Paul Doherty - The House of Crows

‘I’d discover nothing about Perline Brasenose there.’ Cranston smiled. ‘But it would be good to kiss the poppets.’

They walked towards Cranston’s house.

‘I want Leif the beggar, the idle bugger,’ Cranston growled. ‘I want him to deliver a message.’

The words were hardly out of his mouth when the tall, emaciated, red-haired beggar hopped like a frog out of an alleyway.

‘Sir John, Sir John, God bless you! Brother Athelstan, may you send all demons back to hell!’

‘So, you have heard?’

‘Aye I have,’ Leif replied, resting on his crutch, head cocked to one side. ‘They say a butcher in Southwark caught the demon in a cellar. It was in the shape of a goat: the butcher cut his throat, sliced the goat into collops and invited everyone-’

‘That’s enough,’ Cranston interrupted. ‘How is the Lady Maude?’

Leif smiled slyly. ‘In a fair rage, Sir John. The two dogs have eaten your pie: left out on the table, it was, cooling for supper, broad and golden with a tasty crust. She thinks the poppets took it down and gave it to the dogs. The Lady Maude is also complaining about the stench from the ditch. She says if they fire the refuse tonight, it will be impossible to dry sheets in the morning.’

‘Yes, yes, quite,’ Cranston growled, and glanced hurriedly down the street to the Holy Lamb of God inn. He cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps, Brother, it’s best if we let the Lady Maude’s anger cool for a while.’

‘I am all a-hungered, Sir John,’ Leif wailed. He peered at Athelstan. ‘And so are you, aren’t you, Father?’

Athelstan nodded. He felt hungry, his legs were aching, and he couldn’t refuse Sir John’s generous offer to help.

‘Perhaps ale and something to eat at the Holy Lamb, Sir John?’

‘Shouldn’t you go home?’ Leif asked innocently.

‘Affairs of state. Affairs of state,’ Cranston breathed.

‘I am hungry as well, Sir John,’ Leif slyly added. ‘The Lady Maude is waiting for me.’

‘Well, you can join us,’ Cranston replied. ‘But first go round the streets. Seek out the Harrower of the Dead. Tell him Sir John requires his presence at the Holy Lamb of God! Yes, yes.’ He thrust a penny into Leifs outstretched hand. ‘I understand, you’ll need some sustenance on the way.’

The beggar was about to scamper off, but Cranston seized his arm. ‘And what news in Cheapside, Leif?’

The beggar scratched his nose. ‘More cats have gone, Sir John.’ Leif pointed down to a great, high-sided dung cart.

‘People have lost confidence, Sir John. They are even paying Hengist and Horsa to look for their cats.’

‘Are they now?’ Cranston murmured. ‘Well, you trot off, Leif, and deliver my message.’

The beggar left as fast as a whippet, eager to be back at the Holy Lamb for the supper Sir John had promised. Cranston marched down towards the two dung-collectors. They were cleaning the sewer in the centre of Cheapside, digging out the mess and slops, cheerily throwing the muck into their huge, stinking cart.

‘God bless you, sirs,’ Cranston greeted them.

Both men paused, pushing back their hoods.

‘Lovely lads!’ Cranston breathed. ‘Brother Athelstan, this is Hengist and Horsa. Dung-collectors of Cheapside.’

Both men grinned in embarrassment. Twin brothers, their dirty, wart-covered faces were identical, except that Hengist had one tooth whilst Horsa had none.

‘Good morrow, Sir John,’ they chorused.

‘So, you are searching for the stolen cats?’ Cranston asked.

‘Aye, Sir John, and a great pity it is how the poor animals are disappearing.’

Hengist leaned his shovel against the cart and wiped his fingers on his red leather apron. Athelstan noticed that Horsa’s leather apron was cut much shorter. The fellow noticed Athelstan’s gaze.

‘It’s cut like that, Father, so people can tell us one from the other.’

‘Have you found the cats?’ Cranston growled.

‘No, Sir John.’ Hengist clasped his hands together as if in prayer. ‘The poor creatures seem to have disappeared into thin air.’

‘And you have found no signs to indicate who has taken them?’

‘None whatsoever, Sir John.’ The fellow’s eyes grew large. ‘But we have all heard about the demon in Southwark.’

‘You’re taking payment for your searches?’ Cranston insisted.

‘Oh yes, Sir John, but not hide nor hair can be seen.’

Cranston took a step closer and stared into the dung-collector’s watery eyes.

‘Now, my bucko,’ he said quietly, ‘if you can discover neither hide or hair, why are you taking pennies from petty traders and poor old ladies?’

‘Sir John, we haven’t taken much. People have only asked for our help.’

‘Aye, in which case,’ Cranston grated, ‘they must be truly desperate.’ And, shouldering past the man, he made his way further down Cheapside.

‘Sir John, you were unduly harsh,’ Athelstan declared, hurrying up beside him.

Cranston just shook his head and lengthened his stride, heading like an arrow for the Holy Lamb of God. Once inside, he took off his cloak and tossed the empty wineskin at the landlord’s wife; she came bustling out from the kitchen to greet Sir John as if he was a long-lost brother.

‘Some ale!’ Cranston tweaked her plump cheek. And one of your pies — freshly baked, mind you, not yesterday’s.’

‘Sir John, as if we’d ever…’ the woman simpered back.

Cranston moved his bulk towards the windowseat quickly vacated by two traders who knew Sir John and his habits. The coroner sat down and stared out through the open window at the garden beyond.

‘So, you think I’m harsh, Brother. I wouldn’t trust either of that precious pair as far as I could spit.’ He paused as the ale-wife brought over two brimming tankards of ale. Cranston sipped at his and leaned back against the wall. ‘But there again, my dear friar, perhaps I am harsh. Except as far as those two are concerned, it’s a case of much suspected but little proved. Anyway, “sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof”. Come on, Brother, relax.’ He cradled his tankard in his hands and watched Athelstan under half-closed eyelids. ‘I just wonder what our beloved regent is plotting.’ He murmured. ‘All this hubbub, deaths at Westminster, and a public execution. I suspect there’s a purpose behind it all but I’m damned if I can see it!’

‘And young Perline?’ Athelstan asked hopefully.

‘I’ve sent for the Harrower of the Dead,’ Cranston replied. ‘Perline lived and worked at the Tower, and there’s nothing that happens along the alleyways of the city which the Harrower doesn’t know about.’ He sat up as the ale-wife brought back two bowls, each containing a pie hot and spicy, neatly cut in four and covered with an onion sauce. Cranston took his horn spoon out, cleaned it carefully on a napkin, and began to eat.

‘And there’s also the cats?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Aye, Brother, the Harrower might know something about that.’

They continued their meal in silence and were almost finished when Leif hopped into the tavern. ‘Sir John, he’s coming! He’s coming!’

The coroner pointed to a far corner of the tavern. ‘Well, Leif, bugger off and sit over there! Eat and drink what you want but don’t go back to the Lady Maude and tell her where I am! Do you understand?’

Leif raised his right hand and solemnly swore. The beggar was hardly settled in his favourite nook when a cowled, hooded figure slipped like a shadow into the room.

The Harrower of the Dead sat on a stool before Athelstan and Cranston. He did not pull back the cowl of his cloak or unwrap the black silk mask which covered the lower half of his face. Athelstan noticed the very fine brows over heavy-lidded eyes: strange eyes, close-set and chillingly blue, they never flickered in their gaze.