Paul Doherty - House of the Red Slayer

Quarto — Mowbray had been killed by a fall from the parapet but how had he slipped? Who had rung the tocsin bell? Who had been absent from Mistress Philippa’s chamber? Only two: Fitzormonde and Colebrooke.

Again, Athelstan shook his head.

Quinto — Alderman Horne’s death. Athelstan made a face. No clues there whatsoever.

Sexto — Fitzormonde’s death? He and Cranston had seen that the bear’s chain could have been clasped more securely, and Fitzormonde was in the habit of staring at the bear. But who had been the assassin who fired the bolt and roused the beast to such a murderous rage?

Septimo — Sir Ralph and others had died because of their terrible treachery towards Sir Bartholomew Burghgesh. Had Burghgesh died on that ship so many years ago or had he returned to England? The vicar of Woodforde claimed to have seen him, as had the landlord of the ale-house there. Was this the same mysterious person the landlord at the Golden Mitre tavern had also glimpsed? If so, Burghgesh had been seen by at least three people around Advent three years ago, the same time Sir Ralph Whitton had been in such a state of deep distress. But if Burghgesh had survived and returned to England, how and where was he hiding now? One further problem: Sir Ralph’s distress had apparently diminished. Surely this would not have happened if Burghgesh had survived? Sir Ralph would only have taken comfort had he appeared three years ago and died.

Octavo — whoever had sent the sinister notes to Whitton and the others must have access to the Tower. Did Burghgesh or his son, hidden in the city, send their messages and accomplices into the Tower?

Nono — who stood to profit from the murders? Colebrooke? He wanted promotion and knew the Tower well. He had been present in the Tower when all three had died. Sir Fulke? He, too, benefited from his brother’s death; his buckle had been found on the ice outside the North Bastion tower. He also knew the Tower well and had been there when the two hospitaliers perished. Rastani? A stealthy, subtle man who might have taken his own vow of vengeance against Sir Ralph and his companions. He knew the fortress well and had been present when the hospitallers died.

Athelstan shook his head. The same applied to Hammond, that rather sinister chaplain. Or was it Mistress Philippa in collusion with her lover? And what about Red Hand, the mad man who perhaps was more sane than he appeared?

Athelstan looked up and gasped. Red Hand! The hunchbacked albino had mentioned secret dungeons being bricked up, and Simon the carpenter had mumbled something similar.

Athelstan sat for a while, head in his hands. He picked up his pen, stared round the darkening kitchen and glimpsed a bunch of holly in the far corner. Christmas in a few days, he thought. He got up, warmed his fingers over the brazier and wished Benedicta was with him to share a cup of mulled wine. He recalled Doctor Vincentius’ words about his affection for the widow, and stared into the fire. Was it so obvious? he wondered. Did the other parishioners recognise his feelings as well? He shook his head to clear his mind. No. he must concentrate on the problem in hand. A shutter clattered and Athelstan jumped as a dark shadow pounced on to the rush-strewn floor.

‘Bonaventura!’ he muttered. The cat padded over and brushed majestically against the friar’s leg. ‘Well, Master Cat, you have come for something to eat?’

The cat stretched, arching his back. Athelstan went into the buttery, filled a cracked, pewter bowl full of milk and watched the cat lap it up before going to stretch out in front of the fire. Athelstan went across and fastened the shutters: windows, doors and passageways, he thought, recalling once again Red Hand’s mutterings and Simon the carpenter’s dark warnings. Athelstan looked enviously at the cat. ‘It’s all right for some,’ he grumbled and sat down before his parchments to continue his study. He took each name, building up a line of argument as if he was preparing some theological disputation.

The hours passed. Athelstan rubbed his eyes wearily. Only one path remained open: the one shown by Lady Maude’s innocent remarks which had so abruptly startled him on his journey back to Southwark. Athelstan drew a rough plan of the Tower and continued to pursue the conclusions he had reached. Just before dawn he pronounced himself satisfied. He had found the assassin, though very little else. For that he would need Cranston.

The next morning Sir John rode like a young knight down Cheapside to the Golden Mitre tavern near the Tower. The coroner felt as if he was riding on air. Even the cold morning breeze felt as warm and soft as the caress of a young woman.

Cranston had embraced the Lady Maude most passionately before getting out of bed that morning. She had clung tearfully to his chest and muttered about speaking to him soon. He had murmured sweet nothings, patted her on the head, rose, dressed and, going downstairs, bellowed for a cup of sack whilst a groom saddled his horse. Sir John felt as proud as a peacock to know he would be a father again. He rewarded himself with a swig from his ‘miraculous wineskin’, as Athelstan called it, sucking the robust red juice into his mouth. He beamed around expansively. Oh, it was a fine day to be alive!

Sir John scattered pennies before a group of beggars shivering on the corner of the Mercery. He shouted cheerful abuse at the poulterers who were cleaning and gutting chickens and other fowl in their huge iron vats for the Christmas season. A whore was being led bare-shouldered through the streets, her head shaved close under a conical white cap. A bagpiper went before her whilst a scrawled notice, pinned to her dirty bodice, proclaimed her a public slut Cranston stopped the procession and had her freed.

‘Why, Sir John?’ the rat-mouthed bailiff asked.

‘Because it’s Christmas!’ he roared back. ‘And Christ the beautiful boy of Bethlehem will be with us once again!’

The bailiff was going to object but Cranston’s hand fell to his dagger so the fellow cut the woman’s bonds. She stuck out her tongue at the bailiff, made an obscene gesture at Cranston and scampered off up an alleyway. Sir John rode on into Petty Wales. He arrived at the tavern and, tossing the reins of his horse to a groom, swaggered into the sweet-smelling tap room.

‘Monk, where the hell are you?’ he bellowed, giving the other customers the fright of their lives and bringing a wide-eyed taverner scurrying to attend to him.

‘Sir John, you are happy?’

‘As a fly on a horse’s arse in summer!’ Sir John bawled back. He threw the miraculous wineskin at the taverner. ‘Fill that! The friar told me to meet him here,’ he muttered. He gazed through the smoke and gloom and glimpsed Athelstan, nodding half-asleep over a table.

‘Bring a cup of sack for me,’ Cranston ordered the landlord. ‘Fresh oatcakes, and a strip of dry gammon!’ He smacked his lips. ‘Some eel stew for the Brother and, even though it’s Advent, he’ll take a jug of watered ale!’

The coroner swaggered across and tapped the half-sleeping friar on the shoulder. ‘Arouse yourself. Brother!’ he bawled. ‘For, by the sod, the devil walks, roaring like a lion seeking whom he may devour!’

‘I hope he’s not as heavy-handed as you, Cranston,’ Athelstan grumbled, opening his eyes and gazing wearily up.

Cranston crouched down beside him. ‘Good morrow, monk.’

‘I am a friar.’

‘Good morrow, friar. And why are you not so full of the joys of Yuletide?’

‘Because, Sir John, I am cold, tired and totally dispirited.’ Athelstan was about to continue the litany of his woes when he caught the mischief dancing like devils in Cranston’s eyes. ‘It’s good to see you happy, Sir John. I suppose you have ordered food?’