Paul Doherty - House of the Red Slayer

‘Brother Athelstan!’ Cranston barked. ‘Master Colebrooke is a busy man. He says he cannot waste the day whilst you converse with a madman.’

‘Master Colebrooke should realise,’ Athelstan replied, ‘that it is a matter of opinion, as well as the judgment of God, who is sane and who is mad.’

‘Father, I mean no offence,’ Colebrooke answered, taking off his conical helmet and cradling it in his arms. ‘But I have a garrison to command. I will do what you want.’

Athelstan smiled. ‘Good! Mowbray’s body, where does it lie?’

Colebrooke pointed to the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. ‘Before the chancel screen. Tomorrow it will be buried in the cemetery of All Hallows church.’

‘Is it coffined?’

‘No. no.’

‘Good, I wish to see the corpse, and after that My Lord Coroner and I would like to speak with all those affected by Sir Ralph’s death.’

Colebrooke groaned.

‘We are here on the Regent’s authority,’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘When these matters are finished, Master Lieutenant, shall report on the support, or lack of it, we have had in our investigation. We will meet the group in St John’s Chapel.’

Colebrooke forced a smile and hurried off, shouting at his soldiers to search out Sir Fulke and others. Cranston and Athelstan walked over to St Peter’s. The church was a dour, sombre place, cold and dank. The nave was shaped like a box, with rounded pillars guarding darkened aisles.

At the top a small rose window afforded some light. The chancel screen was of polished oak and before it, surrounded by a ring of candles, lay the corpses of Sir Ralph Whitton and Sir Gerard Mowbray. The embalmers had done what they could but, even as they walked up the nave, both Cranston and Athelstan caught the whiff of putrefaction. The two bodies lay under canvas sheets on wickerwork mats supported by wooden trestles. Cranston stood away, waving Athelstan on.

‘I’ve eaten too richly, Brother,’ he murmured. ‘Look for what you want and let’s get out.’

Athelstan was only too happy to oblige. He ignored Sir Ralph’s corpse but lifted back the insignia over the hospitaller’s and the canvas sheet which lay underneath. He did not wish to look at Mowbray’s face. Athelstan had seen enough of death. Instead he examined the white, scabrous legs of the hospitaller, picking up one of the candles to study the purple-yellow bruise just above the shin on the corpse’s right leg. Satisfied, he pulled back the canvas sheet, replaced the tallow candle, genuflected towards the sanctuary and left the church, Cranston following as quickly as possible. They stood on the porch steps and eagerly drank in the invigorating cold air.

‘Good Lord, Sir John,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘I always thought St Erconwald’s was bad but, if ever I moan about it again, remind me of this church and I’ll keep my mouth shut.’

Cranston grinned. ‘It will be my pleasure, Brother. You found what you are looking for?’

‘Yes, I did, Sir John. I believe Sir Gerard was not pushed from the parapet. Someone laid a spear or a piece of wood at the top of the steps whilst the hospitaller was at his usual place at the far end of the parapet walk, near Salt Tower.’ Athelstan pursed his lips. ‘Yes, it could be done under cover of darkness whilst Sir Gerard was lost in his own thoughts.’ He narrowed his eyes and stared at the distant wall of the Tower. ‘The tocsin sounded. Mowbray hurried along the parapet. In the dark he would not see the obstacle. His leg struck it, he slipped and fell to his death.’

‘But we don’t know who rang the bell or placed the pole on the parapet. Remember,’ Cranston continued, ‘apart from Fitzormonde and Colebrooke, everybody was in Mistress Philippa’s chamber.’

‘Colebrooke might have done it,’ the friar replied. ‘He might have seen the knight standing on the parapet crept up, placed the pole there, and somehow or other arranged for the tocsin to be sounded.’

‘But we have no proof?’

‘No, Sir John, we do not. But we are collecting it. In bits and pieces.’ He sighed. Only time will tell if we are successful.

They found Colebrooke and the rest of the group sitting on benches in the Chapel of St John. Their displeasure at being summoned was more than apparent. Hammond kept his back half-turned. Fulke slouched, staring up at the ceiling; Rastani seemed more confident and Athelstan caught the sardonic mocking look in his dark, brilliant eyes. Colebrooke marched up and down as if he was on parade whilst Mistress Philippa leaned against the wall, looking sorrowfully down at Tower Green.

‘Where is Geoffrey?’ Athelstan asked

‘Geoffrey Parchmeiner,’ Fulke replied, ‘being a rather frightened, silly young man, may have many vices. The knight ignored his niece’s furious look. ‘But he works hard. He has better things to do than hang around the Tower answering idle questions whilst good men are killed and the murderer walks scot free.’

‘Thank you for that speech, Sir Fulke,’ Cranston replied, beaming falsely around. ‘We have only one question and I apologise to you, Sir Brian, but it’s a name, that’s all. Bartholomew Burghgesh — does it mean anything to any of you?

Athelstan was amazed at the transformation caused by Cranston’s words. The coroner’s smile widened.

‘Good,’ he announced. ‘Now we have your attention.’ He glanced quickly at the hospitaller’s angry face. ‘Sir Brian, you must not answer, and if you are patient, you will see why we ask. Well,’ the coroner clapped his hands, ‘Bartholomew Burghgesh?’

‘Hell’s teeth!’ Sir Fulke snarled and walked into the centre of the room. ‘Don’t play games, Sir John. Burghgesh was one name my brother, Sir Ralph, would never have mentioned in his presence.’

‘Why?’ Athelstan asked innocently.

‘My brother could not stand the man.’

‘But they were comrades in arms.’

‘Were,’ Fulke emphasised. ‘They quarrelled in Outremer. Bartholomew was later killed on a ship taken in the Middle Sea by Moorish pirates.’

‘Why?’ Cranston barked.

‘Why what?’

‘Why did your brother dislike Burghgesh so much?’

Fulke stepped closer and lowered his eyes. ‘It was a matter of honour,’ he murmured. He licked his lips and glanced nervously towards Philippa. ‘Sir Ralph once accused Bartholomew of paying too much attention to your mother, Sir Ralph’s wife.’

‘Were the allegations true?’ Athelstan asked.

Fulke’s face softened. ‘No,’ he stammered. ‘I’ll be honest — I liked Bartholomew. He was funny, always thought the best of people. He was both gentle and courteous.’

Athelstan suddenly glimpsed the steel in Sir Fulke’s character.

‘You really did like him, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, yes, I did. I was much distressed at the news of his death.’ Fulke shuffled his feet and looked down at the floor. ‘I’ll be honest,’ he continued. ‘When I was younger, I used to wish Bartholomew was my brother because, God forgive me, I did not like Ralph.’ He looked up, his eyes, sad. ‘Years ago he and Bartholomew served as officers here in the Tower.’ Fulke coughed and cleared his throat. ‘My brother was treacherous. He was cruel. He ill-treated Red Hand. He even beat the priest here when he was only a young clerk.’

The chaplain blushed with embarrassment

‘Come on, tell the truth!’ Fulke now glared round, snarling like a dog. ‘Sir Ralph was hated!’

Mistress Philippa stepped forward, her face white with fury. ‘My father is sheeted, waiting for burial, and you speak ill of him!’

‘God forgive me, Philippa, I only tell the truth!’ Fulke flung out his hand. ‘Ask Rastani! When he was a boy, who plucked his tongue out?’