The House of Crows

Grail.
    ‘Brother Athelstan, please?’ Malmesbury stretched out his hands pleadingly.
    Athelstan handed the cup to him. The knight took it tenderly, as a mother would her child.
    ‘You say this once belonged to you?’ Cranston asked, coming forward, a brimming wine cup in his hand. He winked at Athelstan and slurped quickly at the wine.
    ‘It is ours,’ Goldingham snapped. He plucked the chalice from Malmesbury’s grasp, turned it over and pointed at the faint outline of a swan carved on the base. ‘It disappeared,’ he continued, ‘one night, years ago, when we were at Lilleshall Abbey.’ His eyes brimmed with tears, and his voice became choked. ‘Since then, nothing has gone right for us.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ Athelstan asked.
    Goldingham shook his head and, holding the chalice between his hands, rocked backwards and forwards, as if this relic would preserve him from all evil.
    ‘And it was brought back now?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘Yes,’ Malmesbury replied. ‘A stranger brought it to the tavern door.’ He picked up a leather bag which had been sealed at the neck. ‘It was in this, with a scrap of parchment bearing my name.’
    Athelstan took the bag and the parchment and examined them carefully.
    ‘How?’ Coverdale called out. ‘How could anyone in London know that a cup stolen from a Shropshire abbey years ago belonged to you?’
    ‘We don’t know,’ Sir Humphrey snarled over his shoulder. ‘All we know is that the cup was stolen, and now it’s back with its rightful owners.’
    ‘Do you think it’s connected with Sir Francis Harnett’s death?’ Athelstan asked.
    Some of the excitement drained from the knights’ faces. ‘I mean,’ Athelstan continued, ‘is it possible that Sir Francis had the chalice all the time? And now he has been killed, the cup’s been returned.’
    ‘Explain yourself, Friar!’ Goldingham interrupted. Athelstan smiled and sat down on the stool opposite him. ‘I can’t. It just seems a coincidence that one of your companions died last night, and this morning a long-lost cup is returned.’ Athelstan had his own suspicions, but he kept them hidden. ‘Sir Francis is dead.’ He emphasised his words. ‘Do any of you know why he went to the Pyx chamber last night? Whom was he meeting? There’s nothing down there,’ he continued, ‘so Sir Francis could only have gone there intending to meet someone. That person killed him.’
    ‘We don’t know,’ Sir Thomas Elontius replied, running his hand through his bristling red hair. His popping eyes had a frightened, hunted look. ‘We all stayed here at the Gargoyle.’
    ‘None of you left?’ Cranston asked, coming up beside Athelstan.
    ‘Ask mine host,’ Elontius replied.
    ‘It’s true,’ Banyard declared, walking over to join them. ‘All five of the knights were here. I served them the speciality of the house: young goose, fresh and tender and served with a spicy sauce. My guests ate and drank their fill and went to their chambers. I did not even know Sir Francis had left.’
    ‘And you all stayed here?’ Cranston repeated.
    ‘Yes,’ the knights chorused.
    ‘But it stands to reason,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘if Sir Francis Harnett left and no one saw him going, then any or all of you could have left unnoticed.’
    Banyard looked surprised by Athelstan’s remark: he sighed and scratched his cheek. ‘The tavern has got at least three or four entrances,’ he declared. ‘And at night we become busy. Brother Athelstan, this is a tavern famous for its food, fine ales and strong wine. We have people coming and going. The Gargoyle is a hostelry, not a castle prison.’
    ‘And on your oath,’ Athelstan turned back to the knights, ‘did any of you leave?’ He stared at each of them in turn, but they all shook their heads.
    ‘We were tired,’ Sir Humphrey Aylebore declared. ‘Yes, Brother, tried and frightened. We ate and drank our fill.’ He forced a smile. ‘I suppose my companions did what I did: I locked the doors and windows of my chamber and hid beneath the sheets. We have vowed not to go anywhere at Westminster without at least one other accompanying us.’
    ‘Do you know why Sir Francis Harnett left?’ Cranston slurped from the wine cup and smacked his lips noisily.
    ‘No,’ Malmesbury retorted, staring disdainfully at the coroner. ‘Oh come, Sir Edmund.’ Cranston beamed back at him. ‘Sir Francis is now well known to us as a man constantly going in and out of the city,