The House of Crows

collar of his shirt. ‘On Saturday the young king comes down to talk to his Commons; a few days later parliament is dissolved and Sir Edmund and his party will probably ride post-haste back to Shrewsbury.’ Cranston stared up at the gables and gargoyles along the abbey walls. ‘I wish I was home,’ he murmured. ‘A man should spend his nights sleeping with his wife. Ah well, Athelstan, one final call.’
    They trudged round the abbey. Now and again some official tried to stop them to demand their business, but at Cranston’s growl the official would hastily back away. At last they entered a small courtyard and made their way across to a low-storeyed building. The coroner hammered at the door. An old, bleary-eyed monk, eyes screwed up against the light, ushered them into a low but very long chamber, full of manuscripts resting on shelves or spilling out of coffers and caskets. The old monk, his hand all a-tremble, stared up into Cranston’s face, his eyes growing sharper.
    ‘I know you!’
    ‘Of course, you do, Brother Aelfric!’ Cranston embraced the old monk, planting a juicy kiss on each of his dry, seamed cheeks.
    ‘Why bless me, it’s Jack Cranston! Good Lord, man, what are you doing here? And who is this?’
    ‘Master Aelfric, Brother Athelstan, who, for his sins, is a Dominican and, for his love of drink and beautiful women, parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark.’
    Aelfric peered at Athelstan. ‘Don’t worry, Brother,’ he murmured. ‘I know Jack Cranston’s humour. I was one of his masters in the abbey school. If I had a pound for every time I switched his buttocks, I’d be richer than the Cardinal Archbishop of Spolero. Jack, do you remember the time you stole the ox from the crib?’
    ‘Yes, yes.’ Cranston put an arm round the old man’s shoulders. ‘But we are not here to reminisce, Master Aelfric. I have a task for your keen wits and sharp eyes.’
    ‘Not so keen as they once were,’ the old monk mumbled, ushering Cranston and Athelstan to stools next to his own high-backed chair.
    Cranston stared round the chamber. ‘Master Aelfric, this is the king’s muniment room?’
    ‘That’s right, Jack. All the king’s records are kept here.’
    ‘What about Shropshire?’
    ‘What about it, Jack?’
    ‘Well, what records do you have from that county?’
    The monk pulled a face and scratched his chin.
    ‘Well, we have the sheriffs returns at Michaelmas, Christmas, Hilary and Midsummer. We have petitions to the king’s council, bailiffs accounts.’
    ‘What else?’
    ‘Oh, yes, cases heard before the king’s Justices in Eyre, gaol deliver, oyer and terminer.’
    ‘Yes, yes.’ Cranston held a hand up. ‘Brother, you have heard about the murders at Westminster?’
    Aelfric’s eyes moved, for a few seconds Athelstan caught the cunning, shrewd nature of this old archivist.
    ‘Who hasn’t, Sir John?’ he replied quietly.
    ‘And do the names mean anything to you?’ Cranston added. ‘Sir Oliver Bouchon, Sir Henry Swynford, Sir Francis Harnett?’ The old monk shook his head. ‘Until the brothers whispered their names in the refectory,’ he answered, ‘their names meant nothing to me.’
    ‘You are lying!’ The words were out of Athelstan’s mouth before he could stop them.
    Cranston turned in surprise. Old Aelfric’s mouth opened and shut.
    ‘You are lying,’ Athelstan repeated, getting to his feet. ‘I shall tell you what happened, Aelfric: no less a person than the Lord Regent has been here and asked you the same questions we have. He took certain records and examined them carefully. If he returned them, he told you to keep your mouth shut, should anyone else come here making similar inquiries.’
    Aelfric blinked.
    ‘Why do you lie?’ Athelstan continued. ‘Why do people like you, a priest and a monk, enter into complicity with those in power just because they tell you to? You called my colleague Jack; you hail him as a friend, you know what we are searching for. Indeed, you must have expected us.’
    Aelfric half rose, then sat down again. ‘You’d best leave,’ he declared. ‘Sir John, I do not like you, your companion even less.’
    Cranston stretched out a hand towards his old teacher, but Aelfric didn’t turn. Athelstan tugged at the coroner’s cloak. ‘Come on, Sir John. We are wasting our time.’
    Cranston followed him out of the chamber; they were halfway across the courtyard when he stopped and grasped Athelstan’s arm.
    ‘You