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wineskin.
    ‘Most of the abbey is sealed off,’ the coroner explained. ‘The Commons are now sitting in the chapter-house and will be until well in the afternoon. So,’ he helped his companion to his feet, ‘let’s look at the corpses. They both lie coffined in the Gargoyle tavern.’
    He led Athelstan out of the abbey precincts, along quiet side streets and through the deep arched gateway into a large courtyard which fronted the Gargoyle. It was a long, spacious tavern, three storeys high, its frontage smartly painted, the plaster gleaming white between black polished beams. The roof was tiled and the elegantly boxed windows were full of leaden glass. The courtyard was a hive of activity: ostlers and grooms took horses in and out, a farrier covered in sweat hammered at an anvil. Geese and chickens thronged about the stable doors, scrabbling for bits of grain. Dogs yapped and huge, fat-bellied pigs, ears flapping, snouted at the base of a large, black-soiled midden-heap.
    They entered the tavern hallway. The paving stones were scrubbed, the walls lime-washed, the air fragrant with the smell of sweet herbs and savoury cooking. The taproom was large and airy: there were vents in the ceiling between the blackened beams, and large, open windows at the far end looked out over a garden and one of the largest stewponds Athelstan had ever seen. A few customers sat about, mainly boatmen from the river though, even here, the lawyers thronged, sitting in small alcoves, manuscripts on the tables before them as they whispered pretentiously to each other.
    ‘You wouldn’t think the corpses of two murdered men lay here, would you?’ Athelstan whispered at Cranston, who was smacking his lips and looking around. ‘No drinking,’ Athelstan warned. ‘We have business with the “House of Crows”, remember?’
    ‘And what’s your custom, sirs?’ a tall, thickset man asked.
    ‘None at the moment,’ Cranston replied, ‘except a word with the landlord.’
    The man spread his hands. ‘You are talking to him,’ he replied. ‘I am the tavern-master, Cuthbert Banyard, born and bred within the sound of Bow Bells.’
    Athelstan stared at the fellow. He had a strong, arrogant face, burnt brown by the sun, with a thick bush of black hair. The eyes were deep-set, the nose curved slightly; his chin, close-shaven face and thin lips gave him a stubborn look. A man with a sharp eye to profit, Athelstan thought.
    The taverner gestured at his stained cote-de-hardie which fell down to just below the knee. ‘It’s a fleshing day,’ he explained. ‘Meat has to be cut and blood spurts.’
    ‘As it does in murder,’ Cranston retorted.
    Banyard drew his head back.
    ‘I am Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the city. This is Brother Athelstan, my secretarius, parish priest of St Erconwald’s in Southwark.’
    Banyard smiled deferentially. ‘My lord Coroner, how can I help?’
    ‘First,’ Cranston replied, ignoring Athelstan’s groan, ‘a blackjack of ale. Your best, mind you, not the scrapings of some open cask. And whatever smells so fragrant in your kitchen?’
    ‘Capon cooked in mushrooms and onions.’
    ‘One dish.’Cranston looked at Athelstan. ‘No, two dishes of that, and a drink, Brother?’
    ‘Some ale,’ Athelstan replied resignedly.
    Cranston swept by the landlord to a table under the window: ignoring Athelstan’s warning glances, he began to point out the different herbs growing in the garden.
    ‘Now that’s motherwort,’ Cranston explained. ‘You can tell by its hard, brownish stalk: it makes mothers joyful and settles the womb, provokes urine, cleanses the chest of phlegm and kills worms in the belly.’
    Cranston turned, rubbing his hands, as the tapster laid down two pewter dishes with delicate strips of capon covered in rich sauce followed by two pots of ale. Cranston and Athelstan took out their horn spoons. Athelstan nibbled, for he had little appetite. Sir John finished his, then attacked his companion’s with