplain to the Commons. But he’s so busy that I sent for a chantry priest from St Bride’s in Fleet Street. You can go there and ask. But as for last night — well, you’d best ask the wench. Christina!’
    The slattern whom Athelstan had noticed earlier came across, her