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row so expertly at the same time.
    ‘Perline Brasenose,’ Athelstan explained. ‘A rattle-brained young man: his mother was a whore who raised him in the stews. He spent a year in the Earl of Warwick’s retinue, then left and married a girl, Simplicatas, a member of the parish. A young man, a good fellow,’ Athelstan declared, ‘but a bit of a madcap, attracted to mischief as a bee to honey.’
    ‘And?’Cranston asked.
    ‘He has gone missing,’ Athelstan declared.
    ‘I always said he would,’ Moleskin volunteered.
    ‘Oh, shut up!’ Athelstan replied. ‘For God’s sake, have some charity! Perline entered the royal guard at the Tower. I thought he was settling down but now he has gone missing.’: Athelstan fingered the girdle round his waist. ‘And, before you say it, Sir John, some men may desert their wives, but not Perline. For all his faults he loved Simplicatas, yet no one’s seen hide nor hair of him. Could you just keep an eye open, and if you hear anything...?’
    ‘I did see him.’ Moleskin looked aggrievedly at his parish' priest. ‘I saw him two nights ago. He was standing on the quayside just near the steps of St Mary Overy. I was bringing one of those knights from the Parliament across.’ Moleskin stopped rowing and rested on his oars. ‘That’s right. Sir Francis Harnett from Stokesay in Shropshire. Funny little man he was.’ Moleskin drew back his oars. ‘All a-quiver, sitting where you were.’
    ‘And what would a distinguished member of Parliament want with Southwark?’ Cranston sardonically asked.
    Moleskin just winked whilst Athelstan glanced away. Aye, he thought, what do the rich ever want with Southwark but the pursuit of some fresh young whore from the many brothels there. He glanced at Moleskin.
    ‘And Perline?’
    ‘He was waiting for him on the river steps. Up goes the knight, Perline shakes him by the hand, and into the darkness they go.’ Moleskin pulled a face. ‘That’s all I know.’
    Athelstan sighed and squeezed Cranston’s arm. ‘Sir John, this business at Westminster?’
    Cranston tapped his nose and nodded towards Moleskin, so Athelstan leaned back in the stem. The wherry, now in midriver, rounded the bend past Whitefriars and the Temple, crossing over to the northern bank of the Thames. Moleskin, straining at the oars, guided it expertly past the dung boats, a royal man-of-war heading towards Dowgate, fishing craft and the interminable line of grain barges and other boats bringing up produce to the London markets. Even as he rowed the mist was lifting, and Athelstan glimpsed the turrets and spires of Westminster as they caught the morning sun. He closed his eyes and quietly began to recite the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’, asking for guidance in the problems which faced him in his Parish, as well as those awaiting him at Westminster. In their walk down to the quayside, Sir John, apart from shouting good-natured abuse at Athelstan’s parishioners, had told him a little about the regent’s visit: the deaths of Sir Henry Swynford and Sir Oliver Bouchon. Athelstan realised that, once more, they were pursuing a son of Cain. Most of his work with Cranston involved crimes of passion — a knifing in a tavern; a savage quarrel between a man and his wife; the death of some beggar crushed under a cart — but, now and again, something more sinister, evil, swam out of the darkness: cold-blooded murder. Athelstan sensed that at Westminster, what Sir John called the ‘House of Crows’, terrible and bloody murders had been carried out, and that more were yet to come.
    Athelstan had reached the line, ‘Life immortal, life divine’, when Cranston dug him in the ribs. Athelstan opened his eyes and realised they had reached King’s Steps. Moleskin was resting on his oars, staring at him curiously.
    ‘I am sorry,’ the friar muttered, and followed Sir John out of the boat, up the slippery, mildewed steps and along the pathway into one of the courtyards of the palace.