Paul Doherty - The House of Crows

Bonaventure stirred and stretched, Athelstan recalled Cranston’s worries about the disappearing cats in Cheapside. He leaned down and stroked Bonaventure.

‘A sea of troubles, Bonaventura! A sea of troubles!’

And, going back to the table, he sat down, picked up his quill, closing his eyes to concentrate. I have finished my Office, he thought; Philomel is snoring fit to burst. I can’t do anything about our demon until Prior Anselm answers. Sir John and his cats? Well, they will just have to wait. So what about the murders at Westminster?

Athelstan sighed, opened his eyes and wrote down his thoughts.

Item: Bouchon and Swynford belonged to a powerful group of men who formed a company called the Knights of the Swan.

Item: What happened to this company?

Item: Does the arrowhead, the candle and that scrap of parchment have anything to do with these knights’ chivalric pursuits?

Item: Are the deaths of Bouchon and Swynford connected to the break-up of the company of the Knights of the Swan?

Item: What other antagonisms exist between the knights, besides the failure of a business venture at sea?

Item: What were the knights trying to hide from their past? What terrible secrets did they share?

Item: Was it just coincidence that Father Benedict, Chaplain to the Commons, knew, through his dead colleague Father Antony, these powerful men from Shropshire?

Item: What was Harnett doing visiting Perline Brasenose? Why didn’t he just tell Cranston the truth?

Item: Whom had Bouchon met last Monday night? Where did that black dirt under his fingernails come from?

Athelstan threw down the pen and stretched. Bouchon’s body, he thought, had been found down near Tothill Fields: that meant he must have been killed and thrown into the Thames when the river tide was running full towards the sea. Otherwise the body would have been swept back, up towards the city. Athelstan rubbed his lips. But did that say anything about where he had been killed? The corpse had been found trapped amongst reeds. Athelstan shook his head. He would remember that.

Athelstan picked up his quill and continued writing.

Item: That mysterious priest who appeared entering and leaving the Gargoyle tavern without anyone really noticing? Why was he so confident he would escape undetected? Unless, of course, it was one of the knights themselves?

Athelstan threw his pen down in exasperation.

‘Oh, Bonaventure,’ he spoke as the cat leapt up from the table and nuzzled his hand. ‘That’s the real mystery, most cunning of cats. Why don’t these knights leave Westminster and return to Shrewsbury? After all, they are avowed opponents of the regent. Unless, of course…’ Athelstan stroked Bonaventure and stared down at what he had written. ‘Unless, most faithful of cats, the regent himself knows their terrible secrets and is forcing them to stay at Westminster.’

Athelstan placed the cat gently back on the floor. He went to the buttery, poured some milk into a metal dish and placed this before the hearth. Bonaventure leapt down from the table and crouched, sipping the milk with his little pink tongue.

Athelstan knelt beside it, listening to the cat’s purrs of pleasure. He spoke into the darkness. ‘But why does Gaunt want these knights, his avowed enemies, present at Westminster?’

Athelstan knelt back on his heels. Should he and Cranston demand an audience with the regent? Insist that John of Gaunt tell them everything he knew about these men? Or would Gaunt simply raise his delicate eyebrows, shrug and claim complete ignorance?

Athelstan returned to his writing. He paused, listening to the wind outside moaning through the trees in the cemetery. He remembered Watkin’s little army: Simplicatas hadn’t been there, yet she was for ever hanging round the church, asking Athelstan for news. The friar tucked his chin in his hands.

‘Time,’ he murmured. ‘All these mysteries depend on time.’

They were like designs on a piece of tapestry which was being slowly unrolled. So far he couldn’t even see a glimmer which might lead him through this maze of mysteries. He glanced at the hour-candle. If he stayed working any longer, he would only become more agitated. He went to the hearth and put up the crude wire mesh so no flames or cinders would escape. He patted Bonaventure on the head, picked up his writing-bag and went towards the stairs. He sighed and returned to the table. Once he had left the inkstand out and Bonaventure had knocked it flying. Athelstan placed the cap on it, opened his writing-bag and, in the light of the fire, glimpsed the two muzzles the Harrower of the Dead had left on the table in the Holy Lamb of God. Athelstan took these out and examined them carefully. The leather was black and scuffed.

‘How could anyone inflict such cruelty on God’s poor creatures?’ he asked Bonaventure.

Athelstan tore one of the muzzles apart and studied the red leather inside. The friar grinned. He knelt down to stroke Bonaventure’s head. ‘There must be an angel who guards cats,’ he said.

And, putting the torn muzzle back in the bag, the friar went up the stairs singing under his breath. Tomorrow he might resolve at least one of the mysteries confronting himself and Cranston.

‘Ite Missa est, Our Mass is finished.’

Athelstan stared down at his parishioners who, surprisingly enough, had all turned up for the dawn Mass, eager and expectant to know what their parish priest had decided to do about their demon. Athelstan finished the benediction. He was about to go down the altar steps, genuflect to the host, when he caught the look of desperation in Watkin’s eyes. Athelstan sighed, came down and sat on the altar steps, Crim the altar-boy on his right, Bonaventure on his left. The cat sat erect, staring disapprovingly with his one good eye at these people who were delaying the arrival of his early morning dish of milk.

‘Brother and Sisters,’ Athelstan began, ‘I really don’t know what to say. I have sent for help from Prior Anselm.’

‘And that help has arrived, Father!’

Athelstan’s head snapped up. He peered round the rood-screen at the burly, thickset friar who came ambling up the nave. He pulled back his cowl and Athelstan recognised the pleasant, smiling face of one of his Dominican brothers, John Armitage. Athelstan got to his feet as Armitage swept under the rood-screen, the parishioners moving swiftly to one side. Armitage grasped Athelstan’s hand.

‘I have been here for some time, Brother, in the shadows at the back. Who’s your artist?’

Athelstan pointed to a nervous-looking Huddle.

‘You’ve got a good eye, man.’ Armitage scratched his shaven cheek. ‘Have you ever thought of becoming a Dominican? We need good artists.’

Huddle, rather frightened by this bustling friar who stared at him so intently, shook his head.

‘We need good artists,’ Armitage repeated. ‘If all our churches looked like this, perhaps we could get more people attending Mass.’ He eased the cord round his considerable bulk, though, for a heavy, thickset man, Athelstan knew Armitage could move very quickly. ‘Father Prior sent me,’ Armitage murmured. ‘But I don’t feel like having a discussion in the presence of all.’

‘What concerns Father Athelstan,’ Watkin trumpeted, having overheard this conversation, ‘concerns us all, especially if it’s about our demon!’

‘He’s a leader of the parish council,’ Athelstan whispered quickly, catching the warning look in Armitage’s eyes.

Father John walked across and looked down at Watkin, who glared defiantly back. The friar leaned down and whispered in the dung-collector’s ear. Watkin’s face changed: he beamed from ear to ear and nodded solemnly. Armitage then genuflected before the pyx and Athelstan, Crim and Bonaventura followed him into the sacristy. Athelstan quickly divested and took his visitor across to the priest’s house.