Paul Doherty - House of the Red Slayer

Athelstan stared idly up at one of the hams turning on its skewer from one of the rafters. ‘In reality, we know nothing,’ the friar concluded. ‘We have no idea who the murderer is or how he or she gained access to Sir Ralph, though we did find Sir Fulke’s buckle.’

‘And yet he claims he walked on the frozen moat this morning before our arrival.’

‘I believe him,’ Athelstan answered. ‘But remember how he said he lost the buckle the previous day.’

‘What are you saying, friar?’

‘Either he lost it as he crept across the moat to kill Sir Ralph or else someone put it there. I believe the latter. Sir Fulke’s honesty in admitting he walked on the frozen moat saved him from suspicion. If he had denied it, and we later proved he had been on the moat, then it would have been a different matter.’

‘How do we know he’s honest?’ Cranston barked. ‘Did you notice the postern gate we used to gain access to the moat? Its hinges were rusty. Before we did, no one had used that door for years. Sir Fulke could be lying.’

‘Or he could have used another postern gate.’

‘An interesting thought, Brother, but let’s look at motives.’

Athelstan spread his hands. ‘There are as many motives as there are people in the Tower, Sir John. Was Sir Fulke greedy? Was the chaplain angry at being called a thief? Did Colebrooke want Sir Ralph’s post? Did Philippa and her lover see Sir Ralph as an obstacle to their marriage or to Mistress Philippa’s inheritance?’

‘Which brings us,’ Cranston concluded, ‘to the two hospitallers. Now we know they are not telling the truth. Somehow or other that piece of parchment and the seed cake lie at the very heart of the murder and they must know something about both. Sir Ralph’s death note bore the impression of a three-masted ship, the type often used in the Middle Sea, whilst the seed cake is the mark of the Assassins. Ergo, Sir Ralph’s death must be linked to some mystery in his past, something connected with his days as a warrior in Outremer.’

Athelstan put his blackjack down on the table. He opened and shut his mouth.

‘What’s the matter, friar?’

‘There’s only one conclusion we can reach, Master Coroner — Sir Ralph might not be the first person to die in the Tower before Yuletide comes.’

They stayed in the tavern a little longer. Athelstan expected Cranston to mount his horse and ride back to Cheapside but the coroner shook his head.

‘I want to go back to your damned graveyard,’ he snorted. ‘You need a keen brain to plumb the mysteries there.’

‘But Lady Maude will be waiting.’

‘Let her!’

‘Sir John, tell me, is there anything wrong?’

Cranston scowled and looked away.

‘Is it Matthew?’ Athelstan asked gently. ‘Is it the anniversary of his death?’

Cranston stood up and linked his arm through Athelstan’s as they went out to stand at the door whilst the ostler saddled their horses. ‘Tell me. Brother, when you ran away from your order as a novice and took your younger brother to the wars in France, were you happy?’

Athelstan felt his own heart lurch. ‘Of course.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I was young then. The blood boiled in my veins for some great adventure.’

‘And when you found your brother dead, cold as ice in that battlefield, and trailed back to England to confess your deeds to your parents, what then?’

Athelstan looked across the darkening yard. ‘In the gospels, Sir John, Christ says that at the end of the world the very heavens will rock and the planets fall to earth in a fiery blaze.’ Athelstan closed his eyes. He sensed Francis’s ghost very close to him now. ‘When I found my brother dead,’ he continued, ‘my heaven fell to earth.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose it was the end of my world.’

‘And what did you think of life then?’

Athelstan rubbed his mouth with his thumb and gazed directly at Cranston’s sorrowful face. ‘I felt betrayed by it,’ he whispered.

Cranston tapped him gently on the shoulder. ‘Aye, Brother, always remember the carmined kiss of the traitor is ever the sweetest. You remember that, as I shall.’

Athelstan gazed speechlessly back. He had never seen Cranston like this before. By now the coroner should have been singing some lewd song at the top of his voice, bellowing abuse at the landlord, or urging Athelstan to come back to his house in Cheapside.

They mounted their horses and made their way quietly up snow-packed Billingsgate, turning left into the approaches to London Bridge. A large crowd milled there despite the cold wind which lashed face and hand. Under a sky shrouded by deep snow clouds, some boys threw snowballs at each other, shrieking with laughter as they hit their target. A legless beggar pulled himself along through the slush on wooden slats. A group of tattered watermen muttered abuse at the frozen river and cursed the great frost which had taken their livelihood from them. Others, hooded and cowled, pushed forward into the city or joined Athelstan and Cranston in crossing the narrow frozen bridge to Southwark.

The coroner suddenly reined in his horse, staring back at a group of dark figures who had just slipped by. Were they a group, he wondered, or just individuals travelling together for comfort and security? He was sure he had glimpsed Lady Maude amongst them, her pale face peering out from beneath her hood. But what would she have been doing in Southwark? Apart from Athelstan she knew no one there, and Southwark was a dangerous place to visit on a dark winter’s day.

‘Sir John, is all well?’

Cranston stared once more at the group receding into the darkness. Should he go back? But then a great metal-rimmed cart came crashing by, the people behind Cranston began to mutter and moan, so the coroner nodded at his companion that they should continue on their way. They crossed the bridge, passing the Priory of St Mary Overy at the far end, and took the main highway into Southwark. The two men rode down the narrow alleyways where the great four-storey houses were interspaced with the ramshackle cottages and lean-tos of the workmen and artisans. The coroner caught the acrid tang of dog urine.

‘The snow doesn’t hide the stench!’ he muttered, twitching his nose.

Athelstan agreed, pulling the cowl of his hood closer against the sight of rotting refuse, discarded food and human excrement tossed out in night pots, mixed with the sweepings from the houses as the citizens prepared for a festive season. Southwark, of course, never rested. The artisans and cottagers continually plied their trades: chandlers making tallow from pig fat; skinners, cheesemongers, capmakers, blacksmiths, and at night, when the stalls came down, the raw-boned villains of the underworld who scrounged for easy pickings amongst the brothels and stewsides of the Thames. No one, however, approached Cranston or Athelstan. The friar was well respected whilst Cranston was more feared than the Chief Justice himself.

They found St Erconwald’s in darkness. Athelstan was pleased that Watkin had doused the lights. He was about to lead Sir John through the wicket gate to the priest’s house when a dark shape jumped from the shadows and grabbed Philomel by the bridle. Athelstan stared down at the long, white face under its tarry black hood.

‘Ranulf, for God’s sake, what’s the matter?’

‘Father, I have been waiting for you all afternoon.’

‘Tell him to bugger off, Athelstan! I’m cold!’

‘Never mind Sir John.’ Athelstan replied soothingly. ‘What do you want, Ranulf?’

The rat-catcher licked bloodless lips.

‘I have an idea, Father. You know how the great guilds across the river have their own churches? St Mary Le Bow for the mercers, St Paul’s for the parchment-makers?’