The House of Crows (18 page)

‘I was about to leave when her twenty-year-old son came in. He was dressed in the latest fashion, his hair crimped and curled. He was ever so polite.’ Armitage blinked and Athelstan saw the fear in his eyes. ‘This young man,’ the exorcist continued, ‘grasped my hand and asked how I was? Wouldn’t I stay for another stoup of ale? Take some silver for the poor?’ Armitage closed his eyes as he chewed the corner of his lip. ‘That young man,’ he continued hoarsely, ‘really frightened me. His eyes were dead, Brother. You had the impression that his entire face was a mask and something else lay behind it: a presence, dark and sinister, sneering at both me and his mother.’

The exorcist put his ale down. ‘I have yet to pluck up courage to go back and tell that woman how, in my opinion as an exorcist, her son’s soul is shrouded in darkness. He has been dabbling in some vice which has opened the door to let other powers in.’ He pushed his tankard away. ‘Now, I tell you this, Athelstan, because that’s my view of a demon, of possession. Someone cool, logical, rational, even pleasant in appearance and attitude.’

Athelstan was now stroking Bonaventura who had leapt into his lap. ‘And so you are saying we have no demon in Southwark?’

Armitage smiled. ‘Do you really believe that, Brother?’

Athelstan shook his head.

‘Then follow your heart, Athelstan. When you meet a devil, it won’t be some dark shape leaping amongst the graves. Surely you know what I mean?’

Athelstan recalled those powerful knights at Westminster; their easy smirks, their lying ways, the duplicity of their lives. ‘I understand.’

Armitage sighed. ‘I thought you would. You are the lord coroner’s clerk, aren’t you? Your reputation goes before you, Brother Athelstan. Think of the murderers you have hunted: those men and women who can wipe out another life without a flicker of an eyelid, then wipe their lips and proudly proclaim their innocence to the world. There are your demons. However,’ he pulled up his cowl, ‘at the same time your parishioners could be correct: there may be a presence loose in Southwark, though I really doubt it.’

‘Then what shall I do?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Apply that logic for which you are famous.’ Armitage got to his feet. ‘Keep your parishioners calm. Study all the evidence given to you. Look for the weakness and, when you find it, the mystery will unravel.’ Armitage picked up his cloak. ‘I am sorry I have been of little comfort, Brother. Father Prior was sending me to Eltham, he asked me to stop off here and see you.’ Armitage grinned. ‘Accept my wager, Brother; if you haven’t found your demon in a week, I’ll come back and stay until you do.’

‘And if I do find it . . .?’

Armitage extended his hand. ‘Send your painter to Blackfriars: there’s a stretch of bare wall just near the vestry, and every time I pass it, I imagine this beautiful picture of Christ talking to the Samaritan woman. Don’t worry, he’ll be well paid!’

Athelstan clasped his outstretched hand. ‘Wager accepted!’

Armitage thanked Athelstan and Bonaventura for their company, gave them his blessing and left the priest’s house.

For a while Athelstan sat and reflected on what the exorcist had said.

‘Brother John spoke the truth,’ he declared finally. ‘But where’s the weakness in all of this?’

He cradled the cat and stared at the stark crucifix above the hearth. Watkin and the rest had first seen the demon on Monday evening. Later that same night Sir Oliver Bouchon had been killed; Perline Brasenose, who’d not been home since Saturday, apparently met Sir Francis Harnett on the quayside across the river. Since Monday evening, the demon had been seen near Benedicta’s house – another lonely, deserted place; in the empty house by Ranulf the rat-catcher, and again, yesterday evening, in the parish cemetery. So where was the weakness in all this? He heard a knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ Athelstan shouted.

He half expected Cranston, but Benedicta slipped in, a shopping basket over her arm. For a while all was confusion as Bonaventura hastily leapt into this, looking for something to eat.

‘I have brought food,’ Benedicta smiled, putting the basket on the table. She took out small, linen-covered bundles and laid them out: bread, cheese, a small jar of home-made jam, a piece of cured ham, slices of salted bacon, onions and a small bag of oatmeal. Athelstan couldn’t refuse. Indeed, as Cranston constantly teased him, he was only too pleased to see Benedicta’s lovely face. She took the food into the buttery and helped Athelstan clear the table. He brought fresh jugs of ale, then sat and told her about what was happening at Westminster. Benedicta heard him out: her smooth, olive face lost some of its laughter lines as Athelstan described the deaths of the two knights and the possible sinister intrigues of the regent, John of Gaunt.

‘You should be more careful, Athelstan,’ she warned. ‘When you go into the marketplace people smile and greet you, and so they should. But when you are gone, the whispering continues, fed and fanned by the peasants who bring their produce in to be sold. There’s been unrest in Essex; at Coggeshall a tax-collector was assaulted, whilst at Colchester they barred the gates against royal messengers. There’s talk of people collecting arms, hiding swords and daggers. Yew trees are being stripped to fashion new bows and arrows. Scythes and bill-hooks have been sharpened, and it’s not for the harvest.’ She leaned across the table and laid one soft hand on Athelstan’s. ‘There’s a storm coming, Father. This city is going to see terrible violence.’

‘And, before you ask, Benedicta.’ Athelstan self-consciously moved his hand; he got to his feet and went to stand before the fire. ‘I will stay where I am, unless Father Prior orders otherwise.’

Benedicta saw the stubborn line to his mouth, and knew any further discussion was closed.

‘And the demon?’ she asked quickly.

‘I am still hunting it.’

‘And Perline?’

Athelstan shook his head.

‘I met Simplicatas in the marketplace,’ Benedicta continued. ‘She still looks worried. I asked her if there was any news but she shook her head and continued shopping.’ Benedicta laughed self-consciously and played with the silver chain round her neck. ‘I would have been here earlier, but I helped to carry her basket.’

Benedicta jumped as the door was flung open and Cranston came crashing in like the north wind. He crowed with delight when he saw Benedicta and, gripping her by the shoulders, bent down and planted a juicy kiss on each cheek.

‘Thank God for pretty women!’ he bellowed, and turned, legs apart, thumbs tucked in his belt. ‘Well, Athelstan, pack your bags. Lock your church, we are off to Westminster!’

Athelstan groaned.

‘But why was Harnett so stupid as to go to such a lonely place?’

Cranston shrugged. ‘God knows. Malmesbury had told the knights to stay together. Anyway, that is what we have to search out.’ He patted Athelstan on the shoulder. ‘I am sorry, Brother, both you and I have no choice but to take chambers at the Gargoyle. It’s the regent’s orders.’

Athelstan opened his mouth to protest but Cranston shook his head. ‘There’s no debate, Brother. Everything here will have to wait.’ He grinned over at Benedicta. ‘You’ll have to look after the parish and, if you sit there long enough, looking as pretty as you do, you might even trap this demon.’ He turned back to Athelstan. ‘There’s a further order. On Saturday morning, Gaunt and the young king intend to ride in procession to meet the Commons at Westminster.’ He puffed his chest out. ‘I, as the king’s law officer, will be part of that procession, and of course, dear Athelstan, you will have to go with me.’

Athelstan stared into the fire. He felt like screaming his refusal, yet that would only upset Cranston and achieve nothing.

‘Benedicta, I’ll leave you the keys.’ He got to his feet. ‘Look after Bonaventure. Remember to feed Philomel and ask the priest at St Swithin’s if he would be so kind as to come and say a morning Mass.’

Benedicta said she would. Athelstan went over to the hearth and, grasping a poker, began to sift amongst the cinders. ‘It will go out soon,’ he said absentmindedly.

‘Don’t worry, Brother,’ Benedicta offered, ‘I will make sure that all’s well.’

Athelstan climbed the makeshift ladder into his bedroom. As he filled the saddlebags at the foot of his bed, he wondered, not about Westminster, but Simplicatas. Why should a lonely young woman, supposedly riven with anxiety about her missing husband, buy so much in the marketplace that Benedicta had to help her carry it!

‘There’s little the corpse-dresser can do with that.’ Banyard pointed to the severed torso of Sir Francis Harnett. His remains lay sprawled on a shoddy tarpaulin in an outhouse behind the tavern: the head lolled to one side like a ball, the eyes were half open, and bruises marked the cheek where the head had rolled along the floor of the crypt.

‘For heaven’s sake, show some respect,’ Cranston murmured.

‘I merely describe things as they are, my lord Coroner, not as they should be.’

Athelstan knelt down. He crossed himself, closed his eyes and whispered the requiem: ‘“Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him. May he rest in peace.”’

‘Amen,’ Cranston intoned.

‘What on earth was he doing in the Pyx chamber?’ Athelstan asked, getting to his feet.

‘God knows,’ Sir Miles Coverdale replied. ‘The Commons sat late yesterday. The abbey then became deserted, though, of course, members stayed around the precincts gossiping and talking.’

‘And your guards were still on duty?’ Cranston asked.

‘Oh yes. Even at night. No one can enter or leave the cloisters without showing the special seal each of the representatives carries.’

‘And who went into the cloisters last night?’ Cranston persisted. ‘Come on, man, you know what we are after.’

Coverdale, his face pale, shook his head. ‘I can’t honestly answer that, Sir John. Representatives are constantly going in and out. As you know, the evening can be cold and many are cowled or hooded. But I can state two things. First, no one entered or left those cloisters, or the area around the chapter-house, without showing the special pass.’

‘And the vestibule?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Are those double doors still guarded?’

‘At night, not as strictly as during the day when the Commons sit, but there are guards in the gallery leading to it.’

‘And did anyone remember Sir Francis going there?’

‘One of my men, vaguely; others followed but it was dark. As I said, members are cowled and hooded, arrogant and peremptory. They show their seal, pull back cloaks to show they carry no swords, and doors are opened.’

‘You were going to tell us two things?’ Cranston asked.

‘Ah well.’ Coverdale waved at Harnett’s decapitated corpse. ‘Sir John, you have seen executions or beheadings after battle. To take a man’s head off, you need either a broadsword or a two-headed axe, yet anyone who enters the abbey precincts must show he carries no such weapon. Only dress-daggers are permitted.’

Athelstan covered the decapitated body with the edges of the dark tarpaulin. ‘Is it possible,’ he asked, ‘that someone could steal into the abbey precincts?’

‘I asked Father Abbot that,’ Coverdale replied. ‘There are no secret passageways or galleries. You must remember, Brother Athelstan, the Pyx chamber lies just before the chapter-house. Harnett, and the person who killed him, had to go – and his assassin return – through at least three lines of my guards.’ He smiled thinly and shrugged. ‘What more can I say? Knights from this shire or that were constantly going in and out. Some visited the shrine of St Faith, others the abbey itself. A few came back to collect possessions. You cannot blame my soldiers,’ he continued defensively. ‘They have their orders. Ask for the seal, ensure the person is carrying no weapons, and let them on their way.’ Coverdale wiped his hand on the back of his mouth. ‘There are so many representatives, and the abbey has a number of entrances.’

‘And they must have one of these seals?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes,’ Coverdale replied, ‘or a special pass signed by one of the members. However, my men have strict orders to stop such a person and send for me.’ He shrugged. ‘But, since the beginning of this Parliament, no such letter has been offered, certainly not last night.’

‘What happens if the killer was a monk?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Impossible,’ Coverdale scoffed. ‘The brothers are allowed to use the cloisters, but the vestibule and the chapter-house itself are strictly out of bounds. Moreover, my soldiers would remember a monk trying to enter and leave.’

‘Which leaves us with one possibility.’ Athelstan, rubbing the edge of his nose, took a step nearer to the captain of the guard. ‘I don’t want to give offence, sir, but what if Sir Francis Harnett’s killer was a soldier?’

Coverdale’s face reddened.

‘I say this,’ Athelstan continued remorselessly, ‘merely because a soldier is armed with sword and axe. He would also have every right to enter the vestibule leading to the chapter-house.’

‘You mean someone like myself?’

‘I did not say that, Sir Miles. I was only making an observation.’

Cranston, sitting on an overturned bucket, caught the drift of Athelstan’s meaning, as did Banyard. The landlord stepped back, as if he wished to put himself beyond reach of Coverdale’s anger. Sir Miles, however, despite the red blotches high in his cheeks, remained calm.

‘You should continue your questions, Friar,’ he snapped. ‘Sir Francis Harnett’s companions wait for us in the tavern. They will tell you that Sir Francis left them against my orders -and their advice – shortly before Vespers.’

‘And, of course, you are going to tell us where you were?’