Paul Doherty - House of the Red Slayer

‘And where is Horne now?’

‘At his warehouse along the Thames. Horne did not tell the mayor about this, his wife did. Both message and cake were delivered anonymously to her. She handed them over to her husband and was terrified by his reaction. He became pale and ill as if taken by a sudden seizure.’

‘When was this?’

‘Earlier today. The wife immediately went to see one of the sheriffs. The rest you know.’

‘Lady Horne acted very quickly?’

‘Yes, the mayor himself is suspicious. He still believes Lady Horne knows more than she claims.’

Athelstan stared towards the door as a group of pedlars, battered trays slung round their necks, bustled in, raucously shouting for ale. A one-eyed beggar followed and, for a penny, agreed to do a dance. His skeletal body clothed in dirty rags looked grotesque as he hopped from foot to foot, to the mocking laughter of the tinkers.

‘Isn’t it strange, Sir John,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘how we men take such a delight in the humiliation of others?’

Cranston remembered Lady Maude, blinked and looked away.

Athelstan stirred. ‘So, Sir John, do we question Horne or go to the Tower?’

Cranston rose. ‘My office is to enquire as to the cause of death,’ he announced pompously. ‘Not to run errands for the powerful ones of this city. So we go to the Tower. After all, as the good book says, “Where the body lies, the vultures will gather”.’

‘Sir John?’ Athelstan scratched his head. ‘This warning — the seedcake and the ship, still troubles me.’

‘What do you mean?’ Cranston slurred, swaying dangerously against the table.

‘Well, apparently Horne, for example, recognised the seed cake as a death threat, but why does the crude drawing of a ship hold such terrors for him and others?’

‘All men are fearful because they’re liars!’ Cranston snapped. ‘No one tells the truth!’ He glared at Athelstan under bristling brows.

‘What’s wrong, Sir John?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘I can feel the fury and the hurt seething within you. You must tell me.’

‘In a while,’ the coroner muttered. ‘Let’s go!’

They collected their horses from the stables and led them through the cold, bustling streets. Every Londoner seemed to be out of doors: the stall-holders were busy making up for lost trade and the air was thick with savoury smells from taverns and cookshops. They went to Cornhill, past Leadenhall and into Aldgate, pausing where a crowd had gathered round a speaker on the corner of Poor Jewry. He was a striking figure with a long, dour face, the head completely shaven, his thin body clothed from head to toe in a black gown and cloak. The speaker paused as he glimpsed Cranston, and his mouth and jaw tensed with fury. The anger in his face made his eyes glow, reminding Athelstan of the figure of St John the Baptist in a mummer’s play. The man’s eyes never left Cranston’s as he drew a deep breath, one bony finger pointing upwards to the clear blue sky.

‘Woe to this city!’ the preacher rasped. ‘Woe to its corrupt officials! Woe to those they serve who are clad in silk, loll on couches, and fill their bellies with the best of food and the richness of wine. They will not escape the fury which is coming! How can we eat and drink when our poor brothers starve? What will their answer be then?’

Cranston angrily stepped forward but Athelstan caught him by the sleeve.

‘Not now, Sir John!’

‘Who is it?’ Cranston rasped.

‘The hedge priest, John Ball. A great preacher,’ Athelstan muttered. ‘Sir John,’ he advised, ‘the man is well liked. This is neither the time nor the place!’

Cranston took a deep breath, spun on his heel and walked on. The preacher’s fiery words pursued them as they passed the house of Crutched Friars and turned left down an alleyway towards the Tower.

‘One day,’ Cranston grated, ‘I’ll see that bastard hang!’

‘Sir John, he speaks the truth.’

The coroner turned. His face and body sagged as the fury drained from him.

‘What can I do, Athelstan? How can I feed the poor of Kent? I may eat too much, I know I drink too much, but I pursue justice and do the best I can.’ Cranston’s great fat hands flapped like the wings of a wounded bird and Athelstan saw the hurt in his eyes.

‘By the sod, Brother, I can’t even govern my own house.’

‘Lady Maude?’ Athelstan queried.

Cranston nodded. ‘I fear she has met someone else,’ he blurted out. ‘Perhaps a fop from the court.’

Athelstan stared back in disbelief.

‘Lady Maude? Never! Sir John, you are a fool!’

‘If any other man said that, I’d kill him!’

‘Well, I say it, Sir John. Lady Maude is an honourable woman, she loves you deeply. Though,’ Athelstan snarled in genuine anger, ‘sometimes I wonder how she can!’ He grasped the fat coroner by his cloak. ‘What proof do you have?’

‘Last night I saw her coming across London Bridge from Southwark, yet when I asked her where she had been, she replied no further than Cheapside.’

Athelstan was about to snarl a further retort when the coroner’s words suddenly quickened his own memories. Sir John might be right. A week ago, just before the feast of the Virgin, Athelstan had seen the Lady Maude near the Tabard in Southwark. At the time he’d thought it strange but then forgot about it. Cranston narrowed his eyes.

‘You know something, don’t you, you bloody monk?’

Athelstan looked away. ‘I’m a friar,’ he replied softly. ‘Sir John, I know nothing except that I honour you and the Lady Maude. I also know she would never betray you.’

Cranston brushed by him. ‘Come on!’ he barked. ‘We have business to do.’

They reached the bottom of the alleyway, went up the hill and into the Tower through a rear postern gate. One of the sentries took their horses and led them across Tower Green, now ankle-deep in icy slush, to where a depressed-looking Colebrooke was waiting.

‘More deaths,’ the lieutenant announced mournfully. ‘Sir John, I wish I could say you were welcome.’ He took them out, stopped and stared up at the ravens cawing raucously against the blue sky. He pointed up at them. ‘You have heard the legends, Sir John? While the ravens are here the Tower will never fall. And that when they caw so stridently, it’s always a sign of impending death.’ Colebrooke blew on the tips of his fingers. ‘Unfortunately, the ravens’ song is turning into a constant hymn.’

‘Did anyone know that Mowbray had received the same warning as Sir Ralph?’ Cranston abruptly asked.

Colebrooke shook his head. ‘No. Mowbray was uneasy but, following Sir Ralph’s death, so were we all. He and Sir Brian kept to themselves. Last night Mowbray went for his usual walk on the parapet between the Salt and Broad Arrow Towers. He was still there when the tocsin sounded. Mowbray apparently heard the alarm, ran, slipped and fell to his death.’

‘There was no one else on the parapet with him?’

‘No. Indeed, if it wasn’t for the warning we found in his pouch, we would have assumed it was a simple accident.’

‘Was the parapet slippery?’

‘No, of course not, Sir John. You are a soldier. Sir Ralph was most strict on such matters. As soon as the weather worsens, sand and gravel are strewn on every step.’

‘Then who rang the bell?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Ah, that’s the mystery. Come, I’ll show you.’

They walked into the centre of Tower Green. The snow was relatively unmarked here, packed high around a great wooden post with a beam jutting out like a scaffold. The tocsin bell was balanced on an iron ring and from its great brass tongue hung a long piece of cord.

‘You see,’ Colebrooke said, pointing up to the bell, ‘this is only sounded when the Tower is under direct attack. If you touch the rope even, the bell is angled so as to sound continuously.’