The Mark Of A Murderer

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The Swindlestock Tavern had been painted a delicate pale gold the previous summer, so it stood handsome and resplendent among its more shabby neighbours. The inn was noted for the quality of its brewing, its fine spit roasts and the genial hospitality of its landlord Master Croidon, a squat, cheery-faced man who possessed the kind of belly that indicated he had no small liking for ale himself. His kind brown eyes invited confidences, and this made him popular among those for whom drinking also required a ready listener.

The tavern was peaceful when the scholars entered, but the low murmur of amiable conversation and the busy clatter of pots from the kitchen were not to last. Walter Spryngheuse and his friends walked to a table near the fire, and set about divesting themselves of their ice-clotted cloaks and hats. The wind rattled the window shutters and sent a frigid blast down the chimney, scattering ashes and sparks across the flagstone floor as Croidon came to tend the new arrivals, wiping his hands on his apron and exchanging pleasantries with other patrons as he went.

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