Paul Doherty - The Straw Men

Athelstan did likewise. He slowly looked around that gorgeously decorated chapel. ‘ Primo ,’ he pointed to the braziers, now full of grey scented ash. ‘There were the explosions. As you said, Sir John, easy to fashion. Cannon powder or saltpetre in thick leather pouches, thrust into the hot coals — eventually they would break in the heat. The consequent explosion caused consternation; people would be looking at the braziers, nowhere else. Secundo .’ Athelstan stifled a yawn, ignoring the wave of weariness. God knows he’d loved to be stretched out on his cot bed with Bonaventure sprawled at his feet. ‘ Secondo ,’ he repeated, moving a stool, ‘Lettenhove’s marked and struck a mortal wound; he falls to the ground. Tertio , Master Oudernarde is attacked next, but only wounded. I suspect the barb was loosed a little off the mark.’

‘And the severed heads?’ Cranston asked.

‘Good, Sir John. Quatro . Before our assassin flees, he somehow leaves those two severed heads by the rood screen and that, Sir John, is where the mystery begins. Look at this chapel. Remember this afternoon, how busy it was, thronged with Gaunt and his guests, servants, musicians, men-at-arms and archers. So I ask you. How could our assassin prime a small crossbow, take aim, loose and repeat the same action, then open a sack,’ Athelstan walked across and tapped the rood screen, ‘and place a severed head here.’ He walked past Hell’s mouth to the other side, ‘And another one here, yet not be noticed?’

‘Did he use Hell’s mouth?’ Cranston pointed to the great dragon’s head tightly wedged in the doorway of the rood screen. ‘Look at those gaping jaws, Athelstan. Our assassin could have crawled in with his crossbow. .’ Athelstan and Cranston pulled back the curtain at one end of the rood screen and walked into the sanctuary. Athelstan stared around, peering through the poor light.

‘Dark,’ he observed. ‘See, Sir John,’ he pointed to the heavy curtains hanging either end of the rood screen, ‘these block out the light from the window of the transepts. There’s the sanctuary lamp, but,’ Athelstan sniffed at the candles on their five-branched spigot, ‘once these are extinguished, murder could easily wrap its dark cloak around this holy place. Now Hell’s mouth.’ Athelstan swiftly scrutinized the back of the dragon’s head, at least two-and-a-half yards high. He marvelled at the artifice for it was simply fastened to a high-legged table; each leg had a wooden castor while a black canvas cloth clasped to the back of the dragon’s head covered the table entirely. In the gloomy light this did look like the rippling skin of a dragon. ‘Very clever, Sir John. The dragon’s head is simply a large mask with those splendid jaws fixed and wedged into the door of the rood screen. The rest of its body is quite simply a table and a canvas cloth. Now,’ Athelstan pushed the canvas back and, going on his hands and knees, crawled beneath the table, the top of which was well above the gaping jaws. Athelstan peered through this; it provided a good view of the chapel nave as well as the stool marking the spot where Lettenhove had fallen. The elder Oudernarde, however, would have been much more difficult, if not impossible, to mark down. The assassin would have to move sharply to the right but, even then, his target would be blocked. Oudernarde had been standing that little bit closer to Hell’s mouth. Moreover, there was the question of the two severed heads. Athelstan had wildly considered that both had been dropped through Hell’s mouth, but surely that would have been noticed? They would have rolled, yet he’d seen them placed like ornaments either side of the dragon’s head. Of course, Hell’s mouth might have been moved? Was that possible? Athelstan scrambled out from beneath the table.

‘Well, little friar,’ Cranston grinned down at him, ‘and what have you discovered?’

Athelstan dusted down his robe, got up and told him what he had concluded, before moving back into the chapel to examine the front of Hell’s mouth. He pushed hard but the scenery was wedged between the edges of the screen and held tight by clasps. Cranston did the same from the other side. Hell’s mouth was like a stopper in a wine skin. Athelstan reasoned it could be shoved loose but this would damage the clasps, the thick leather strips on either side, and there was no sign that this had happened.

‘The Straw Men must have made sure Hell’s mouth was secure,’ Athelstan sighed. ‘And yet, if it could be moved, the assassin might be able to place the heads, then push or pull it back in again. Of course,’ he rubbed his face, ‘that would have been seen or even heard; the clasps would have been broken, very obvious to detect. So, Sir John, the severed heads must have been put down in another way. Then there’s the vexed question of the assassin having a clear view of Oudernarde. The assassin would only gain this by moving Hell’s mouth, yet there’s not a shred of evidence to suggest that happened.’ Athelstan stood, arms crossed, staring down at the floor.

‘I’m back in the schools, Sir John.’ Athelstan scratched at a piece of wax on his wrist. ‘You can only get a logical conclusion, a truthful conclusion from a logical, truthful beginning, yet that escapes me. Look, Sir John.’ He nodded towards the now-empty doorway, ‘Of your kindness, please ask Lascelles and Rosselyn to join us. Plead with them to bring two hand-held arbalests like the ones our assassin certainly used, as well as a quiver of bolts on a war belt.’ He paused. ‘Oh, yes, and a small inflated pig’s bladder, the type children use as a ball.’ Cranston looked surprised but shrugged and strode away, shouting for the archer on guard.

Athelstan stayed for a while.

‘One assassin here,’ he murmured, ‘or could it have been two? And Barak? Murder, suicide or a simple accident?’

Athelstan left the chapel and went down the spiral staircase into the cavernous murky crypt. For a while he stumbled about with a cresset torch he’d taken from the stairwell. Eventually he lit every sconce, candle and lantern box in that dark, gloomy chamber. Athelstan walked up and down. ‘This is a strange place,’ he murmured. ‘Most crypts are beneath ground level but this is the first floor of the White Tower.’ He held the torch up. The crypt reminded him of a tithing barn: its paved stone floor was scrubbed clean with no matting, while the whitewashed walls lacked any ornamentation — even a cross. Apparently used for storing furniture, the crypt was bleak and soulless. He noticed how all the windows were shuttered and barred before moving down to where the shutters on the furthest window had been thrown back. According to all the evidence, Barak had tried to escape through this but had, due to some mishap, fallen to his death. Athelstan stood listening to the different sounds from both the stairwell and elsewhere in the Tower. Again, he heard the roaring from the menagerie and promised himself a visit to examine both the lions as well as to see for himself that great snow bear swimming in the moat. ‘But that will have to wait,’ he whispered. ‘Barak’s ghost is more important.’

Athelstan crouched down to examine the thick, oiled hempen rope with its tarred, twisted strands, which Barak had used in his abortive escape. The rope was secured tightly to a great iron ring driven into the wall. The rope had been pulled back after Barak’s fatal use and simply tossed on to the floor. Athelstan picked it up, scrutinizing the heavy knots placed every twelve inches. He could detect nothing out of the ordinary. Such ropes were common in both the Tower and other castles in case of fire or if the stairway to St John’s Chapel somehow became blocked. He sifted the rope through his hands and tugged hard, but the rope was sound in itself and firmly secured. He opened the shutters and flinched at the strong gust of icy wind; nevertheless, he persisted. He took the rope and threaded it out; it was long enough to allow someone to safely descend then jump to the ground below, the well-placed heavy knots providing some sort of hold for foot and hand. Athelstan leaned over the sill and peered down.