The House of Crows

escaped but, unable to take the muzzle off, either starved to death or became so weak that it could not defend itself against the dogs which prowl there.’
    Cranston stared at the muzzles distastefully. ‘And the second?’
    ‘I found it near the stocks in Poultry, just lying there.’ The Harrower rose to his feet. ‘That’s all I know, Sir John. You’ve got what you paid for.’ And, spinning on his heel, the Harrower of the Dead left the tavern as quickly as he came.
    Athelstan let out a sigh of relief. ‘Sir John, I do not like some of your acquaintances.’
    ‘In keeping the king’s peace, dear monk, you end up having some very strange bedfellows. The Harrower is not as fearful as he looks.’ Cranston called over to the ale-wife to refill their blackjacks. ‘What really concerns me is what Sir Francis Harnett, knight of the shire from Shropshire and a member of the Commons, would have to do with young Perline Brasenose.’ Athelstan stared through the doorway: the light was dying, dusk was beginning to fall.
    ‘Sir John, are you refreshed?’
    ‘For what?’Cranston asked.
    ‘A walk to the Tower.’
    Cranston stretched his great legs until the muscles cracked. ‘Why there? Yes, I know Perline was a member of the garrison, but what could we learn?’
    ‘About Perline, Sir John, very little.’ Athelstan sat up in his seat and rubbed his eyes. ‘Remember, Sir John, on the Sunday before Sir Oliver Bouchon was killed, all the representatives from Shropshire were taken by Coverdale to see the king’s beasts at the Tower. Harnett was amongst them. Since that visit, Perline Brasenose has disappeared and these murders have taken place.’ He plucked at the coroner’s sleeve. ‘Please, Sir John, I have drunk enough, we should be there before dark.’
    Cranston hid his annoyance and agreed, calling for the ale-wife to leave his order for another time. They left the Holy Lamb of God, walking briskly along Cheapside, down Lombard Street, into Eastcheap and towards Petty Wales. The evening proved to be warm. The ale-houses were full, doors and windows open, the babble of voices and laughter pouring out. Bailiffs and wardsmen patrolled the narrow alleyways. Athelstan felt safe as they threaded through these, under the overhanging houses disturbed by little more than a barking dog or children chasing each other in wild, antic games of Hodsman Bluff. They walked into Tower Street, past a church where two beadsmen knelt on the hard stone steps, hands clutching their rosary beads as they prayed in atonement for some sin. Further along, a group of men sat in the doorway of a tavern idly watching two puppies play. They called out as Athelstan passed and the friar blessed them. They went down an alleyway and into Petty Wales: a young boy’s voice, clear and lilting, broke into song from a window high above them. They paused for a while to listen. Athelstan closed his eyes; the song was one of his favourites. He remembered how his dead brother Stephen had sung it as they helped their father bring the harvest in during those long, sun-drenched autumn days before he and Athelstan had gone to the wars. Stephen had been killed, only Athelstan had returned.
    The friar’s heart lurched with sadness: the boy’s voice was pure and clear, just as Stephen’s had been. Everyone had praised his brother’s singing, especially at Christmas, when he would stand before the crib in the village church and make the rafters ring with some merry carol.
    ‘Brother?’
    Athelstan opened his eyes. Cranston was staring down at him curiously. The song had finished.
    ‘Are you well?’ Cranston asked solicitously.
    Athelstan shivered and crossed his arms. ‘Nothing, Sir John, just a ghost from the past.’
    They crossed a deserted square. Above them soared the sheer crenellated walls, turrets, bastions and bulwarks of the Tower. A mass of carved stone, a huge fortress built not to defend London but to overawe it. They followed the line of the wall round and crossed the drawbridge: beneath them the moat was full of dirty, slimy water. They went through the black arch of Middle Tower, whose huge gateway stood like an open mouth, its teeth the half-lowered iron portcullis. The entrance was guarded by sentries, who stood in the shadows wrapped in brown serge cloaks.
    ‘Sir John Cranston, Coroner,’ Athelstan explained to one of the guards. ‘We need to see the constable.’
    The man groaned, but one glance at Cranston’s angry eyes