Paul Doherty - The House of Crows

‘Very good, my lord Coroner.’ Malmesbury sprang to his feet. ‘You have summoned us here.’ He slapped a pair of leather gloves against his thigh. ‘If you have no questions, we’ll go. Let me remind you, Coroner, we are not under your jurisdiction: members of the Commons cannot be arrested because of stupid civic regulations.’ He glanced down at his companions who murmured approval.

‘A very pretty speech.’ Cranston got to his feet and came over to stand beside Athelstan. He pointed to the door. ‘All of you may go, if you wish. Sir Edmund is perfectly correct. I have no jurisdiction here. However, let me remind you of a few legal niceties. First, two of your companions, members of the Commons, have been foully murdered. This is an attack upon the authority of the Crown. I talk not about the regent but of Richard, King of England, whose officer I am. The lawyers of the Chancery may also argue that an attack upon my authority is an attack upon the Crown. However,’ Cranston smiled, ‘that would be decided by the king’s justices: it could take a long time and require your return from Shropshire to London. Secondly, you are protected as long as the Commons sit. Once this Parliament is dismissed, and it will be dismissed whatever happens, I shall swear out warrants for your arrest on suspicion of murder.’

‘This is preposterous!’ Goldingham spluttered, half rising to his feet. ‘You accuse us of the murder of two of our companions?’

‘I said suspicion, based on the very sound legal point that you refused to answer the questions of the king’s officer.’

‘But we had nothing to do with their deaths,’ Thomas Elontius shouted, his face puce-coloured, his eyes popping so much that Athelstan thought they would fall out of his head.

Cranston smiled. ‘Very good,’ he purred. ‘In which case you will not object to answering a few simple questions.’

Goldingham slouched back on the steps. ‘Get on with it,’ he muttered.

‘Good, on Monday last-’ Cranston began.

‘Tarry a while.’ Harnett pointed at Covérdale. ‘Must he stay?’

‘Yes, he must. If he goes,’ Cranston replied, ‘so do I. Sir Miles, do relax. Sit down. This will not take long.’

Cranston paused to dab his face with the edge of his cloak, glanced across at Athelstan and winked. The friar stepped forward. Pushing his hands up the sleeves of his habit, he walked towards the knights. They watched him curiously.

‘My lords,’ Athelstan began, ‘on Monday night Sir Oliver Bouchon left a supper party which you all attended at the Gargoyle tavern. According to witnesses, Bouchon was distressed and subdued. He did not return and his body was later recovered amongst the river reeds near Tothill Fields.’

‘So?’ Malmesbury asked. He watched Athelstan like Bonaventure would a mouse.

‘Why was Sir Oliver so upset?’

The knights just stared back.

‘Did he tell you where he was going?’

Again silence.

‘Did he tell you about receiving the arrowhead, the candle and the scrap of parchment with the word “Remember” scrawled on it?’

‘He told us nothing,’ Malmesbury replied. ‘Isn’t that true, my lords?’ He mimicked Athelstan’s words and grinned at his companions.

‘We have talked about this amongst ourselves.’ Elontius scratched his red, bristling beard: close up, he looked not so fierce, and Athelstan caught a softness in the man’s popping eyes.

‘Brother, we do not mean to insult you, or Sir John,’ he continued. ‘But we know nothing of Sir Oliver’s death, God rest him. Yes, he was quiet; yes, he left the tavern; and that’s the last any of us ever saw of him.’

‘So you know nothing which might explain his death? Why should someone send the arrowhead and other articles to him? And why would anyone want to kill him?’

This time a chorus of denials greeted his questions. Athelstan looked down at the tiled floor and moved the tip of his sandal across the fleur-de-lys painted there.

‘And later that evening, my lords?’ He raised his head. ‘You left for other entertainment?’

‘That’s right,’ Goldingham mimicked. ‘We left for, er, other entertainment at Dame Mathilda’s nunnery in Cottemore Lane.’

Harnett began to snigger. Elontius looked a little embarrassed. Aylebore smirked but Malmesbury kept watching Athelstan intently: as he did so, the friar began to wonder where he had seen Sir Edmund before.

‘So you went to a brothel?’ Cranston came over. ‘That’s what Dame Mathilda runs: a molly-house for men away from their wives.’ Cranston now stood over the knights, legs apart, his blue eyes glaring icily at them. He shook his head and wagged a finger at them. ‘This is not a matter for laughter. What happens, my lords, if these deaths are not resolved and I have to come to Shrewsbury to ask these questions before you and your wives?’

‘That would be rather difficult,’ Goldingham spluttered. ‘Mine’s dead.’

‘Then, sir, she is most fortunate.’

Goldingham’s hand flew to his dagger.

‘Why don’t you draw?’ Cranston taunted. ‘Or, better still, Sir Maurice, smack me in the face with your gloves. I can still mount a charger and tilt a lance. My aim is true and my hand as steady as when I fought for the Black Prince.’

Malmesbury turned and gripped Goldingham’s shoulder. ‘Sir John, we apologise. And to you too, Brother Athelstan. I will answer for the rest and they can contradict me if they wish. Sir Oliver left the tavern that night and did not return. None of us knew what he was worried about. True, we tried to cheer him up, but he was in a deep melancholy. After supper, our good landlord took us to Dame Mathilda’s house in Cottemore Lane. We all stayed there till the early hours, then came back — ’ he forced a smile — ‘much the worse for drink. Naturally, we were all shocked by Sir Oliver’s death but, there again, London is full of footpads. And,’ his words were veiled in sarcasm, ‘we understand such attacks are common.’

Athelstan stared along the row of faces. You are lying, he thought. You’ve all sat together and prepared this story: if Sir John and I questioned you individually, you’d just sing the same song.

‘The same is true of Swynford’s death.’ Harnett spoke up.

Athelstan caught the tremor in the man’s voice, the quick flicker in his eyes. He decided to seize an opportunity to ask Sir Francis what business he had along the river.

‘Yes, yes.’ Cranston walked back to the lectern. He peered over his shoulder at Coverdale. The young captain lounged on the steps, such hatred in his eyes that Cranston wondered whether he had acted wisely in asking Gaunt’s henchman to remain.

‘I suppose,’ Athelstan declared wearily, ‘that Swynford’s death also came as a surprise and distressing shock to you all; that you know nothing about why an arrowhead, a candle and a scrap of parchment were sent to him; and that last night, when he was murdered, you were all busy in your own affairs?’

‘Yes, that’s true,’ Malmesbury replied. ‘We were tired after the night before, distressed about Sir Oliver’s death, so we stayed at the Gargoyle.’

‘And you have witnesses to that?’

‘I was with Sir Edmund,’ Elontius replied. ‘In his chamber, rolling dice and talking about events.’

‘And you, Sir Humphrey?’

Aylebore pulled a face. ‘I retired early. I paid my respects to Sir Oliver’s corpse. For a while I sat talking to the landlord and Goldingham here. I left the taproom and went to my own chamber. The first I knew anything was wrong was when the landlord raised the alarm. Isn’t that correct, Goldingham?’

Sir Maurice ran a hand through his neatly coiffed hair.

‘It’s true and the landlord will stand guarantor for me. For a while I talked to him about the wine trade and the attacks by French pirates on our cogs from Bordeaux. He left and I flirted with the lovely Christina.’