The House of Crows

you meet a devil, it won’t be some dark shape leaping amongst the graves. Surely you know what I mean?’
    Athelstan recalled those powerful knights at Westminster; their easy smirks, their lying ways, the duplicity of their lives. ‘I understand.’
    Armitage sighed. ‘I thought you would. You are the lord coroner’s clerk, aren’t you? Your reputation goes before you, Brother Athelstan. Think of the murderers you have hunted: those men and women who can wipe out another life without a flicker of an eyelid, then wipe their lips and proudly proclaim their innocence to the world. There are your demons. However,’ he pulled up his cowl, ‘at the same time your parishioners could be correct: there may be a presence loose in Southwark, though I really doubt it.’
    ‘Then what shall I do?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Apply that logic for which you are famous.’ Armitage got to his feet. ‘Keep your parishioners calm. Study all the evidence given to you. Look for the weakness and, when you find it, the mystery will unravel.’ Armitage picked up his cloak. ‘I am sorry I have been of little comfort, Brother. Father Prior was sending me to Eltham, he asked me to stop off here and see you.’ Armitage grinned. ‘Accept my wager, Brother; if you haven’t found your demon in a week, I’ll come back and stay until you do.’
    ‘And if I do find it...?’
    Armitage extended his hand. ‘Send your painter to Blackfriars: there’s a stretch of bare wall just near the vestry, and every time I pass it, I imagine this beautiful picture of Christ talking to the Samaritan woman. Don’t worry, he’ll be well paid!’
    Athelstan clasped his outstretched hand. ‘Wager accepted!’ Armitage thanked Athelstan and Bonaventure for their company, gave them his blessing and left the priest’s house.
    For a while Athelstan sat and reflected on what the exorcist had said.
    ‘Brother John spoke the truth,’ he declared finally. ‘But where’s the weakness in all of this?’
    He cradled the cat and stared at the stark crucifix above the hearth. Watkin and the rest had first seen the demon on Monday evening. Later that same night Sir Oliver Bouchon had been killed; Perline Brasenose, who’d not been home since Saturday, apparently met Sir Francis Harnett on the quayside across the river. Since Monday evening, the demon had been seen near Benedicta’s house — another lonely, deserted place; in the empty house by Ranulf the rat-catcher, and again, yesterday evening, in the parish cemetery. So where was the weakness in all this? He heard a knock on the door.
    ‘Come in,’ Athelstan shouted.
    He half expected Cranston, but Benedicta slipped in, a shopping basket over her arm. For a while all was confusion as Bonaventure hastily leapt into this, looking for something to eat.
    ‘I have brought food,’ Benedicta smiled, putting the basket on the table. She took out small, linen-covered bundles and laid them out: bread, cheese, a small jar of home-made jam, a piece of cured ham, slices of salted bacon, onions and a small bag of oatmeal. Athelstan couldn’t refuse. Indeed, as Cranston constantly teased him, he was only too pleased to see Benedicta’s lovely face. She took the food into the buttery and helped Athelstan clear the table. He brought fresh jugs of ale, then sat and told her about what was happening at Westminster. Benedicta heard him out: her smooth, olive face lost some of its laughter lines as Athelstan described the deaths of the two knights and the possible sinister intrigues of the regent, John of Gaunt.
    ‘You should be more careful, Athelstan,’ she warned. ‘When you go into the marketplace people smile and greet you, and so they should. But when you are gone, the whispering continues, fed and fanned by the peasants who bring their produce in to be sold. There’s been unrest in Essex; at Coggeshall a tax-collector was assaulted, whilst at Colchester they barred the gates against royal messengers. There’s talk of people collecting arms, hiding swords and daggers. Yew trees are being stripped to fashion new bows and arrows. Scythes and bill-hooks have been sharpened, and it’s not for the harvest.’ She leaned across the table and laid one soft hand on Athelstan’s. ‘There’s a storm coming, Father. This city is going to see terrible violence.’
    ‘And, before you ask, Benedicta.’ Athelstan self-consciously moved his hand; he got to his feet and went to stand before the fire. ‘I will stay