The House of Crows

yourself?’ Athelstan asked.
    Coverdale stopped at the steps leading down to the Pyx chamber. ‘Brother, there are over two hundred representatives meeting in the chapter-house, and about a dozen clerks, not to mention the soldiers and archers on guard. Some of them are strangers to me, being drawn from garrisons as far afield as Dover and Hedingham Castle. If a man carries that seal, acts without suspicion and bears no arms, there is little we can do to stop him from entering here. But come, you want to see the Pyx chamber.’
    He grasped a torch from a socket on the wall and led them down the steps. An archer at the bottom unlocked the door, and they entered the shadow-filled, eerie crypt. Coverdale lit more torches and pointed to a dark stain on the paved stone floor.
    ‘We found the body there, bleeding like a stuck pig.’ He moved his hand. ‘Beside it the arrowhead, candle, and the scrap of parchment.’ Coverdale pointed to one of the iron brackets. ‘The head was tied to that by its hair.’
    Athelstan followed Coverdale’s direction. He recalled the care Harnett took with his hair; the memory only deepened his horror at the poor knight’s death.
    ‘And you found nothing else?’ he asked.
    ‘Nothing, Father.’
    Athelstan walked round. He could not find anything amiss, except the dark bloodstains and a sense of malevolence, as if the assassin was in the shadows laughing at their blundering about. He recalled the exorcist’s words and plucked at Cranston’s sleeve.
    ‘There may not be a demon in Southwark,’ he whispered. ‘But, before God, Sir John, one has been here!’
    Cranston lifted his miraculous wineskin and took a deep draught. He replaced the stopper, stared round and shivered.
    ‘Come on, Brother!’ he snapped. ‘Let’s get out of here!’

CHAPTER 10

    Cranston and Athelstan thanked Coverdale. They climbed the steps, crossed the vestibule, and went up another flight of stairs into St Faith’s Chapel. They sat on a bench against the wall of the narrow chapel. Cranston closed his eyes, half dozing. Athelstan studied a painting: St Faith wearing a crown and holding a grid-iron, the emblem of her martyrdom. Next to her was a small, half-size figure of a praying Benedictine monk: from his lips issued a scroll bearing the words:

    ‘From the burden of my sin, Sweet Virgin, deliver me.
    Make my peace with Christ and blot out my iniquities.’

    ‘We could all say that prayer,’ Athelstan murmured.
    ‘What’s that?’ Cranston stirred himself, smacking his lips. ‘Beautiful chapel, Athelstan,’ he murmured. ‘Too much stacked here, a little untidy. But what were you saying?’
    Athelstan pointed to the figure on the wall and the words, ‘I think that applies to our situation doesn’t it, Sir John?’
    ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ the coroner declared. He looked sheepish. ‘Well, I drink too much.’ He nudged Athelstan. ‘But only occasionally.’
    Athelstan said thoughtfully, ‘I wonder how that assassin could enter the abbey cloisters, go down to the Pyx chamber, commit such a terrible act and walk away scot-free. Sir John, it must be a soldier or one of the knights?’
    ‘But, surely, not a monk?’
    Athelstan whirled round. Father Benedict stood in the doorway of the chapel. Athelstan and Cranston rose.
    ‘Father, I thank you for coming.’
    Cranston, embarrassed, tried to hide the wineskin peeping out from beneath his cloak.
    ‘Sit down! Sit down!’
    Cranston and Athelstan obeyed whilst Father Benedict went and pulled across a small box chair which stood in a corner of the chapel. The monk stared over his shoulder at the altar, where a candle burned beneath the pyx which contained the body of Christ.
    ‘If you question me here, Brother,’ Father Benedict said softly, ‘I have little choice but to tell the truth.’
    ‘About what?’Cranston asked curiously.
    ‘Oh, not about the murders?’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Father Benedict is as innocent as a new-born babe. However, the chalice, the Holy Grail, the cedarwood cup which was sent to the Gargoyle tavern this morning. You sent that, didn’t you, Father?’
    The monk slid his hands up the voluminous sleeves of his black gown. He blinked and glanced away, as if fascinated by the tiled floor of the chapel.
    ‘Your friend Father Antony gave it to you, didn’t he?’ Athelstan persisted.
    Father Benedict nodded. ‘Many years ago.’ He began slowly. ‘Father Antony arrived here from Lilleshall. We