The House of Crows

dumped in the Thames and it floated down to the reeds near Tothill Fields. We do not know why he left, where he went or who followed him. Sir Henry Swynford was garrotted to death by a man pretending to be a priest.’
    ‘And, in that, the assassin was most daring,’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘All we know is that he appeared in the tavern, executed Swynford and then disappeared. God knows what would have happened if the real chantry priest had arrived: though, having met Father Gregory, I don’t think he would be too difficult to fool.’
    ‘And, finally, Harnett,’ Cranston declared. ‘We know he left that brothel on Monday evening and went upriver to Southwark looking for the rapscallion Brasenose. Someone used Harnett’s desire to buy that bloody ape to lure him to the Pyx chamber at Westminster. But how the assassin could enter and leave the guarded cloisters, unnoticed, carrying a sword or an axe, is beyond our comprehension.’
    ‘And then this morning,’ he concluded, ‘we have Sir Maurice Goldingham. He is taken short, hurries to the latrines and dies shitting himself. Again, how the assassin entered and left the cloisters carrying a crossbow remains a mystery.’
    ‘Unless, of course; the assassin was already in the cloisters,’ Athelstan added, ‘being able to pass through the line of soldiers using his seal and, perhaps, smuggling the arbalest in.’ Athelstan sighed in exasperation, ‘Surely, Sir John, the assassin must have made some mistake? What was that black soil we found under Bouchon’s fingernails?’ He heard a snore and glanced sideways; Sir John, a beatific smile on his face, was now fast asleep.
    Athelstan sat back, basking in the sunlight. I should go back to St Erconwald’s, he reflected. He wished he could sit with Benedicta and gossip about the ordinary, humdrum things of everyday life. Athelstan moved on his seat. Yes, he’d like to be in his own house, or teaching the children, or even trying to arbitrate between Watkin and Pike in their interminable struggle for power on the parish council. And, of course, there were other matters. The bell rope needed replacing. He wanted to make sure that the statue of St Erconwald had been replaced correctly on its plinth, and Huddle had to be watched. If the painter had his way, he’d cover every inch of stone with paintings of his own choosing. Athelstan smiled as he recalled Perline Brasenose’s escapade and hoped ‘Cranston the ape’ was safely back in the Tower. Some time in the near future he must have a talk with that young man and Simplicatas: the story must be all over Southwark by now. Athelstan closed his eyes and quietly prayed that none of his parishioners, particularly Crim, ever mentioned the Barbary ape and Cranston in the same breath again. Pike, too, could sometimes have the devil in him; he might even take Huddle for a pot of ale and encourage the painter to draw some picture depicting Perline’s tomfoolery on the church wall.
    Athelstan heard a sound. He opened his eyes, but it was only Banyard carrying two buckets of earth from the compost heap. He placed these down, smiled at Athelstan, and went into the tavern. Athelstan stood up, moving gently so as not to rouse Sir John. He breathed in the fragrance of the thyme, marjoram and rosemary planted in the herb garden.
    ‘I’ll go back to St Erconwald’s,’ he muttered, ‘when all this is finished.’
    A bee buzzed close to his face. He stepped back, wafting it away. What other mistakes, Athelstan wondered, had the assassin made? To be sure Swynford’s murder was impudent, but those of Harnett and Goldingham? And what had been missing from Harnett’s possessions strewn out on the bed? Athelstan yawned and turned back to the bower: he shook Cranston awake.
    ‘Rouse yourself, Sir John.’
    Cranston opened his eyes, smacking his lips. The coroner stretched. ‘Where to now, my good friar?’
    ‘The day is warm,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Let’s return to our chambers, Sir John. Tomorrow we have to be up early when the king and the regent go down to Westminster. What o’clock will the procession start?’
    Cranston lumbered to his feet. ‘I don’t know, but I’ll send a messenger to the Savoy to ask.’ And, grumbling about the regent’s impositions, Cranston shuffled back into the tavern, making his way wearily upstairs.
    Athelstan followed. He would have liked to have written down the conclusions he and Sir John had reached, but the sun and ale had