Paul Doherty - House of the Red Slayer

Surprisingly, Cranston shook his head.

‘I only drink when Sir John does,’ Athelstan mockingly replied.

The parchment-seller grinned and sat down behind his desk.

‘Well, what can I do for you? I doubt you want to buy parchment or vellum — though, Brother, I have the best the city can offer. I am a Guild member and everything I sell carries their hallmark.’ Geoffrey’s good-natured face creased into a smile. He shook his head. ‘But I don’t think you come to buy.’ His face became grave. ‘It’s the business at the Tower, isn’t it?’

‘Just one thing,’ Cranston answered, moving uncomfortably on the small stool. ‘Does the name Bartholomew Burghgesh mean anything to you?’

‘Yes and no,’ Geoffrey replied. ‘I never met him but I heard Sir Fulke talk of him, and once Philippa repeated the name in her father’s presence. Sir Ralph became very angry and stormed out. Of course, I asked Philippa why. She just shook her head and said he was an old enemy of her father’s, and refused to be drawn any further.’

Athelstan watched the young man intently. Could this languid, rather effete, fop be the Red Slayer? The terrible murderer who stalked his victims in the Tower?

‘Geoffrey?’ he asked

‘Yes, Brother.’

‘You have known Philippa how long?’

‘About two years’

‘And Sir Ralph liked you?’

The parchment-seller grinned. ‘Yes, though God knows why. I can hardly ride a horse and the call of arms does not appeal to me.’

‘You were with him the night he died?’

‘Yes, as I have said, I was with him in the great hall. Sir Ralph was morose and became maudlin in his cups.’

‘He was drunk?’

‘Very.’

‘You helped him across to his chamber?’

‘Well, again, yes and no. Master Colebrooke assisted me. I took Sir Ralph to the top of the stairs into the North Bastion tower but the passageway was so narrow Colebrooke helped him the rest of the way.’

‘And you stayed with Mistress Philippa that night?’

The young man looked embarrassed and his eyes dropped.

‘Yes. If Sir Ralph had known, he would have been most angry.

‘But,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘he favoured your courtship of his only daughter?’

‘Yes, I think he did.’

‘Why?’ Cranston barked. ‘I mean, as you have said, you’re no soldier.’

‘No, I am not. I am not a lord or a knight but a merchant, Sir John, and a very good one. I am one of those who lends money so the King can hire his knights.’ The parchment-seller gestured round his well-stocked shop. ‘It may not look much but my profits are high. I am a wealthy man, Sir John.’

‘One other matter.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘We have touched upon it before. You went to rouse Sir Ralph. What happened?’

‘The guards opened the passageway door and locked it behind me as Sir Ralph had ordered. I went down and tried to rouse the constable. There was no answer so I went back. I told the guards and took the key to Whitton’s chamber. I was going to open it myself but changed my mind and went for Colebrooke.’

‘Why did you do that?’

Geoffrey pulled a face. I knew something was wrong by the silence, not to mention the cold draught under the door of Whitton’s chamber.

Athelstan remembered the gap under Sir Ralph’s door and nodded. Someone standing outside the room would have felt the powerful draught and know something was wrong.

‘Why didn’t you open the door yourself?’ Cranston asked

The young man smiled weakly. ‘Sir John, I was frightened. Sir Ralph was not a popular man. Looking back, I suppose I was worried someone might be in the chamber.’

‘And the night Mowbray died?’

‘I was with Mistress Philippa, drunk as a lord. Ask the others.’

‘And you never left?’

Geoffrey grimaced. ‘Like the rest, I went to use the privy along the corridor. When the tocsin sounded I lurched out with the others to see what was wrong. I didn’t do much. I was drunk and I hate those parapet steps. I wandered around, looking busy, and found Fitzormonde and Colebrooke standing over Mowbray’s body.’ The young man paused and looked sharply at Athelstan. ‘I know why you are here. There’s been another death in the Tower, hasn’t there?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan murmured and gave Parchmeiner the details of Horne’s death.

Geoffrey leaned back in his chair and whistled softly. ‘I suppose,’ he said wearily, ‘you wish to question me about that?’

‘It would,’ Cranston observed, ‘be helpful to know where you were last night.’

Parchmeiner shrugged. ‘I worked in my shop, then I got drunk as a bishop in a nearby tavern, the Golden Griffin. You could ask there.’

Athelstan smiled. What would be the use? the friar thought, Horne could have been killed at any hour. He studied Parchmeiner’s girlish face. ‘You are London-born?’ he queried, trying to look at the parchment lying on Geoffrey’s desk.

‘No, Brother, I am not. My family are Welsh, hence my colouring. They moved to Bristol. My father traded in parchments and vellum in a shop just beneath the cathedral there. When he died I moved to London.’ Geoffrey picked up the piece of parchment. ‘My sister, now married, still lives there; she has just written inviting herself to town for the Yuletide season. She, her husband,’ his face grew mock solemn, ‘and their large brood of children will bring some life to the Tower.’ He turned to Sir John. ‘My Lord Coroner, you have more questions?’

Sir John shook his head. ‘No, sir, we have not.’

They rose, made their farewells, and stepped out into the cold, icy street

‘What do you think, Brother?’

‘A young man who will go far in his trade, Sir John. He has his roots.’ The friar grinned. ‘Yes, Sir John, like you I wondered if he could be Burghgesh’s son. But I am sure he is not.’ Athelstan stopped and stared hard at the coroner. ‘We are looking for a killer without ties, Sir John. Someone who is pretending to be something he or she is not. Someone who knows about the great act of betrayal so many years ago. The question is, who?’

‘Well!’ Cranston clapped his hands together. ‘We’ll not find it here, Brother, but perhaps in Woodforde…’ The coroner wiped his nose on the back of his hand and stared up at the sky. ‘I don’t want to stay in London,’ he murmured. ‘The Lady Maude needs a rest from me. And you, Brother?’

‘My parish,’ Athelstan drily replied, ‘will, I think, survive the continued absence of their pastor a little longer.’

They separated at the corner of Friday and Fish Streets, agreeing to meet within two hours at a tavern outside Aldgate on the Mile End Road. Sir John stamped off, leading his horse, whilst Athelstan continued down Trinity into Walbrook, along Ropery to London Bridge. Thankfully, he found St Erconwald’s fairly deserted except for Watkin to whom he gave strict instructions about the custody of the church, and Ranulf the rat-catcher who had come to remind him of his promise that if a Guild of Rat-Catchers were founded, St Erconwald’s could be their chantry church.

‘I promise you, Ranulf, I will think on the matter,’ Athelstan replied, trying to hide his amusement at the thought of St Erconwald’s full of tarry-hooded rat-catchers, all looking like Ranulf. The fellow’s yellow, wizened face broke into a sharp-toothed smile. He skipped down the steps as happily as any boy.

‘Brother,’ Watkin mournfully moaned.

‘What is it?’

‘Well — ’ The dung-collector turned on the top step of the church and pointed towards the frozen cemetery. ‘We still haven’t set a watch.’

‘Why should we, Watkin? The grave robbers have moved on.’

The dung-collector shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Brother, and I am afeared worse might happen.’