The House of Crows

as they walked down towards the quayside. ‘You must never forget Sir Miles Coverdale, who hates the knights and also hails from Shropshire. Or, again, His Grace the Regent who, I believe is dabbling in this matter even though he acts the role of the aggrieved observer.’
    Cranston stopped and took a swig from the wineskin. ‘Riddle upon riddle... But come, Brother, these cats?’
    Athelstan began to explain as Moleskin, sweating and cursing against the rising swell of the tide, took them across river to St Paul’s Wharf. This time Athelstan totally ignored the boatman, hut whispered his conclusions to an increasingly irascible Sir John. Only when they had disembarked, and Cranston had gone storming up the water-soaked steps, did Athelstan talk to the hoatman.
    ‘Moleskin.’
    ‘Yes, Father?’
    ‘Row back to the Southwark side, tie your boat up and go to St Erconwald’s. Benedicta will tell you all about Perline and the demon you have been pestering me about.’
    ‘Are you sure, Father?’ Moleskin’s face broke into a grin. ‘You have just ignored me all the way across.’ He pointed to Cranston striding up and down the quayside like Hector. ‘Why do cats make Lord Horsecruncher so angry?’
    ‘In time I’ll tell you about that as well,’ Athelstan replied and, leaving a mystified Moleskin, he hurried up the steps.
    The coroner had now worked himself into a fine rage. He’d already hired a boy to take a message to his bailiffs, and would have gone storming into Cheapside but for Athelstan grasping his sleeve.
    ‘Sir John, Sir John, the afternoon is growing on. The market will soon be finished and your bailiffs will be in place when that message is delivered.’ Athelstan stopped speaking, his hand going to his mouth.
    ‘What’s the matter, monk?’
    ‘Friar, Sir John, friar! I’m just wondering who could possibly have found out about Harnett’s meeting with Perline Brasenose?’ He steered Sir John towards a tavern. ‘I mean, Harnett saw the Barbary ape on Sunday. On Monday he met Perline but, after that, our young soldier went into hiding. Now,’ Athelstan scratched his chin, ‘Perline can’t write, so who told Harnett to go to the Pyx chamber?’
    They entered the dingy tavern. Its walls were greasy and the ceiling beams blackened, but Athelstan knew the proprietor was one of the best cooks along the riverside, and might provide delicacies to distract Sir John’s temper. They found an empty table well away from the sailors and fishermen who flocked there.
    ‘You are forgetting one thing,’ Cranston announced, leaning back and smacking his lips at the savoury fragrance coming from the buttery.
    Athelstan raised his eyebrows.
    ‘On Monday evening, Sir Francis left the brothel where the others were cavorting. They knew he’d gone.’
    ‘Of course,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘And we know he went to Southwark, then on to the steel yard. Ergo...’ Athelstan paused as the barrel-shaped landlord served Sir John his favourite fish pie and a cup of white Alsace.
    ‘Anything for you, Father?’
    ‘Oh, some ale, Bartholomew. Please.’
    ‘Ergo,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘either Harnett was followed from that tavern —’ he ticked the points off on his fingers — ‘and his pursuer discovered what he was looking for; or, Harnett told one of his companions before he left, who later used that information to commit murder.’
    ‘Coverdale could also have done that,’ Cranston argued between mouthfuls of pie. ‘Either he or some other of the regent’s minions.’ He sipped from his goblet. ‘I am beginning to agree with you, Brother, the regent cannot be totally blameless in this matter. I am sure these worthy knights would flee back to Shrewsbury if it wasn’t for him. But, there again,’ Cranston slammed his cup down, ‘Sir Edmund Malmesbury and the rest can hardly be described as John of Gaunt’s most fervent supporters.’
    Cranston ate on in silence. Athelstan could tell the coroner was becoming morose; even the pie and the wine didn’t seem to cheer him. They left the tavern and went up an alleyway, along Thames Street, past run-down warehouses to a bare expanse of land where the Fleet river poured its filth into the Thames. Here all the great dung carts in London congregated to deposit the filth and muck cleaned from the streets into the Thames. Cranston, stamping his feet, glowered around, then caught sight of his bailiffs, two burly individuals who came striding towards