The House of Crows (13 page)

‘Knowing some of the abbesses I do,’ Cranston growled, ‘you’re probably right!’

‘Doesn’t the city try to close them down?’ As he spoke Athelstan heard a sound from the wall just next to the canopied hearth. He glanced quickly over; he was sure he glimpsed a wooden shutter being drawn closed.

‘Who would shut a place like this down?’ Cranston answered. ‘Dame Mathilda and her
“Jolies filles”
could sing a song which would embarrass many an alderman.’

‘Aye, and a few others!’

Cranston whirled round. A tall, severe lady, dressed in a white veil and grey dress, stood just within the doorway. Her hair was grey, her face thin and haughty, her eyes sharp and watchful. She walked across, fingering the golden girdle tied round her waist. Athelstan felt like pinching himself: she walked and talked like some venerable mother superior.

‘I am Dame Mathilda Kirtles.’ She stared down at Athelstan. ‘You are the Dominican from St Erconwald’s, aren’t you? One of your parishioners, Cecily, often talks about you.’

Athelstan was too tongue-tied to reply.

‘And you, of course, must be Sir John Cranston: the fattest, loudest and most bibulous of coroners!’ She held a hand out. Cranston grasped and kissed it.

‘Madame, I am your servant.’

‘No you are not,’ Dame Mathilda snapped, ‘you have nothing to do with whores, Sir John, more’s the pity.’ Her eyes softened a little. ‘But they say you can’t be bribed, and that makes you unique.’ Dame Mathilda swept away and sat down on a small cushioned chair before the fireplace.

‘Sir John, you are not here for pleasure, so what is your business?’

Cranston sat down in the windowseat next to Athelstan. For some strange reason he felt like a little boy again, quietly throwing stones into the stewponds and being reproved by one of his elderly aunts.

‘I’d offer you some refreshment,’ Dame Mathilda declared, ‘but I’ll be honest, Sir John, the sooner you’re gone the better!’ She smiled thinly. ‘Banyard cackles like a goose. No one will dare come near the house whilst you are here.’

‘Including the honourable representatives from Shrewsbury?’ Cranston asked. ‘They were here last Monday night, Dame Mathilda. Bellies full, deep in their cups.’

‘Aye, and their purses full of silver. They came here about two hours before midnight.’ She continued. ‘My girls entertained them . . .’ She indicated with her head at the ceiling. ‘Each went their separate ways with the girl of his choice.’

‘All of them?’

‘One left.’

‘Who?’ Athelstan asked.

‘The small, funny one. He sat for a while with one of my girls, boring her to sleep with chatter about animals, beasteries and what he had seen in the Tower. He looked at the hour-candle, gabbled an excuse and left.’

‘And he did not return?’

‘I did not say that. He came back just before the rest left. And, before you ask, Cranston, I don’t know where he’d gone or what he’d been doing: his cloak was damp so I think he had been on the river. Mind you, if he stayed,’ she continued tersely, ‘he’d have been as useful as the rest.’

‘What do you mean?’ Cranston asked.

‘Sir John, these are men of middle years, mature in wisdom, their bellies full. They may still hold their lances straight, but not in the bedchamber.’

‘Yes.’ Cranston glanced quickly at Athelstan, but the friar seemed totally bemused at what Dame Mathilda was saying. ‘And I suppose, good lady, when your guests stay here, you keep an eye on them?’ The coroner gazed round. ‘Even in this room there must be eyelets and hidden peep-holes?’

‘Sir John, you are wiser than you look.’

‘And they talked to the girls?’

‘Sir John, come, come!’ Dame Mathilda clasped her hands demurely in front of her. ‘Do you really expect me to tell you that?’

‘Well…’ Sir John stretched out his legs and folded his arms. ‘You can either tell me here or I could ask the bailiffs to accompany you to the Guildhall tomorrow.’

‘They boasted, Sir John, like all men do: what barns they had, what granges, how fat their sheep, how high their own standing . . .’

‘And what?’

‘How they were members of the Commons and would not lift a finger to help the regent unless he met their demands.’ Dame Mathilda got to her feet. ‘And that, Sir John, is all I can tell you, either here or in your Guildhall.’ She walked towards the door then turned. ‘Brother Athelstan, have you found out where Perline Brasenose is?’

‘Why no.’ The friar got to his feet. ‘You know him?’

‘Yes, I do.’ Dame Mathilda came back. ‘Years ago his mother worked here. Perline was, how can I put it, an unexpected result of a night’s work here.’

‘He’s a member of my parish, he’s married to Simplicatas.’

‘Oh, is that what she’s calling herself now?’

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ Athelstan smiled and stared down at his hands.

Perline and his mother had come to Southwark a few years ago, then Simplicatas had suddenly appeared in their household. Perline had always claimed she was a very distant kinswoman. When he had married her at the church door of St Erconwald’s, all Athelstan had been concerned about was that there was no kinship of blood between them, as laid down by canon law. He closed his eyes and recalled Simplicatas’s pale, elfin face, her blonde hair and green smiling eyes.

‘Well I never,’ he murmured. He glanced up. ‘You know Perline is still missing?’

‘Yes, yes, I do.’ Dame Mathilda opened the door. ‘It’s a small world, Brother Athelstan, especially if you are a whore. Simplicatas has asked for our help.’ The woman glanced impishly at Sir John. ‘There is little that happens in London that we whores do not know about. Now, Sir John, I really must insist . . .’

Once outside the house, Cranston put his arm round Athelstan’s shoulders and roared with laughter. He held the small friar away. ‘Brother, Brother.’ He swallowed hard and blinked his popping blue eyes, watering after laughing so much. ‘Don’t you know anything about your parishioners?’

‘Apparently not, Sir John.’ Athelstan’s shoulders sagged. ‘Simplicatas seemed so demure.’

‘And so she is,’ Cranston linked one arm through Athelstan’s and walked back into Cottemore Lane. ‘If you are a woman, poor and lonely in London, being a whore is better than starving. Simplicatas is not a prostitute. She probably earned her dowry and left as soon as she could. But,’ he asked, ‘now her husband has fled?’

‘Yes, and it’s not like him,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Perline is a madcap but he loves Simplicatas. No one seems to know where he is. He liked his job as a soldier in the Tower. He was paid and well fed.’

‘And if he’s not back soon,’ Cranston muttered, ‘they’ll hang him for desertion.’

At the end of Cottemore Lane, Athelstan withdrew his arm and stared back towards the riverside.

‘You look tired, Brother,’ Cranston remarked, staring at the dark circles under the friar’s eyes.

‘I am worried, Sir John – about Perline, Simplicatas, the devil loose in Southwark, not to mention Pike the ditcher whispering about the great revolt in the corners of taverns. He thinks he’s so clever, yet the tapboy who serves his ale could be the regent’s spy.’ Athelstan pointed to the soaring towers of Westminster. ‘And now there are these murders.’

He allowed Cranston to steer him up a narrow alleyway leading towards Fleet Street. ‘And what do you make of this business?’ Cranston asked.

‘Well . . .’ Athelstan paused to collect his thoughts. ‘We know our noble representatives are lying, Sir John. The knights have got a great deal to hide, but I suspect they are frightened men and cluster together, except for Sir Francis Harnett. The night Bouchon died, he left Dame Mathilda’s and went upriver. Now, whether it was to meet Bouchon or on some other business, I don’t know. What I also keep wondering about,’ he continued, ‘is why should the killer chant the
“Dies Irae”
as he throttled Swynford’s life out?’

‘Do you think he could be a priest? Or even a monk?’

‘Such as Father Benedict?’ Athelstan recalled the tall, severe Benedictine monk. ‘But why should he hate Swynford or Bouchon? The only connection between him and those knights is that a former friend, Father Antony, once served in the same Shropshire abbey where these knights once held their Round Tables.’

Athelstan blew his cheeks out. ‘So far, Sir John, we haven’t learnt enough. If we returned to the Gargoyle, Sir Francis would spin us a story which would neither prove nor disprove why he left the brothel. I am sure that one of his companions would solemnly swear that Sir Francis was telling the truth.’ He nudged the coroner. ‘What we have to do, Sir John, is wait. There will be another murder.’ He sighed. ‘And there’s little we can do to stop it.’

‘What about Coverdale?’ Cranston asked. ‘He’s young, strong and hails from Shropshire. He could have met Bouchon, knocked him on the head and thrown him in the river. He could also have entered the Gargoyle dressed as a priest and garrotted Swynford. We could go back and question him.’

‘And he would ask us why,’ Athelstan replied. ‘What motive does he have for killing two knights?’

‘Revenge?’ Cranston answered. ‘His father was a petty landowner in Shropshire. Coverdale, nursing wrongs and grievances, may have seized this opportunity to settle scores. And, of course, he is one of Gaunt’s henchmen.’

‘And that is the weakness of your case,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Why should Bouchon agree to meet one of Gaunt’s men at night? And Coverdale entering a busy taproom, even disguised as a priest, would be highly dangerous. Moreover,’ Athelstan stopped and stared up at the red-streaked sky, ‘Coverdale is shrewd. We are here investigating these murders precisely because Gaunt does not wish to be blamed for them. Unless, of course, Coverdale is not really Gaunt’s friend,’ he added. ‘In which case, Sir John, we are like dogs chasing our tails.’

‘Which is why I am returning to Cheapside.’ Cranston called over his shoulder as he strode on. ‘I may not be able to help my lord Regent . . .’ he stopped and tapped his fleshy nose. ‘But perhaps I can assist your search for Perline Brasenose.’

They went up on to Holborn Street. The sun was beginning to set, and that broad thoroughfare which swept out of Newgate was full of traders, carters, hucksters and peasants making their weary way home after a day’s business. A hedge-priest, his battered wheelbarrow full of tattered belongings, stopped and begged a penny off Athelstan.

‘Blessings on you, Brother!’ He sketched a benediction. ‘And if I were you I would hurry. The crowds around Newgate are thicker than flies on a cowpat. They’re getting ready to hang a man.’ He then seized his wheelbarrow and hurried on.

Cranston and Athelstan crossed the street where the coroner, using his ponderous bulk and booming voice, stopped a wine cart loaded with tuns and casks. The lord Coroner of the city, together with his secretarius, sat like two boys at the end of the cart, legs dangling, as the wine trader, eager to be in London before curfew, cracked his whip and urged the great dray horses forward. They rattled by Pontypool Street, Leveroune Lane, the Bishop of Ely’s inn, then turned right at Smithfield, past Cock Lane where the whores thronged. One of them recognised Cranston. She steadied the orange wig on her bald head and turned to her sisters. ‘There goes Lord Fat Arse!’

The rest of the group took up the shouts. Cranston smiled beatifically back, sketching a sign of the cross in the air towards them. Athelstan hid his face and just prayed they would reach Newgate without further mishap. They were forced to stop just alongside the great city ditch where the stinking refuse was piled in mounds as high as their heads. The stench was indescribable. Convicted felons, under the supervision of bailiffs, their mouths and eyes covered by scraps of dirty rags, were sprinkling saltpetre over the mounds of slime. Others, armed with bellows, stood round great roaring braziers, fanning the burning charcoal. Athelstan pinched his nostrils and tried not to look at the corpses of rats and other animals which protruded out of the heaps. Cranston, however, shouted encouragement to the bailiffs.

‘Good lads! Lovely boys! It will be ready before nightfall?’

‘Oh yes, Sir John,’ one of them shouted back, leaning on his shovel, ‘Once the curfew bell tolls, we will light the fire.’

‘Thank God,’ Cranston breathed. ‘The ditch is full enough: when the winds come from the north-west, they make Lady Maude sick.’

One of the felons shouted, pulling down the muffler from his face. ‘It’s good to see, how the lord Coroner has now got his own carriage, suitably furnished.’

Cranston peered through the shifting columns of smoke. ‘Is that Tolpuddle? So, you’ve been caught again, you little bastard!’

‘Not really, Sir John,’ the felon shouted cheerily back. ‘Just a little misunderstanding over a baby pig I found.’ Tolpuddle came closer. Athelstan noticed how one eye was sewn up, the other was bright with mischief.

‘Misunderstanding?’ Cranston asked.

‘Aye, the bailiffs caught me with it two nights ago.’

‘So you had stolen it?’

‘No, Sir John.’ The felon leaned on his rake. ‘The saints be my witness, Sir John. I found the little pig wandering alone in the streets. It looked so lonesome. I simply picked it up, put it under my cloak. I was going to take it back to its mother.’

Cranston laughed, dug into his purse, and flicked the man a penny. At last the wine trader saw an opening in the crowds. He cracked his whip and the cart trundled on. Tolpuddle stood, cheerily waving goodbye, until a bailiff clapped him on the ear and sent him back to his work.

The cart rattled on through the old city walls, and Cranston and Athelstan got down in front of Newgate. The great bell of the prison was tolling. On a high-branched scaffold just outside the double gates, a man was about to be turned off. Around the foot of the scaffold thronged men-at-arms and archers wearing the regent’s livery; these held back the crowds, even as a herald in a royal tabard proclaimed how Robert atte Thurlstain, known as the ‘Fox’ and self-proclaimed leader of the so-called ‘Great Community of the Realm’ had been found guilty of the horrible crimes of conspiracy, treason, etc. On a platform next to the scaffold a red-garbed executioner was already sharpening his fleshing knives, laying them out on the great table. The hapless felon would be thrown there after he had been half hung: his body would be cut open, disembowelled, quartered, salted, and then placed in barrels of pickle before being displayed over the principal gateways of London and other cities.