The House of Crows

doors, passageways and galleries in this tavern than there are in a rabbit warren. Any one of them could have slipped out, followed Sir Francis into the Pyx chamber, and killed him.’
    ‘And the weapon?’Cranston asked.
    Athelstan sighed. ‘Yes, yes, that is a mystery. But we must not forget Sir Miles Coverdale or His Grace the Regent’s role in all this.’
    ‘And the famous chalice?’
    ‘Ah!’ Athelstan lifted the lid of one of the heavy chests. ‘Sir John, do me a favour please. Go down into the taproom, hire a boy to go to the abbey, and ask Father Benedict if he would be so good as to join us here. No, no, on second thoughts, Sir John, tell the boy we will meet him within the hour in St Faith’s Chapel. I would also like to see the Pyx chamber where the murder was committed. Oh, and Sir John, what time does the Cheapside market close?’
    ‘Just before sunset. It depends on the weather.’
    ‘Well, whatever happens, Sir John, we must be back in Cheapside when it does.’
    ‘Why?’ Cranston asked.
    But Athelstan, muttering to himself, was now rifling amongst the contents of the chest. Cranston stuck his tongue out at the friar’s back and, going to the top of the stairs, shouted for Banyard to send a boy up. When the coroner returned, Athelstan had laid the contents of the chest and Harnett’s saddlebags on to the bed and was now sifting amongst these.
    ‘Nothing remarkable,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘A cup with a swan on it. A collection of legends about King Arthur, clothing, belts and daggers, an inkpot and quills.’ He straightened up, a Book of Hours clasped in his hand.
    ‘Sir John.’ He pointed to the chalice he had brought from the taproom. ‘Let’s leave this. Ask Banyard to seal the chamber.’ He looked down at the embroidered belts, soft leather boots, hose, jerkins and shirts. ‘There’s something missing here,’ he murmured, ‘but I can’t put my finger on it.’ He scratched his cheek. ‘Ah well.’
    Athelstan picked up a coverlet and threw it over the contents of the bed; he was still distracted by what he had failed to see rather than what he had. The friar led a bemused coroner out of the chamber and down the stairs. Banyard, busy in the taproom, told him the knights had gone back to their own chambers. ‘And Sir Miles Coverdale?’
    ‘Oh, he started shouting at Sir Edmund Malmesbury, saying he didn’t like his insinuations, and stalked off.’
    ‘Master Banyard,’ Athelstan said, ‘would you lock Sir Francis’s room? Please tell his companions that I have taken a Book of Hours but left the chalice there.’
    The landlord agreed and Athelstan joined Cranston outside. ‘Why bother taking his Book of Hours?’ Cranston asked as they hurried up an alleyway towards the brooding mass of Westminster Abbey.
    ‘Sir John, you have a Book of Hours at home?’ Athelstan paused to open his writing-case and place the book inside. ‘Yes, of course I do.’
    ‘And you use it to pray?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘And what else?’
    Cranston grinned and patted the friar on the shoulder. ‘In the blank pages at the back and front I make my own notes, private prayers and devotions.’ He gripped Athelstan’s arm. ‘Didn’t you examine Harnett’s before you left?’
    ‘Very quickly,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I could see nothing. But come, Sir John, we have the Pyx chamber to investigate, as well as ask Father Benedict certain questions.’
    Athelstan was relieved they had left in good time, as the soldiers guarding the abbey entrances were quite obdurate.
    ‘I don’t care if you’re the Archangel Gabriel!’ One of the archers snapped at Cranston, his nut-brown face fiercely determined. ‘No one is allowed to pass here without a seal. You have not got one, so you can’t go in!’
    After a great deal of argument, the archer at least agreed to go and find Sir Miles Coverdale: when the captain arrived, he sullenly agreed to let them through, but insisted on escorting them himself through the Jericho parlour, around the cloisters and into the long vestibule leading to the chapter-house.
    ‘The Commons are not meeting this morning?’ Cranston asked as they hurried along.
    ‘No, Sir John, that gaggle of geese have to rest their voices: their cackling begins late this afternoon. They are already complaining about Sir Francis Harnett’s death,’ Coverdale added morosely. ‘Sending petitions to the regent for more soldiers and archers to be sent here.’
    ‘Do you blame