Paul Doherty - House of the Red Slayer

Cranston nodded, swept his great beaver hat off his head and slumped down on the bench opposite.

They had eaten their fill and Cranston downed two cups of claret before Athelstan had finished his story. The coroner shook his head, asked a few questions and whistled softly under his breath.

‘By the sod, are you sure, Brother? So much from an innocent little remark by the Lady Maude?’

Athelstan shrugged. ‘Lady Maude’s little comments have caused a great deal of consternation in the last few days, Sir John.’

Cranston belched, rose, and bellowed for his wineskin, tossing coins at the taverner. ‘You have carried out my instructions, Sir John?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Yes, friar, I have.’ Sir John stretched and yawned. ‘All our suspects are waiting in the Tower, though Parchmeiner will arrive late. You want to see Colebrooke first?’

‘And Red Hand?’

‘Ah, yes, Red Hand.’

‘You have the warrant, Sir John?’

‘I don’t need any bloody warrants, monk! I am Cranston, the King’s Coroner in the City, and they will either answer the question or face the consequences.’

They made their way out of the tavern where they left their horses, down some alleyways and through the great yawning entrance to the Tower. Colebrooke was waiting for them at the gatehouse. Athelstan noticed he was wearing hauberk, mailed shirt and leggings.

‘You are expecting trouble, Master Lieutenant?’ ‘Sir John’s instructions seem most stringent,’ Colebrooke replied.

‘Where’s Red Hand?’

‘What do you want that mad bugger for?’

‘Because I ordered it,’ Cranston replied.

They crossed the green, the sparse grass now visible beneath the wide swathes of grey slush. Two soldiers trailed behind. Colebrooke sent one across to the small door in the base of the White Tower. Athelstan stared sadly across at the far corner where the great bear had sat, now empty and forlorn but the ground still showed the marks of its occupation and a few pathetic scraps of food still littered the icy cobblestones.

‘God rest the bear’s soul!’ Athelstan murmured.

Cranston turned. ‘Do bears have souls, friar? Do they go to heaven?’

Athelstan grinned. ‘If your heaven needs bears, Sir John, then there will be bears! But, in your case, I suppose heaven will be miles and miles of taverns and spacious ale-houses!’

Cranston slapped his thigh with his gauntlet. ‘Oh, I like you, Brother.’ And he beamed at a surprised Colebrooke.

Suddenly the door of the White Tower was thrown open and the soldier re-emerged, dragging Red Hand by the scruff of the neck.

‘Let him go!’ Athelstan shouted. He went across, crouched and clasped the hunchback’s hand in his. He stared into the madcap’s milky eyes and saw the tear stains on his raddled cheeks. ‘You mourn the bear, Red Hand?’

‘Yes. Red Hand’s friend has gone.’

Athelstan looked at the soldier and indicated he should move away. ‘I know, Red Hand,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘The bear was a magnificent beast, but he will be happy now. His spirit’s free.’

Red Hand’s watery eyes caught Athelstan’s. The madman smiled. ‘You’re Red Hand’s friend?’

Athelstan studied the hunchback’s face, his scrawny, white hair and grotesque mottled rags. He recalled Father Anselm’s other words of wisdom: ‘Always remember, Athelstan, every man is in God’s image. A flame burns as fiercely in a broken jar as it does in the most elaborately carved lamp.’

‘I am your friend,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But I need your help.’

Red Hand’s eyes became wary.

‘I want you to show me your secrets.’

‘What secrets, Master?’

‘What the bloody hell are you doing, Brother?’

Athelstan threw a warning glance at the coroner.

‘Look, Red Hand,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘You talked to me of chambers, dungeons, which were bricked up.’

Red Hand tried to prise his fingers free of Athelstan’s but the friar held firm.

‘Please,’ he murmured. ‘Did Sir Ralph have such secret cells? If you tell me, Red Hand, I can trap the man responsible for the bear’s death.’

The madman needed no further encouragement. He turned. ‘Wait! Wait there!’ he pleaded, and ran back through the small door of the White Tower. He re-emerged a few seconds later with a little bell which he tinkled. ‘Follow Red Hand!’ he shouted. ‘Follow Red Hand!’

Cranston looked in disbelief at Athelstan. Colebrooke seemed angry.

‘What’s the little sod up to?’ Cranston murmured as the scampering madcap led them across Tower Green to a door which had rusted firmly shut at the foot of Wakefield Tower. Red Hand stopped at the door, bowed three times and tinkled his bell.

‘What’s in there?’

Colebrooke shrugged. ‘Some dungeons dug deep into the earth.’

‘Open it!’

‘I haven’t got any keys.’

‘Don’t be obstructive,’ Cranston barked. ‘Open the bloody thing!’

Colebrooke turned, hands on hips, and yelled orders. Soldiers ran over. Under Colebrooke’s instruction they wheeled across a huge battering ram, swinging its iron head against the door until it buckled and swung off its hinges.

‘Torches!’ Cranston ordered.

Cressets were brought and hastily lit. Red Hand scampered down the slime-covered stairs which fell away into icy cold darkness. At the bottom of the steps ran a small corridor, narrow, dank and evil-smelling. On the right nothing but mildewed walls; on the left two cell doors, their locks rusted shut. Athelstan stiffened as he heard squeaks and rustles and, spinning round, glimpsed a brown, greasy body slinking away into the darkness.

‘Break the doors down!’ Cranston bellowed.

The soldiers attacked the heavy but rotting wood, smashing open a huge hole. Athelstan took a torch and went in. There was nothing there except rats, squeaking and scampering on a rotting pile of straw in the far corner.

‘Hell’s teeth!’ Cranston hissed. ‘Nothing!’

They clambered out through the open door. Cranston held the torch up and examined the wall between the doors.

‘Look, Athelstan!’ he exclaimed.

The friar studied the wall carefully.

‘There’s another door,’ Cranston continued. ‘But it’s been bricked up. Look, it bulges out and the plaster is fresher than the rest of the wall.’

‘You found it! You found it! You found it!’ Red Hand clapped his hands and jumped up and down like a child playing a game. ‘They have found the secret door!’ he sang out. ‘They’ve won the game!’ The madcap stopped shouting. ‘I did that,’ he announced proudly. ‘Sir Ralph Whitton told me to do it. The door was locked and I bricked up the entrance.’

‘When?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Oh, years ago. Years ago!’

Cranston snapped his fingers. ‘Smash that wall down!’

The soldiers set to with iron-headed mallets and hammers. Soon the corridor was thick with a foul white dust

‘There’s a door!’ one of them exclaimed.

‘And that too!’ Cranston ordered.

In a few minutes the rotting wood behind the destroyed wall buckled and snapped, the soldiers creating a large enough hole for Cranston and Athelstan to crawl through. Torches were ordered and Cranston held one up.

‘Oh, Good Lord!’ Cranston whispered, staring at the decaying skeleton slumped on a bed of rotted muck. ‘Who is that? And what terrible son of Satan ordered such a hideous death?’

‘To answer your questions, Sir John, I suspect these are the mortal remains of Sir Bartholomew Burghgesh. And Whitton, a man steeped in murder, ordered it.’

‘Look!’ Sir John hissed, snatching the torch and holding it up against the wall just where the white skeletal arm rested. Athelstan peered at the crude drawing of the three-masted ship carved into the stone, the same as had been found on the letters sent to Sir Ralph and others. Cranston’s eyes rounded in surprise.