Paul Doherty - House of the Red Slayer

Athelstan forced a smile. ‘Nonsense. Now look, Watkin, I will be back late tomorrow evening. Take a message to Father Luke at St Olave’s. Ask him to be so kind as to come here and say Mass tomorrow morning. You will know where everything is? And tell the widow Benedicta to help you. You’ll do that?’

Watkin nodded and stumped off, muttering under his breath about priests who didn’t listen to tales of the dark shapes which did dreadful things in city churchyards. Athelstan watched him go and sighed. How could he deal with the cemetery when there was no evidence of any danger threatening? He checked the door of the church was locked and stood engrossed in his own thoughts about Cranston. The Lord Coroner was proving to be as difficult a problem as the dreadful deaths they were investigating. What was wrong with the Lady Maude? Athelstan wondered. Why didn’t Cranston ask her outright?

Athelstan smiled as he went across to his own house. Strange, he concluded. Cranston, who was frightened of nothing on two legs, seemed terrified of his little lady wife. Athelstan checked that the windows and doors of the priest’s house were locked, slung his saddle bags over a protesting Philomel, and both horse and rider wearily made their way along the icy track. He stopped at an ale-house to leave further messages with Tab the tinker for Benedicta and Watkin; they were to lock the church after morning Mass and, if the widow felt so inclined, she should take Bonaventura back to her own house. The friar then made his way back on to the main highway, past the Priory of St Mary Overy and across London Bridge. He stopped midway to say a prayer in the Chapel of St Thomas for the safety of their journey and then continued on his way.

Cranston was waiting for him at the small tavern just outside Aldgate in the Portsoken overlooking the stinking city ditch. The coroner seemed in good spirits. Athelstan concluded it was due to the large empty wine bowl in front of Sir John but Cranston, winking and burping, staunchly kept his hidden resolve not to vex Athelstan further with his own worries and anxieties. The friar joined Sir John in one last cup of mulled wine, heated with a red hot poker and spiced with cinnamon, before they reclaimed their horses from the stable and made their way along the darkening highway towards Mile End. Cranston remained full of good cheer, aided and abetted by an apparently miraculous wineskin which never seemed to empty. Athelstan, tired and saddle sore, prayed and cursed whilst Cranston, farting and swaying in the saddle, chattered about this or that. Finally Athelstan reined in Philomel and grasped the coroner by the wrists.

‘Sir John,’ he asked wearily, ‘this business at the Tower — we are making no headway. How long can we spend on the matter?’

‘Until we finish.’ Cranston’s eyes gleamed back. ‘By the sod, Brother! Orders are orders, and I don’t give a rat’s fart about mumbling monks, icy roads or cold journeys. Now, have I told you of the Lady Maude’s preparations for Christmas?’

Athelstan groaned, shook his head and kicked Philomel forward as Cranston regaled him with Lady Maude’s intended banquet of boar’s head, cygnet, venison, quince tarts and junkets of apple-flavoured cream. The coroner chattered like a magpie as the weak daylight died and dusk fell like a grey powder, shrouding the wide waste stretches of snow. The distant forest became obscured by a misty darkness which closed in round them, broken by the odd pinprick of light as they passed some hamlet or village. No wind blew but it was deathly still and bitterly cold.

‘I am sure,’ Athelstan mumbled to himself, ‘the very birds will freeze on the trees and even the hares on the hill will remain underground.’

Cranston, the wineskin now surprisingly empty, only replied with a short stream of belches. They passed a crossroads where a cadaver hung, black and frozen, its head twisted to one side, face unrecognisable after the crows had feasted there. Cranston stopped and pointed down a track to a light blinking in the distance.

‘We’ll stop there for the night, Brother. A good, snug tavern, The Gallow’s Friend.’ He leaned over and smiled at Athelstan. ‘Despite its name, you’ll like it.’

Athelstan did. It was a clean, well-swept establishment with secure stables, a fresh herb-smelling tap room, a large roaring fire with the logs piled high — though he baulked at the huge four-poster bed he’d have to share with Sir John.

‘No, no, My Lord Coroner,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘I insist you sleep alone.’

‘Why, monk?’

‘Because, coroner, if you rolled over in your sleep, you’d crush me to death!’

Laughing and joking, they left their bags there and made their way down to the tap room where the landlord’s wife served them huge fish pies, the crust, golden and crisp, hiding a savoury sauce which dulled the flavour of the rancid fish. Athelstan tactfully asked the landlord for a pallet bed to be placed in their chamber and sat down to eat almost as heartily as Cranston. Of course, the coroner drank as if there was no tomorrow and when he had had his fill, leaned back against the pillar of the huge fireplace, belched, and pronounced himself satisfied. Athelstan stared into the flames, half listening to a wind which had suddenly sprung up, now whining and clattering against the tightly secured shutters.

‘Brother?’

‘Yes, Sir John?’

‘This business at the Tower, could it be black magic?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, the head that was sent to me.’

Athelstan stretched his hand out to the flames. ‘No, no, Sir John. As I have said, we are not dealing with a demon but something worse, a soul steeped in mortal sin. But whose?’ He looked up at Sir John, who had his fiery red nose deep in a wine cup again. ‘What’s puzzling,’ Athelstan continued, ‘is why now? Why has the murderer chosen this moment? And how can they know about the dreadful events surrounding Burghgesh’s death?’

‘What do you mean?’ Cranston slurred.

‘Well,’ Athelstan replied, ‘we should be looking for a man or woman with no background, someone who has suddenly appeared on the scene, but everyone we have talked to has their own little niche.’

Cranston burped. ‘I don’t know,’ he slurred. ‘It could still be black magic because I’m damned if I can find a way through the tangle. Now, as I have said to Lady Maude…’ The coroner suddenly stopped and stared into his wine cup, and the good humour drained from his face.

‘Come, Sir John,’ Athelstan said quietly. ‘It’s time we slept.’

Surprisingly, Cranston agreed, drained the cup and slammed it down on the table. He stood up, swaying and smiled benevolently down at his companion.

‘But do you believe, Brother?’

‘What, Sir John?’

‘In the black arts? I mean, the business in your cemetery?’

Athelstan grinned. ‘To be perfectly honest, Sir John, I am more frightened of the human heart than any mischievous demon. Now, come. Let’s rest.’

Athelstan was pleased he had judged the moment right because, by the time they reached the top of the rickety wooden staircase, Cranston was half-asleep and beginning to mumble piteously about how he missed Lady Maude. Athelstan led him down the cold, darkened passageway and into the small chamber. He gently lowered Cranston on to the bed, pulled off the coroner’s boots and made his companion as comfortable as possible. The coroner turned, belched, and quietly began to snore. Athelstan grinned and covered the huge frame with a coverlet. Sleeping, Cranston reminded the friar more than ever of the huge bear in the bailey of the Tower. Athelstan went over and knelt beneath the small, horn-glazed window, crossed himself and gently mouthed the words of David’s psalm.