Paul Doherty - The House of Crows

‘My lord Coroner, it’s best if you ask them.’

‘And so all the knights and representatives from Shrewsbury stay here?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Is that customary?’

‘Yes, it is,’ Cranston intervened. ‘Members of Parliament tend to sit according to their counties or lordships. The chancellor issues a writ, convoking a Parliament, to every sheriff in the kingdom. He then organises a meeting of the freeholders of the shire who elect their representatives.’ Cranston grasped his chin. ‘There have been Parliaments at Westminster for the last hundred years, and the Commons are becoming more organised.’

‘You know a lot, my lord Coroner.’ Banyard’s admiration was obvious.

‘Ahem, yes.’ Cranston cleared his throat. ‘I am writing a treatise.’

Athelstan closed his eyes and just hoped Cranston wouldn’t wander off on some interminable lecture. The coroner must have caught his look because he grinned.

‘Suffice to say I’ve studied the whole question of Parliaments. However, as I have said, they are becoming more organised. They have a speaker, they meet in their own chamber, and they have learnt not to grant taxes until certain demands are met.’ He blew his cheeks out. ‘Accordingly, many members know a Parliament is to be summoned months in advance.’

‘And that is what happened here,’ Banyard added. ‘Weeks ago the knights sent a courier asking me to set chambers aside. We have all the representatives from Shrewsbury here.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Cranston snapped, ‘but when did they arrive?’

‘Oh, nine days ago,’ Banyard replied. ‘Five days before the opening of Parliament.’

‘And before these deaths, nothing amiss happened?’

‘Nothing.’ The landlord shook his head. ‘Very little, my lord Coroner, except talking. They’re all very good at talking. They’d break their fast talking and return from Westminster to sit in the taproom here and gossip until even the dogs droop with exhaustion.’

‘And Bouchon’s death?’

Banyard pointed across the room. ‘He and his companions were over there feasting and drinking. Oh, they were all full of themselves, though I noticed Bouchon looked quiet and withdrawn. They drank deep.’ Banyard pulled a face. ‘But why should I object? Well, on that particular evening, the gentlemen were discussing business of a different sort, the pleasures of the flesh.’

‘You mean a bawdy house?’

‘Yes.’ Banyard looked uncomfortable. ‘Now, there’s nothing of that sort here, sirs. I keep a respectable house, though I confess I turn a blind eye to whomever they bring back.’

‘This bawdy house?’ Cranston demanded.

‘Dame Mathilda Kirtles conducts a discreet establishment,’ Banyard replied. ‘In Cottemore Lane, a little further down the riverside.’

‘And did Sir Oliver leave with them?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh no. Towards the end of the meal, Sir Oliver rose, put his cloak on, pulled his hood up and left the tavern. The others called after him but the man was lost in his own thoughts. He was gone in the twinkling of an eye.’

‘And you don’t know where?’

‘My lord Coroner, I was busy that night. Ask any of the servants here. I never left the tavern. We closed well after curfew. We have a licence to do so,’ he added hastily.

Athelstan sipped from his blackjack and stared round the tavern. It was, he thought, a veritable palace amongst hostelries: the plaster walls were freshly painted, the rushes underfoot were green and crisp and, when he pressed his sandal down, he could smell the rosemary sprinkled there. The tables were of oak and finely made. There were stools, proper benches, and even a few high-backed chairs. Glass and pewter plates stood on shelves. Above them on the mantelpiece was a colourful depiction of a gargoyle fighting a knight which curled and writhed around its opponent’s sword. The food was well-cooked and, from Cranston’s murmurs of pleasure, the ale was undoubtedly London’s finest.

‘You do a fine trade here, Master Banyard,’ Athelstan commented.

‘Oh, most comfortable, Brother. Most comfortable indeed.’

‘Do you know most of the people who come here?’

Banyard’s eyes moved quickly. ‘Yes I do, Brother. And, if they are strangers, they always come back. I can tell from the cut of a man’s cloth what he is: a boatman, a serjeant-at-law, a courier, a bailiff, or one of the royal officials from the Exchequer or Chancery. But, before you ask, I saw no strangers, nothing out of the ordinary.’

‘And Sir Oliver’s body?’ Cranston asked.

‘It was found downriver,’ Banyard replied. ‘Some fishermen found it amongst the weeds near Horseferry.’

‘Oh, of course.’ Cranston leaned back. ‘I remember playing there as a boy.’ He declared. ‘The weeds grow long, lovely and thick.’ He smiled over at Athelstan. ‘Just near Tothill Fields.’

‘How did they know it was Sir Oliver?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh, he had some documents in his wallet, water-stained but still legible, so the fishermen called a clerk. He could tell from the cut of the corpse’s clothes that he was a man of importance: the body was brought back into Westminster Yard, where Sir Miles Coverdale, who is responsible for guarding the precincts of the palace, recognised the corpse and sent it back here.’

‘And was a physician called?’ Cranston asked.

‘The man was dead and smelt of fish, Sir John. But no,’ Banyard added hurriedly, seeing the coroner frown. ‘He was taken upstairs. In the afternoon his companions came from the chapter-house. I hired an old woman from Chancery Lane. She stripped the body and laid it out in a shift.’ Banyard glanced at the timbered ceiling. ‘But I’ll be glad when they move it and the other to the death-house at St Dunstan’s in the West.’

‘Quite so,’ the coroner nodded. He waved his empty tankard in front of Banyard’s nose, hoping the taverner would refill it, but Banyard, used to such tricks, refused even to notice it.

‘There was no mark on the corpse?’ Athelstan asked.

‘So the old woman said.’

‘And Sir Henry?’

‘Well, he seemed the most upset of Bouchon’s companions. I offered to send for a chantry priest to come and conduct the death-watch. He agreed. Now Father Benedict, he’s a Benedictine monk,’ Banyard explained, ‘and chaplain to the Commons. But he’s so busy that I sent for a chantry priest from St Bride’s in Fleet Street. You can go there and ask. But as for last night — well, you’d best ask the wench. Christina!’

The slattern whom Athelstan had noticed earlier came across, her milk-white face slightly coloured from the heat of the kitchen, her rich blonde hair now firmly tied back by a ribbon. A pretty, lively lass with merry blue eyes and lips which Athelstan quietly thought, God must have made for kissing. She wore a thin stained smock pulled tightly over an ample bosom, girdled at her slim waist by a red woollen cord. She grinned at Sir John and blinked nervously at Athelstan, but the friar could tell by the way she answered Banyard’s call how the landlord must be the love of her life.

‘Sit down, girl.’ Cranston pointed to a stool at the next table. ‘It’s good to rest from your labours. Perhaps, Master Banyard, some ale for all of us, eh?’

Banyard just sat on his stool, staring at him; eventually Cranston sighed and dipped into his purse. ‘And don’t worry about the cost,’ he snapped.

Banyard called to one of the potboys, then turned to Christina. ‘Don’t be nervous, lass. This is the famous Sir Jack Cranston.’ He glanced slyly at the coroner. ‘And Brother Athelstan, his secretarius.’

Christina blinked prettily. ‘I have heard of you, sir.’

Cranston preened like a peacock whilst Athelstan quietly prayed that the girl would keep the flattery to a minimum.