‘No, I don’t know how they are taken, by whom or where they go. But the Fisher of Men has dragged at least four or five dead cats out of the river-’ Cranston slurped at his wine goblet — ‘which is some consolation. At first I suspected they were being killed for their fur, or that some flesher in the Shambles had run short of meat.’ He saw the regent’s face go pale. ‘Aye, my lord, it’s not unknown for cooks, be they working in a royal palace or a Cheapside tavern, to serve up cat pie, the meat well stewed and garnished with herbs.’
‘Yes, yes, quite.’ The regent lifted his cup but then thought differently. ‘Sir John,’ he declared, ‘you will have to leave all that. You have heard of the Parliament my nephew the king has summoned at Westminster?’
‘Yes, you need more taxes, whilst the Commons want reforms.’
‘My lord Coroner, I am pleased by your bluntness but, yes, yes that’s true. Now the Commons do not like me. They draw unfair comparisons between myself and my brother, God rest him. The war in France is not going well. Our coastal towns are attacked by French pirates. The harvest was poor and the price of bread is three times what it was this time last year. Now, I am doing what I can. Grain barges are constantly coming up the Thames, and the mayor and aldermen of the city have issued strict regulations fixing the price of bread.’
Cranston’s eyes slid away. He knew about such regulations, more honoured in the breach than the observance, but he decided to keep his mouth shut.
The regent leaned forward. ‘Now all was going well,’ he continued. ‘The Commons assembled in the chapter-house of Westminster Abbey. The speaker, Sir Peter de la Mare, is a good man.’ Gaunt paused.
In other words, you’ve bribed him, Cranston thought, but still kept his mouth shut. The regent ran his tongue round his lips.
‘Some of the members are amicable; others, particularly those from Shrewsbury and Stafford, are proving intractable. They are a close-set group comprising, Sir Henry Swynford, Sir Oliver Bouchon, Sir Edmund Malmesbury, Sir Thomas Elontius, Sir Humphrey Aylebore, Sir Maurice Goldingham and Sir Francis Harnett-’
‘And?’ Cranston intervened.
‘These knights are lodged at a hostelry, the Gargoyle tavern. On Monday evening Sir Oliver left his companions abruptly: next morning his body was found floating face-down near Tothill Fields, no mark on the corpse. We do not know whether he was pushed or suffered an accident. Anyway, the corpse was pulled out and taken back to the Gargoyle, where his fellow knights planned to hire a cart to carry it back to Shrewsbury. Now, to recite prayers during the death-watch, a chantry priest was hired. He entered the tavern late last night and apparently took up his post in the dead man’s chamber. Later on, a servant wench passed the chamber: she saw the door ajar and went in. There was no sign of the priest. Sir Oliver still lay sheeted in his coffin, but beside him on the floor was Sir Henry Swynford, a garrotte string round his throat.’
Gaunt paused. Stretching out his hand, he played with the silver filigreed ring on one of his fingers. ‘Both deaths might be murders.’ He glanced up. ‘Both men received a warning before they died: a candle, an arrowhead and a scrap of parchment bearing the word “Remember”.’ Gaunt cleared his throat. ‘Each of the corpses had also been slightly mutilated, small red crosses being carved on either cheek as well as on the forehead.’
‘And no one knows what all this means?’ Cranston asked.
‘No. Oh, there are the usual stories: both knights were loved and admired. Men of stature in their community.’ Gaunt smirked. ‘The truth is both men were bastards born and bred. They served in the wars in France, where they amassed booty and plunder to come back and build their manor houses and decorate the parish church. Apparently they had no enemies at all which,’ he added bitterly, ‘is the biggest lie of all, if anyone ever bothered to talk to their tenants.’
Gaunt put his goblet down and rose to his feet. ‘Now, I don’t care, Cranston, whether they are dead or alive, in heaven or in hell. But I do care about the whispers and the pointed fingers which claim that both men were murdered because they opposed the regent, as a punishment for them and a warning to the rest.’ He leaned over Sir John, gripping the arms of the other man’s chair, his face only a few inches from Cranston’s. ‘Now, my lord Coroner, get yourself down to Westminster. Take your secretarius, Brother Athelstan, with you. Discover the assassin, stop these murders and, when you are finished, you can come back to Cheapside and find out who is stealing its cats.’
‘Is there anything else, my lord?’ Cranston held the regent’s gaze and nonchalantly sipped from his goblet.
‘Yes.’ Gaunt straightened up, pushing his thumbs into his swordbelt. ‘Sir Miles Coverdale, captain of my guard, is responsible for the king’s peace in the palace of Westminster. He will assist you.’ Gaunt stepped back and sketched a mocking bow. ‘My thanks to your good lady.’ He walked to the door.
‘My lord Regent.’ Cranston didn’t even bother to turn in the chair.
‘Yes, my lord Coroner.’
‘I was thinking of cats, my lord. Do you have any?’
Gaunt shrugged. ‘What does it matter?’
‘Nothing much.’ Cranston replied over his shoulder. ‘Our king is young, his father’s dead. I was thinking of the proverb, “When the cat’s away, the mice will play”.’ Sir John sipped from his cup and smiled as he heard the door slam behind him.
In the parish church of St Erconwald’s of Southwark, Brother Athelstan, much against his will, was holding a full parish council near the baptismal font just inside the main door. He sat, as usual, in the high-backed sanctuary chair brought down especially for the occasion: across from him were the members of his parish council who sat on stools in a semi-circle waiting for his judgement. On the wooden lid of the baptismal font sprawled the huge, tattered tom-cat, Bonaventure, which Athelstan secretly considered his only true parishioner. Now and again Bonaventure’s one good amber eye flickered open, and the cat would stare at Ranulf the rat-catcher as if he knew Ranulfs secret desire to buy him. After all, Bonaventure’s prowess as a mouser and a ratter was known throughout the parish. Today, however, when Athelstan should be doing the parish accounts and letting Bonaventure hunt, he had to hold this special meeting: Watkin, Pike and the bailiff Bladdersniff had all taken the sacrament at Mass this morning then solemnly sworn how they had seen a demon crouching in the death-house.
‘It was black,’ Watkin trumpeted so loudly that even the hairs in his great flared nostrils seemed to bristle with anger. ‘It was huge with bright eyes, hideous face, blue and red round the mouth and it moved like lightning.’
‘You were drunk,’ Mugwort the bell-ringer snorted. ‘Pernell the Fleming woman saw the three of you: you had not one good leg amongst the six.’
‘More like nine,’ Crispin the carpenter added, but no one seemed to understand this salacious reference.
‘Drunk or not,’ Pike screeched, tilting his face and pointing to the great red weals across his cheeks. ‘Who did that, eh?’
Athelstan pushed his hands further up the sleeves of his gown and rocked gently to and fro. He stole a look at Benedicta: he expected to find her eyes dancing with merriment and those lovely lips fighting hard not to smile, but the widow-woman looked concerned.
‘What do you think, Benedicta?’ Athelstan asked before Watkin’s bellicose wife could intervene to take up the cudgels on her husband’s behalf.
‘I believe they saw something, Father.’ Benedicta played with the tassel of the belt round her slim waist. ‘I dressed Pike’s wound: savage claw marks. Any higher,’ she added, ‘and he could have lost an eye.’
‘You are always telling us. .’ Tab the tinker spoke up. ‘You are always telling us, Father,’ he repeated, ‘how Satan prowls, seeking those whom he may devour.’
‘Yes, Tab, but I was speaking in a spiritual sense, about that unseen world of which we are only a part.’
‘But that’s not true,’ Watkin’s wife intervened. ‘In St Olave’s parish, Merry Legs claimed a devil was dancing round the steeple as I would a maypole.’
‘And I have heard imps whispering in the corner,’ Pernell the Fleming intervened. ‘Small, Father, no bigger than your fingers. I heard them scrabbling at the woodwork.’
Athelstan closed his eyes and prayed for patience.
‘What did it look like?’ Huddle the painter asked, and pointed to the far wall of the church where he was busily sketching out, in charcoal, a marvellous vision of Christ’s harrowing of hell.
‘Never mind,’ Athelstan intervened. He glanced quickly at Simplicatas, a young woman from Stinking Alley who had whispered after Mass how she wanted to talk to him about her missing husband. ‘We have other matters to discuss.’
‘But this is important.’ Bladdersniff drew himself up on his stool, wrinkling his fiery red nose and blinking
