Paul Doherty - The House of Crows

‘We don’t know,’ Sir Humphrey snarled over his shoulder. ‘All we know is that the cup was stolen, and now it’s back with its rightful owners.’

‘Do you think it’s connected with Sir Francis Harnett’s death?’ Athelstan asked.

Some of the excitement drained from the knights’ faces.

‘I mean,’ Athelstan continued, ‘is it possible that Sir Francis had the chalice all the time? And now he has been killed, the cup’s been returned.’

‘Explain yourself, Friar!’ Goldingham interrupted.

Athelstan smiled and sat down on the stool opposite him. ‘I can’t. It just seems a coincidence that one of your companions died last night, and this morning a long-lost cup is returned.’ Athelstan had his own suspicions, but he kept them hidden. ‘Sir Francis is dead.’ He emphasised his words. ‘Do any of you know why he went to the Pyx chamber last night? Whom was he meeting? There’s nothing down there,’ he continued, ‘so Sir Francis could only have gone there intending to meet someone. That person killed him.’

‘We don’t know,’ Sir Thomas Elontius replied, running his hand through his bristling red hair. His popping eyes had a frightened, hunted look. ‘We all stayed here at the Gargoyle.’

‘None of you left?’ Cranston asked, coming up beside Athelstan.

‘Ask mine host,’ Elontius replied.

‘It’s true,’ Banyard declared, walking over to join them. ‘All five of the knights were here. I served them the speciality of the house: young goose, fresh and tender and served with a spicy sauce. My guests ate and drank their fill and went to their chambers. I did not even know Sir Francis had left.’

‘And you all stayed here?’ Cranston repeated.

‘Yes,’ the knights chorused.

‘But it stands to reason,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘if Sir Francis Harnett left and no one saw him going, then any or all of you could have left unnoticed.’

Banyard looked surprised by Athelstan’s remark: he sighed and scratched his cheek. ‘The tavern has got at least three or four entrances,’ he declared. ‘And at night we become busy. Brother Athelstan, this is a tavern famous for its food, fine ales and strong wine. We have people coming and going. The Gargoyle is a hostelry, not a castle prison.’

‘And on your oath,’ Athelstan turned back to the knights, ‘did any of you leave?’ He stared at each of them in turn, but they all shook their heads.

‘We were tired,’ Sir Humphrey Aylebore declared. ‘Yes, Brother, tried and frightened. We ate and drank our fill.’ He forced a smile. ‘I suppose my companions did what I did: I locked the doors and windows of my chamber and hid beneath the sheets. We have vowed not to go anywhere at Westminster without at least one other accompanying us.’

‘Do you know why Sir Francis Harnett left?’ Cranston slurped from the wine cup and smacked his lips noisily.

‘No,’ Malmesbury retorted, staring disdainfully at the coroner.

‘Oh come, Sir Edmund.’ Cranston beamed back at him. ‘Sir Francis is now well known to us as a man constantly going in and out of the city, travelling hither and thither on secret errands.’

‘Sir Francis was a fussy little man. God rest him,’ Goldingham replied. ‘Once we were a band of brothers, Sir John.’ He pointed to the cup. ‘But, when that was stolen. .’ He shrugged. ‘Each of us went his own way, Sir Francis in particular. Oh, he whispered to himself and scurried about, but none of us knows why he left Dame Mathilda’s, or why he should be so foolish as to go alone to the Pyx chamber.’

‘Did he ever mention a young soldier called Perline Brasenose?’

‘Not to my knowledge,’ Sir Edmund replied. ‘But Goldingham is correct: Harnett was his own man, with the carp ponds, books on beasteries and exotic animals. He never told us where he went or why. If he had, he’d be alive this morning.’

‘You said Perline Brasenose,’ Sir Thomas Elontius leaned forward. He turned and whispered in Sir Humphrey Aylebore’s ear. The knight nodded. ‘Perline’s a soldier in the Tower garrison?’ Elontius asked.

‘Yes,’ Athelstan replied.

‘I remember him.’ Elontius’s fingers flew to his lips. ‘Last Sunday we went to the Tower. As we left, I saw Sir Francis speaking to a young soldier just near the gatehouse.’

‘What about?’ Athelstan asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Elontius replied. ‘But Harnett came back here, rather excited.’

Cranston dug into his wallet and drew out the small wax candle, arrowhead and scrap of parchment.

‘These were found beside Harnett’s body, as they were with Swynford’s and Bouchon’s. Are you still going to maintain — ’ he looked at the knights in turn — ‘that they mean nothing to you?’

‘Well, they mean nothing to me,’ Sir Thomas retorted, red hair bristling, blue eyes popping. ‘I don’t give a shit, Sir John.’ He jabbed a finger at the coroner. ‘All I know is that some madcap is busy slaughtering members of our party and you have done nothing to stop it.’

‘I can’t be everywhere!’ Cranston snapped back.

‘It’s a nightmare,’ Elontius bellowed, snapping his fingers at Banyard. ‘Serve us some drinks, man.’ He smiled at the landlord. ‘The only good thing about being in London is this tavern: the prices are reasonable, the food is delicious and the chambers are clean. Even Harnett, the miserly bastard, remarked on that.’

Athelstan waited until the landlord brought back a tray of cups and set them out before the knights. He leaned across with the jug.

‘Do you want some, Brother?’ Banyard asked.

Athelstan shook his head. For some strange reason his stomach felt a little queasy, and he still found it difficult to remove the image of that gruesome severed corpse from his mind. He remembered Banyard’s description of the night Bouchon had died, and was tempted to ask what Sir Francis Harnett had meant by saying that ‘the old ways were the best ways’. However, this would betray Banyard’s eavesdropping, and in any case, these knights would just lie.

‘Landlord!’ Cranston called over his shoulder. ‘Did Harnett send any messages into London, written or verbal?’

The landlord came back, scratching his head, a look of puzzlement on his swarthy face. ‘No, he didn’t.’

‘I have been through his belongings,’ Malmesbury intervened. ‘Sir John, there’s nothing there. A Book of Hours, an inkpot, cups, clothing, but nothing remarkable.’

‘Do you know why Harnett wanted to meet a soldier from the Tower garrison?’ Athelstan asked.

‘If I did, I would tell Sir John,’ Malmesbury replied quickly.

Athelstan leaned across and picked up the chalice again. ‘And you have no knowledge of where this came from or who returned it?’

‘Now, that is a mystery,’ Goldingham intervened, his cup half-way to his lips. ‘The last time I saw that, Brother, was many years ago; now it reappears as if out of nowhere.’

‘And you are not curious?’ Cranston asked.

‘Quite honestly, Sir John,’ Aylebore retorted, ‘I couldn’t give a shit! All I wish is that we could put it in a box and go straight back to Shrewsbury with the corpses of our murdered comrades.’

‘Why don’t you?’ Athelstan turned to Malmesbury. ‘Surely the regent will excuse you?’

‘That’s impossible,’ the knight growled. ‘We represent the county and towns of Shropshire. What explanation can we give, Brother, for our sudden flight? And how do we know the assassin would not pursue us?’ He ran his fingers round the brim of the wine goblet. ‘Moreover, as Sir John Cranston said, in many people’s eyes, flight might appear to be guilt.’ He sipped at his wine. ‘Finally, we have a task to do: the regent’s demands for taxes have to be resisted.’