The House of Crows

wealth and ostentation.
    ‘“He that is without sin among you,”‘ Athelstan murmured, quoting from the Gospels, “‘let him first cast a stone.’”
    He wiped the sweat from his brow and half smiled at the success of the day. But these minders at Westminster? He glanced quickly at Cranston, but the coroner had his head back and was snoring lightly. Now and again he’d smack his lips and mutter, ‘Refreshments!’ Athelstan recalled the corpses of Bouchon, Swynford and Harnett. What had he and Cranston learnt? He quietly ticked the points off in his mind.
    Primo: Bouchon had left the tavern abruptly on Monday evening, therefore he was going to meet someone. The knight had already received the arrowhead and the other premonitions of his death. Where was he going? Whom was he meeting? Why hadn’t he gone back to his chamber to collect his sword? Athelstan opened his eyes.
    ‘We should check the river once more,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps one of the boatmen can remember.’ He closed his eyes.
    Secundo: Bouchon had few marks on his corpse except that terrible bruise on the back of his head, the black marks under his fingernails and the crosses etched on his dead face.
    Tertio: He had been found bobbing amongst the reeds near Tothill Fields, so he must have been killed in the early horns, just as the tide changed and the Thames ran swollen to the sea.
    Well done, Friar, he thought. Was Bouchon’s corpse ever meant to be discovered? If those reeds hadn’t caught it, it might well have been taken down to the estuary and out into the sea.
    Quarto : Swynford. He had gone to pray over Bouchon’s corpse: the priest who had arrived and left so mysteriously had garrotted him. Swynford, too, had received warning of his death. And why was it so important that the words of the Dies Irae be chanted by the killer? And why was that false priest so confident that Father Gregory would not arrive? And why, again, had those crosses been etched on Swynford’s dead face?
    Quinto : Who knew about Harnett’s secret negotiations with Perline Brasenose? How had Sir Francis been lured to the Pyx chamber of Westminster Abbey? Surely the only person who could slip so easily out of the abbey was a soldier or another member of the Commons? Athelstan recalled Harnett’s severed head; his features had not been disfigured. Why? Had the assassin been in a hurry?
    Sexto: What was missing amongst Harnett’s possessions? And, now he reflected on it, from the belongings of the other knights?
    Septimo: Who had followed Bouchon and then Harnett? Pursuing them so easily, trapping and killing them?
    Octavo : What had these knights done which was so terrible? And why didn’t they just flee Westminster and go back to Shropshire?
    Nono : What role did the regent play in all these deaths? How could he have influence over knights who, in the Commons, so bitterly opposed his demands?
    ‘Wake up, monk!’
    Athelstan opened his eyes. Cranston was grinning at him. Athelstan blinked.
    ‘Sir John, I was not sleeping, just thinking.’
    ‘As I was!’ the coroner answered portentously. He stared across at the thinning crowds. ‘Anything in particular, my learned friar?’
    Athelstan heard the faint cries of a boatman shouting for custom.
    ‘Well, Sir John, we know Sir Francis went to Southwark, but did any boatman take Sir Oliver Bouchon?’
    Cranston took a swig from his miraculous wineskin and shook his head.
    ‘My bailiffs have already made such inquiries,’ he declared. ‘So far as they can discover, no boatman took any member of the Commons either up- or downriver that evening.’
    Athelstan rose to his feet and stretched. ‘Is it possible, Sir John, that Bouchon didn’t leave Westminster? That he was knocked unconscious here and thrown into the Thames?’
    Sir John pulled a face. ‘I hadn’t thought of that, Friar.’ He stared across the abbey gardens, narrowing his eyes against the dying sun. ‘If this corpse had been thrown in, let’s say near Dowgate, not far from London Bridge, from what I know of the Thames the body would have been taken out into mid-stream.’ Cranston stretched his legs. ‘However, at Westminster the tide loses some of its force: Bouchon’s corpse would be taken rather sluggishly, which is why it was trapped in the reeds at Tothill. Where does that leave us?’ He shrugged and sighed. ‘Today is Thursday, let’s be honest, Friar, we have made little progress this week.’ He dabbed the sweat around the