Paul Doherty - House of the Red Slayer

Cranston shrugged.

‘Well, it could be Sir Fulke. His buckle was found on the ice and he stands to gain from his brother’s death. Sir Ralph’s servant Rastani was lithe and able enough to climb up that wall.’ Cranston made a face at Athelstan. ‘By the way, I checked on their story for the night Sir Ralph died; both Sir Fulke and Rastani were absent from the Tower and there are people who can guarantee their whereabouts.’

‘Master Geoffrey could be the felon,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘But on the night Sir Ralph died he was in Philippa’s bed, and on the night Sir Gerard died, in his lady’s chamber. True, he went to rouse Sir Ralph but he was searched for any weapons, he had no key, and even if he had entered the room, favoured son or not, Sir Ralph would scarcely have offered his throat to be cut.’ Athelstan rubbed his face. ‘The possibilities are endless,’ he said. ‘Hammond, the felonious chaplain. Colebrooke, the envious Lieutenant. The gracious Mistress Philippa. Not to mention our hospitaller who may have told us a pack of lies.’ The friar narrowed his eyes. ‘We must check on them all,’ he murmured.

‘Or Red Hand,’ Cranston observed. ‘The mad man who may not be as insane as he appears.’

Athelstan looked up and smiled. ‘But we have made some progress, Sir John. If Fitzormonde is to be believed, we know the reason for the murders: Burghgesh’s death on that unfortunate ship in the Middle Sea so many years ago. The picture on the parchment is to remind his murderers of their foul act and the sesame seed cake a warning of their impending doom.’

‘And that — ’ Cranston almost shouted, glaring across at the landlord to bring his food for his stomach was growling with hunger ‘- leads us to another mystery. Did Burghgesh really die? Or is he back, hiding in London, even the Tower? Or is there someone else? Perhaps his son or some other friend?’

Cranston leaned back as Joscelyn brought across the steaming platters of food. The landlord served Sir John himself, cutting thick slices of pheasant breast and laying them deftly with his one hand on the pewter platter whilst a maid scurried up with a jug of steaming gravy in which the bird had been cooked. Sir John grinned his thanks, took his own pewter spoon from his wallet, drew his dagger and set to as if he hadn’t eaten for days. Athelstan watched in astonishment: Sir John’s permanent hunger always fascinated him. A slattern brought his own meal, a thickly spiced bowl of soup. Athelstan asked to borrow a pewter spoon and ate slowly.

‘They’ve forgotten the bread,’ Sir John grumbled.

Athelstan called the girl back and small, fresh white loaves, wrapped in a linen cloth, were immediately served. Whilst he ate Athelstan reflected on what they had discussed. He waited a while until Sir John had taken the edge off his appetite.

There is one matter we have overlooked.

‘What’s that?’ Cranston mumbled, his mouth full of food.

‘Horne’s murderer means the assassin knows us or why should he send such a grisly trophy to your house?’

‘Because the bastard’s mad!’

‘No, no, Sir John. It’s meant as a warning. This murderer sees himself as doing God’s work. He is sending a message: Keep well away until my work is done. Don’t interfere.’ Athelstan lowered his spoon. ‘Such a terrible thing,’ he whispered. ‘A man’s genitals hacked off and stuffed into the mouth of his decapitated head. Of course,’ he continued, ‘Fitzormonde mentioned that.’

‘What?’

‘Well, how the Caliph of Egypt would punish in such a way anybody who transgressed his command. The head and genitals hacked off and both exposed above the city gates in Alexandria. It’s obvious. Sir John,’ he continued, ‘our murderer must be someone who has lived in Outremer, someone who knows about the Hashishoni — the flat sesame seed cake, and that awful way of humiliating the corpse of an executed criminal.’

Cranston lowered his knife. ‘But who is the murderer, Brother?’

‘I don’t know, Sir John, but I think we should re-visit the Tower and speak to our group of suspects.’

‘And then?’

‘We go to Woodforde.’

Cranston groaned.

‘Sir John,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘it’s not far — a few miles through Aldgate and down the Mile End Road. We must find out if Burghgesh ever returned and what happened to his son. Moreover,’ he continued, ‘perhaps it may give you some time to reflect on the Lady Maude.’

Cranston jabbed the point of his knife into a piece of soft meat, mumbled his assent and continued to eat as if his very life depended upon it.

Athelstan and Cranston finished their meal and crossed London Bridge. Beneath them the water moved black and sluggish and they heard chunks of ice crashing against the starlings which protected the wooden arches from the fury of the Thames. They passed through Billingsgate. The air stank with the odour from the stalls, now freshly stocked with herring, cod, tench and even pike as the fishing fleets took advantage of a break in the weather.

The Tower was all abustle when they arrived. Like any good soldier, Colebrooke had the garrison working to break the tedium caused by the freezing weather, as well as to take his own mind off the recent murders. The lieutenant was standing on Tower Green, shouting orders at workmen who were refurbishing mangonels, scorpions and the great battering rams. A number of archers stood ankle-deep in the slush, practising at the butts, whilst others were being mercilessly drilled by the Serjeants. Athelstan vaguely remembered rumours about how, in the spring, the French might attack the Channel ports and even force their way up the Thames to plunder and burn the city.

Colebrooke’s displeasure at seeing Cranston and Athelstan was more than apparent.

‘You have found the murderers?’ he yelled.

‘No, Master Lieutenant!’ Cranston bellowed back. ‘But we will. And, when we do, you can build the gallows.’

Cranston stepped aside as a butcher and two fletchers rolled barrels of salted pork down to the store house. The coroner wrinkled his nose. Despite the heavy spices and thick white salt, the pork smelt rancid and his gorge rose as he saw insects crawling out from under the rim of the barrel. He quietly vowed not to accept any food from the Tower buttery or kitchens. Colebrooke, seeing his visitors would not be deterred, turned away to issue further orders. Athelstan took advantage of the delay to walk over to where the bear, squatting in its own filth, was busy plundering a mound of refuse piled high before him. The madman, Red Hand, sat like an elf fascinated by the great beast

‘You are content, Red Hand?’ Athelstan asked softly.

The man grimaced, waving his hands in the air as if mimicking the bear. Athelstan crouched down beside him.

‘You like the bear, Red Hand?’

The fellow nodded, his eyes intent on the bear.

‘So does the knight,’ Red Hand slurred and Athelstan caught the stench of wine fumes on his breath.

‘Which knight?’

‘The one with the cross.’

‘You mean Fitzormonde?’

‘Yes, yes, Fitzormonde. He often comes to stare. Red Hand likes Fitzormonde. Red Hand likes the bear. Red Hand does not like Colebrooke. Colebrooke would kill Red Hand.’

‘Did you like Burghgesh?’ Athelstan asked quickly. He caught the gleam of recognition in the madman’s eyes. ‘You knew him,’ Athelstan continued. ‘As a young soldier, he once served here.’

Red Hand looked away.

‘Surely you remember?’ Athelstan persisted.

The madman shook his head and stared at the bear but Athelstan saw him blink away the tears which pricked his madcap eyes. The friar sighed and rose, dusting the wet ice from his robe.