Paul Doherty - House of the Red Slayer

Sir John looked up and nodded wisely. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I have seen such a mechanism before. If the guard is wounded, once he starts the bell, it will swing and toll until someone stops it.’

‘Exactly!’ Colebrooke exclaimed. ‘And that’s the real mystery. I stopped the bell myself. No one else was about.’

‘But someone could have rung it and run off?’ Cranston queried.

Colebrooke shook his head. ‘Impossible. I came out here with a sconce torch. I stopped the bell but, when I examined the snow, found no other footprints around.’

‘What?’ Cranston barked. ‘None at all?’

‘None, Sir John.’ Colebrooke pointed to the surrounding carpet of snow. ‘Because this bell is so important,’ he explained, ‘no one is allowed anywhere near it. Even the soldiers, when they are drunk, keep clear of the area in case they stumble and start the bell tolling.’

‘And nothing else was found?’

‘Nothing except the claw marks of the ravens.’

‘But that’s impossible,’ Athelstan said.

Colebrooke sighed. ‘I agree, Father, and what makes it even more mysterious is that we also had guards patrolling the green. They saw no one approach the bell. They found no foot prints.’ Colebrooke turned away and spat. ‘A time of death,’ he mourned. ‘The ravens’ song is the only one we hear.’

‘And where was everyone?’ Cranston snapped.

‘Oh, Mistress Philippa had invited us all for supper in Beauchamp Tower.’

‘All of you?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Well, the two hospitallers demurred. Rastani did not come, and I left occasionally to make my rounds. I’d just returned to Mistress Philippa’s when the bell began to sound.’

‘And you found no one?’ Cranston repeated.

‘No one at all,’ Colebrooke muttered. ‘Now the soldiers are uneasy. They talk darkly of demons and ghosts and the Tower is not a popular garrison. You know soldiers, Sir John, they’re worse than sailors. They repeat stories of how the Tower was built on a place used for ancient sacrifice. How blood is mixed with the mortar, and men were nailed to the earth in its foundation.’

‘Nonsense!’ Cranston barked. ‘What do you think, Brother?’

Athelstan shrugged. ‘The lieutenant may be right, Sir John. There are more forces under heaven than we know.’

‘So you believe the nonsense about ghosts?’

‘Of course not! But the Tower is a bloody place. Men and women have died horrible deaths here.’

Athelstan stared round the green and shivered despite the bright sunshine.

‘Fear is the real ghost,’ he continued. ‘It saps harmony of the mind and disturbs the soul. It creates an air of danger, of threatening menace. Our murderer is highly skilled and intelligent. He is achieving exactly what he wants.’

‘Who found the corpse?’ Cranston queried.

‘Fitzormonde did. When the bell was sounded, people were running around all over the place, checking gates and doors. Fitzormonde went looking for Mowbray and found his corpse.’

‘We’ll check the parapet walk,’ Athelstan muttered.

‘Master Lieutenant, I would be grateful if you could gather everyone in Mistress Philippa’s chamber. Please give my apologies and excuses to the lady, but it’s important to meet where you all were last night when the tocsin was sounded.’

Cranston and Athelstan watched Colebrooke stride away.

‘Do you think there’s any connection?’ Cranston asked.

‘Between what?’

‘Between the bell chiming and Mowbray’s fall.’

‘Of course, Sir John.’ Athelstan tugged him by the sleeve and they made their way across the deserted bailey to the steps leading up to the parapet walk. They stopped at the foot and stared up at the curtain wall rising above them.

‘A terrible fall,’ Athelstan whispered.

‘You said there was a connection?’ Cranston replied testily, ‘between the bell sounding and Mowbray falling.’

‘A mere hypothesis, Sir John. Mowbray went on to the parapet walk. Like many old soldiers he liked to be by himself, to reflect well away from others. He stands there staring into the darkness. He has already received warnings of his own impending doom so is lost in his own thoughts, fears and anxieties. Suddenly the tocsin sounds, proclaiming the greatest fortress in the realm to be under attack.’ Athelstan stared into Sir John’s soulful eyes. ‘If you had been Mowbray, what would you have done? Remember, Sir John,’ Athelstan added slyly, ‘you too are a warrior, a soldier.’

Cranston pushed back the beaverskin hat on his head, scratched his balding pate and pursed his lips as if he was a veritable Alexander. ‘I’d run to find the cause,’ he replied ponderously. ‘Yes, that’s what I’d do.’ He stared at Athelstan. ‘Of course, Mowbray would have done the same, but then what happened? Did he slip? Or was he pushed?’

‘I don’t think he slipped, Mowbray would have been too careful, and I doubt he would have let someone push him off the parapet walk without a struggle.’

‘So how?’

‘I don’t know, Sir John. Let’s study the evidence first.’

They were about to climb the steps when a voice suddenly sang out: ‘Good morrow, friends!’ Red Hand, his gaudy rags fluttering around him, jumped through the slush towards them. ‘Good morrow, Master Coroner. Good morrow, Sir Priest,’ he repeated. ‘Do you like old Red Hand?’

Athelstan saw the chicken struggling in Red Hand’s grip. The poor bird squawked and scrabbled, its claws beating the madman’s stomach, ripping his rags still further, but Red Hand held it firmly by the neck.

‘Death has come again!’ he chanted, his colourless eyes dancing with mischievous glee. ‘The old Red Slayer has returned and more will die. You wait and see. Death will come, snap, like this.’

And before Athelstan or Cranston could do anything, the madman bit into the hen’s neck and tore its throat out. The bird squawked, struggled and lay limp. Red Hand stared up, his mouth ringed with blood, gore and feathers.

‘Slay! Slay! Slay!’ he chanted.

‘Go away!’ Cranston barked. ‘Sod off, you little bugger!’

Red Hand turned and ran, the blood from the freshly killed chicken spraying the greying slush on every side. Cranston watched him disappear behind a wall.

‘In my treatise, Brother,’ he said softly, ‘I will suggest houses for such men. Though I do wonder…’

‘What, Sir John?’

‘Well, if Red Hand is as mad as he claims to be.’

Athelstan shrugged. ‘Who decides who is mad, Sir John?

Red Hand may think he is the only sane man around here.’

They climbed the steep steps, Athelstan going first. Behind him followed Sir John, breathing heavily and muttering a litany of dark curses. The wind whipped their faces; halfway up Athelstan stopped and, stooping, picked up the thick sand mixed with gravel which carpeted every step.

‘This would stop anyone from slipping, Sir John.’

‘Unless he was drunk or careless,’ Cranston replied.

‘Aye, Sir John. A sober soldier is a rarity indeed.’

‘Aye, monk, very rare, but not as rare as a holy priest.’

Athelstan grinned and continued climbing. They reached the parapet walk. It was about four feet wide and as carefully coated with sand and pebbles as the step. They leaned against the curtain wall. Cranston, breathing heavily, looked down, curiously watching the figures below as they scurried around like black ants on the various tasks of the garrison. He then stared up at the blue sky. The clouds were now only faint wisps lit by the strong mid-day sun. The coroner suddenly felt rather giddy and quietly cursed himself for drinking so much.

‘Old age,’ he murmured.

‘Sir John?’