The House of Crows smoba-6

by Paul Doherty

  ‘But I never left here,’ Perline groaned. ‘Since Monday I have been hiding in the garret.’

  ‘Though eating well!’ Athelstan retorted. ‘For a distraught woman, Simplicatas, you purchased a great deal in the marketplace.’

  ‘I didn’t kill him!’ Perline declared. ‘I never saw, met or heard from Sir Francis since that meeting near the steel yard.’

  ‘You are sure of that?’ Athelstan asked.

  Perline sprang to his feet and walked across to where the cradle stood. He placed his hand on the wooden canopy. ‘I swear,’ he declared flatly. ‘Father, I swear by all that is holy and by the life of my future child that I have spoken the truth!’

  His voice trembled and he blinked furiously to keep back the tears. ‘Father, you have got to help me. Sir John, I am sorry.’

  ‘Please! Please!’ Simplicatas grasped Athelstan’s hand. ‘We meant no harm.’

  ‘Sit down,’ Athelstan ordered.

  Perline obeyed.

  ‘How much did Sir Francis give you?’

  ‘Ten pounds sterling, though I have spent one already.’

  ‘Right.’ Athelstan winked at Cranston. ‘Perline, my boy, you are to take the money down to St Erconwald’s church and seek out Benedicta. You know her?’

  Perline nodded quickly.

  ‘Benedicta will summon Watkin, Pike, Ranulf and Tab the tinker. You will offer each of them one pound for the ape to be recaptured. Now I suspect,’ Athelstan continued, trying to keep his voice flat and avoid Cranston’s eye, ‘that the poor creature is terrified and has not wandered far from St Erconwald’s cemetery: that’s the last place it was fed properly and the last place it saw you. You are to put the cage in the death-house, keeping the door open, and spend another pound on fruit in the market. Nothing rotten, nothing that has been thrown away but good, ripe fruit.’ He pointed a finger at Perline. ‘Are you listening to me?’

  The young soldier nodded.

  ‘You are to sleep in that cemetery, day and night, until that poor creature returns. . and it will!’

  ‘How do you know, Father?’ Cranston asked curiously.

  ‘Because Bonaventure always comes back for his milk,’ Athelstan replied. ‘And, Sir John, though this may come as a surprise to you, certain human beings can also be found at certain eating or drinking places.’

  Sir John made a rude sound with his lips.

  ‘And you think I’ll recapture it?’ Perline asked hopefully.

  ‘Oh yes. Tell Benedicta that the money is not to be paid to Watkins and the rest until that animal is safely caged.’

  ‘And once it is?’

  ‘Well, you had better take another pound down with you, hire Moleskin the boatman. Tell him you have spoken to me. He will take you and the animal back across the river to the Tower.’

  Simplicatas was now smiling, drying her eyes quickly.

  ‘And there’s the constable?’ Perline asked.

  ‘Give him a pound,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll look the other way. Say you took the ape out to show it to other parishioners.’

  ‘And what about the remaining money?’ Perline asked hopefully.

  ‘You may keep it,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Not for yourselves,’ he added quickly, ‘but for your child.’ Athelstan shook his head. ‘If you had only told me the truth, a great deal of confusion could have been avoided.’

  ‘I know.’ Perline glanced up from underneath his eyebrows.

  ‘Simplicatas has told me about the rumours.’

  Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Yes, your fellow parishioners think that the ape is a demon. If they catch it, they would probably kill the poor creature. Now, you have your orders, Perline. You are not to come back to this house. You are not to see Simplicatas until that ape is back where it should be.’ He glanced across at the wooden cradle. ‘You’d make a fine carpenter, Perline.’

  ‘I’ll carve you a statue,’ the soldier offered. ‘A peace offering, Father.’

  And, with the young couple’s thanks ringing in their ears, and the coroner’s parting shots of advice being bellowed through the doorway, Athelstan and Cranston went back along the alleyways of Southwark. For a while they walked in silence, then Cranston grasped Athelstan tightly by the arm.

  ‘If I ever, Brother, hear the words “Barbary ape” and ‘Cranston” in the same sentence again — ’ he shook a finger in the friar’s laughing face — ‘the devil really will come to Southwark!’

  CHAPTER 11

  They walked back towards the quayside, Cranston still loudly declaiming against an ape being named after the king’s own coroner. Athelstan pulled the cowl over his face, nodded gravely, and hoped Sir John would not realise he was fighting hard not to laugh. Outside the priory of St Mary Overy, however, Cranston’s mood suddenly changed. He turned to face his companion squarely.

  ‘You don’t really believe that scapegrace has anything to do with Harnett’s death, do you?’

  ‘No, Sir John, I don’t.’

  Athelstan glanced away; he studied an old beggar clad in tattered rags who stood at the mouth of an alleyway. The man’s face was covered in bluish stains, as if he had been disfigured in some terrible fire.

  ‘Well?’ Cranston asked. ‘Brother!’ he exclaimed. ‘What on earth are you staring at?’

  Athelstan held a hand out. ‘Stay there, Sir John.’

  The friar marched towards the beggar, whose eyes widened in alarm as he recognised his parish priest.

  ‘Mousehead!’

  Athelstan seized the beggar by his stocky shoulder. The beggar flinched, but the friar held him fast as he scraped a finger down Mousehead’s face, removing the dirty coating of powder and paint.

  ‘Father!’ The beggar began to hop from one foot to another.

  ‘Mousehead!’ Athelstan warned. ‘If I have told you once, I have told you a thousand times! To beg if you are unable is acceptable to the Lord, but to beg when you are able and pretend you are the opposite, only makes the good Lord angry.’

  Mousehead stared fearfully at the friar, his buck teeth even more protuberant, his nose twitching faster than usual. Athelstan pushed him away.

  ‘Now go and see Widow Benedicta. You will find her at St Erconwald’s. She’ll have a task for you: tell her you can help Perline.’

  ‘But Perline has gone missing, Father, and there’s a demon near your church.’

  ‘There’s no demon, Mousehead, and Perline’s not missing. You’ll find him there.’

  Mousehead scampered off. Athelstan walked back to where Cranston stood leaning against the wall, staring up at a cat which sat in an open window. Athelstan followed his gaze.

  ‘Don’t worry, Sir John, I think there’s a solution to your missing cats.’

  ‘And Perline and Harnett?’ Cranston asked. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  Athelstan sighed. ‘I’d swear on the cross that Perline had nothing to do with Harnett’s death. However, Harnett did go into the lonely Pyx chamber at a time when he and his companions were being stalked by a killer. Now, why should he do that? What would draw Harnett out away from the rest?’

  ‘Some conspiracy perhaps?’ Cranston replied. ‘Or Perline Brasenose?’

  ‘Or Perline Brasenose,’ Athelstan repeated. ‘No, no, Sir John, I am not talking in riddles. What I think happened is that someone knew about Harnett’s secret negotiations with that young soldier. Somehow or other, the killer used Perline’s name, and the prospect of buying a Barbary ape, to lure Harnett into the Pyx chamber where he was killed.’

  ‘But, apart from Brasenose, the only people who would know that would be Harnett’s companions, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Not just them, Sir John.’ Athelstan linked his arm through Cranston’s as they walked down towards the quayside. ‘You must never forget Sir Miles Coverdale, who hates the knights and also hails from Shropshire. Or, again, His Grace the Regent who, I believe is dabbling in this matter even though he acts the role of the aggrieved observer.’
r />   Cranston stopped and took a swig from the wineskin. ‘Riddle upon riddle. . But come, Brother, these cats?’

  Athelstan began to explain as Moleskin, sweating and cursing against the rising swell of the tide, took them across river to St Paul’s Wharf. This time Athelstan totally ignored the boatman, but whispered his conclusions to an increasingly irascible Sir John. Only when they had disembarked, and Cranston had gone storming up the water-soaked steps, did Athelstan talk to the boatman.

  ‘Moleskin.’

  ‘Yes, Father?’

  ‘Row back to the Southwark side, tie your boat up and go to St Erconwald’s. Benedicta will tell you all about Perline and the demon you have been pestering me about.’

  ‘Are you sure, Father?’ Moleskin’s face broke into a grin.

  ‘You have just ignored me all the way across.’ He pointed to Cranston striding up and down the quayside like Hector. ‘Why do cats make Lord Horsecruncher so angry?’

  ‘In time I’ll tell you about that as well,’ Athelstan replied and, leaving a mystified Moleskin, he hurried up the steps.

  The coroner had now worked himself into a fine rage. He’d already hired a boy to take a message to his bailiffs, and would have gone storming into Cheapside but for Athelstan grasping his sleeve.

  ‘Sir John, Sir John, the afternoon is growing on. The market will soon be finished and your bailiffs will be in place when that message is delivered.’ Athelstan stopped speaking, his hand going to his mouth.

  ‘What’s the matter, monk?’

  ‘Friar, Sir John, friar! I’m just wondering who could possibly have found out about Harnett’s meeting with Perline Brasenose?’ He steered Sir John towards a tavern. ‘I mean, Harnett saw the Barbary ape on Sunday. On Monday he met Perline but, after that, our young soldier went into hiding. Now,’ Athelstan scratched his chin, ‘Perline can’t write, so who told Harnett to go to the Pyx chamber?’

  They entered the dingy tavern. Its walls were greasy and the ceiling beams blackened, but Athelstan knew the proprietor was one of the best cooks along the riverside, and might provide delicacies to distract Sir John’s temper. They found an empty table well away from the sailors and fishermen who flocked there.

  ‘You are forgetting one thing,’ Cranston announced, leaning back and smacking his lips at the savoury fragrance coming from the buttery.

  Athelstan raised his eyebrows.

  ‘On Monday evening, Sir Francis left the brothel where the others were cavorting. They knew he’d gone.’

  ‘Of course,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘And we know he went to Southwark, then on to the steel yard. Ergo. .’ Athelstan paused as the barrel-shaped landlord served Sir John his favourite fish pie and a cup of white Alsace.

  ‘Anything for you, Father?’

  ‘Oh, some ale, Bartholomew. Please.’

  ‘Ergo,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘either Harnett was followed from that tavern — ’ he ticked the points off on his fingers — ‘and his pursuer discovered what he was looking for; or, Harnett told one of his companions before he left, who later used that information to commit murder.’

  ‘Coverdale could also have done that,’ Cranston argued between mouthfuls of pie. ‘Either he or some other of the regent’s minions.’ He sipped from his goblet. ‘I am beginning to agree with you, Brother, the regent cannot be totally blameless in this matter. I am sure these worthy knights would flee back to Shrewsbury if it wasn’t for him. But, there again,’ Cranston slammed his cup down, ‘Sir Edmund Malmesbury and the rest can hardly be described as John of Gaunt’s most fervent supporters.’

  Cranston ate on in silence. Athelstan could tell the coroner was becoming morose; even the pie and the wine didn’t seem to cheer him. They left the tavern and went up an alleyway, along Thames Street, past run-down warehouses to a bare expanse of land where the Fleet river poured its filth into the Thames. Here all the great dung carts in London congregated to deposit the filth and muck cleaned from the streets into the Thames. Cranston, stamping his feet, glowered around, then caught sight of his bailiffs, two burly individuals who came striding towards him.

  ‘You are here at last,’ he growled.

  ‘Sir John,’ one of them replied, ‘we came as fast as we could. The markets are closed.’ He pointed to one of the dung carts. ‘They are all empty, ready to go back to clean up during the night.’

  ‘And our precious pair have flown,’ Cranston grunted. ‘Go back up Knightrider Street,’ he ordered. ‘When you catch sight of them, come back and tell me!’

  The two bailiffs hurried off. For a while Athelstan and Cranston stood around, but the stench from the carts and the slime-coated Fleet grew so offensive that they, too, walked up Knightrider Street. The bell from St Paul’s began to toll for evening Mass. Athelstan glimpsed the spires of Blackfriars and was wondering what Father Prior was doing when one of the bailiffs came running back.

  ‘Sir John, Hengist and Horsa are here.’

  ‘Good!’

  With Athelstan hurrying behind him, Cranston strode up Knightrider Street, where Hengist and Horsa had been stopped by the bailiff. Both the dung-collectors protested loudly.

  ‘This is against all the law and its usages, Sir John!’ one of them squeaked. ‘Any delay means longer working, so when the mayor and aldermen complain-’

  ‘Shut up!’ Cranston bellowed, grasping Hengist by the front of his dirty jerkin. ‘You, my buckos, have been stealing cats!’ Cranston snapped his fingers, and Athelstan handed over one of the small muzzles. The coroner shoved this in front of the man’s face. Hengist spluttered and glanced fearfully at his companion. ‘You mean-minded bastards!’ Cranston roared.

  Both men started to protest. Athelstan walked round, studying the cart carefully, noticing how its high sides were simply boards nailed across huge upright posts. At the back he saw how one of these boards served as a small door or drawer, kept in place by newly attached bolts in their clasps. He summoned the bailiffs.

  ‘Whilst Sir John argues,’ he whispered, ‘open that!’

  The bailiff pressed his dagger between the boards, working the bolt free. Athelstan, pinching his nose at the fetid smell, crouched down and stared in. Five or six cats lay there, eyes glowing in the darkness. The poor creatures were bound hand and foot, and muzzles, similar to the one he had found, were tightly clasped round their jaws. One of the bailiffs gently took the cats out, cutting their thongs and muzzles free. The cats, backs arched, tails up, spitting furiously, danced round the carts and then fled away like arrows up Knightrider Street. The bailiff would have gone after them.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Athelstan called the man back. ‘They’ll all find their way home. I can personally vouch for that. It’s Sir John I’m worried about.’

  Cranston, who had witnessed all this, now had the two dung-collectors up against the wall, banging their heads slowly against it. At Athelstan’s instruction, the two bailiffs gently squeezed their way between the irate coroner and his victims. Sir John, breathing heavily, stepped back glowering at the trembling cat thieves. He waved a finger at them.

  ‘You heartless bastards!’ he shouted. ‘And don’t lie that they were all strays. You pull that cart round the streets, and whenever you could you enticed some cat with a bit of meat or fish, covered with some sleeping potion. You then tied their feet together, muzzled them, and put them into that crevice beneath the cart. When you came down to the riverside to throw your refuse into the Fleet, you’d go along to the grain barges and offer the cats for sale. Isn’t that right?’

  Hengist nodded fearfully.

  ‘A lucrative, profitable experience,’ Athelstan spoke up. ‘The barge-masters bring up grain and, where there’s grain, rats and mice thrive. The barge-masters buy the cats, put two or three in each hold and the vermin are cleared.’ He shook his head. ‘Of course you couldn’t care whether the poor cats were used to a ship or barge.’ He took a step closer. ‘And did you really care about the feelings of those who owned those animals? Did you ever think of
the terror of those poor cats locked in the stinking black hold of some barge? Did it ever occur to you that some of them might even try and escape, being drowned in the river or ill-used by their new owners?’

  Athelstan, catching some of Cranston’s anger, thrust his hand under Hengist’s chin and pushed his face up.

  ‘What you did was wicked!’ he whispered.

  ‘No one cares.’ Horsa sneered back; he wished he hadn’t spoken as Athelstan seized his mouth between his fingers and squeezed it tightly.

  ‘Haven’t you read the scriptures?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Not a sparrow falls from heaven that the Father doesn’t know about.’ He stepped back, wiping his hands, and stared at Horsa’s leather apron. ‘Do you know how we found out?’ Athelstan taunted. ‘Your own greed trapped you. You couldn’t even be bothered to buy the leather to make the muzzles for the poor animals.’ He poked Horsa’s chest. ‘You used the leather from your own apron to fashion those; the outside was black, but when I examined it more carefully, the inside matched the leather you wore.’

  ‘Wilful destruction of city property will be added to the list of offences,’ Cranston boomed.

  ‘What will happen to us?’ Horsa wailed.

  Cranston scratched his head and smiled bleakly at them.

  ‘Well, the silver you’ve collected will be seized. A fine will be levied. However, if you give us the names of the barge-masters to whom you sold the cats, mercy might be shown. Perhaps a period digging the city ditch to reflect on your crimes? And who knows? Unless we get all the cats back, a nice long sojourn in the stocks with a placard advertising your crimes.’ Cranston snapped his fingers at the bailiffs. ‘Put both of them in the cart. Take them to Newgate. Let them kick their heels there whilst I consider their punishment.’

  Hengist fell to his knees. ‘Sir John, we’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘Good.’ Cranston patted the man heartily on the top of his balding head. ‘That’s my boys. I want to know where the silver is and I want to know the names of the barge-masters or else. .’