The House of Crows

travelling hither and thither on secret errands.’
    ‘Sir Francis was a fussy little man. God rest him,’ Goldingham replied. ‘Once we were a band of brothers, Sir John.’ He pointed to the cup. ‘But, when that was stolen...’ He shrugged. ‘Each of us went his own way, Sir Francis in particular. Oh, he whispered to himself and scurried about, but none of us knows why he left Dame Mathilda’s, or why he should be so foolish as to go alone to the Pyx chamber.’
    ‘Did he ever mention a young soldier called Perline Brasenose?’
    ‘Not to my knowledge,’ Sir Edmund replied. ‘But Goldingham is correct: Harnett was his own man, with the carp ponds, books on beasteries and exotic animals. He never told us where he went or why. If he had, he’d be alive this morning.’
    ‘You said Perline Brasenose,’ Sir Thomas Elontius leaned forward. He turned and whispered in Sir Humphrey Aylebore’s ear. The knight nodded. ‘Perline’s a soldier in the Tower garrison?’ Elontius asked.
    ‘Yes,’ Athelstan replied.
    ‘I remember him.’ Elontius’s fingers flew to his lips. ‘Last Sunday we went to the Tower. As we left, I saw Sir Francis speaking to a young soldier just near the gatehouse.’
    ‘What about?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘I don’t know,’ Elontius replied. ‘But Harnett came back here, rather excited.’
    Cranston dug into his wallet and drew out the small wax candle, arrowhead and scrap of parchment.
    ‘These were found beside Harnett’s body, as they were with Swynford’s and Bouchon’s. Are you still going to maintain he looked at the knights in turn — ‘that they mean nothing to you?’
    ‘Well, they mean nothing to me,’ Sir Thomas retorted, red hair bristling, blue eyes popping. ‘I don’t give a shit, Sir John.’ He jabbed a finger at the coroner. ‘All I know is that some madcap is busy slaughtering members of our party and you have done nothing to stop it.’
    ‘I can’t be everywhere!’ Cranston snapped back.
    ‘It’s a nightmare,’ Elontius bellowed, snapping his fingers at Banyard. ‘Serve us some drinks, man.’ He smiled at the landlord. ‘The only good thing about being in London is this tavern: the prices are reasonable, the food is delicious and the chambers are clean. Even Harnett, the miserly bastard, remarked on that.’
    Athelstan waited until the landlord brought back a tray of cups and set them out before the knights. He leaned across with the jug.
    ‘Do you want some, Brother?’ Banyard asked.
    Athelstan shook his head. For some strange reason his stomach felt a little queasy, and he still found it difficult to remove the image of that gruesome severed corpse from his mind. He remembered Banyard’s description of the night Bouchon had died, and was tempted to ask what Sir Francis Harnett had meant by saying that ‘the old ways were the best ways’. However, this would betray Banyard’s eavesdropping, and in any case, these knights would just lie.
    ‘Landlord!’Cranston called over his shoulder. ‘Did Harnett send any messages into London, written or verbal?’
    The landlord came back, scratching his head, a look of puzzlement on his swarthy face. ‘No, he didn’t.’
    ‘I have been through his belongings,’ Malmesbury intervened. ‘Sir John, there’s nothing there. A Book of Hours, an inkpot, cups, clothing, but nothing remarkable.’
    ‘Do you know why Harnett wanted to meet a soldier from the Tower garrison?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘If I did, I would tell Sir John,’ Malmesbury replied quickly.
    Athelstan leaned across and picked up the chalice again. ‘And you have no knowledge of where this came from or who returned it?’
    ‘Now, that is a mystery,’ Goldingham intervened, his cup half-way to his lips. ‘The last time I saw that, Brother, was many years ago; now it reappears as if out of nowhere.’
    ‘And you are not curious?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘Quite honestly, Sir John,’ Aylebore retorted, ‘I couldn’t give a shit! All I wish is that we could put it in a box and go straight back to Shrewsbury with the corpses of our murdered comrades.’
    ‘Why don’t you?’ Athelstan turned to Malmesbury. ‘Surely the regent will excuse you?’
    ‘That’s impossible,’ the knight growled. ‘We represent the county and towns of Shropshire. What explanation can we give, Brother, for our sudden flight? And how do we know the assassin would not pursue us?’ He ran his fingers round the brim of the wine goblet. ‘Moreover,