Paul Doherty - House of the Red Slayer

‘Brother, you are right.’

‘Yes, Sir John. Now, let’s see if the rest of my theory has substance.’

They told Colebrooke to leave guards near the cell and eagerly returned to the cold brisk air of Tower Green.

‘What did you find?’ the lieutenant asked anxiously, coming up behind them.

‘Be patient, Master Lieutenant. But come, I have further favours to ask of you.’

Athelstan guided him by the elbow away from the rest. Cranston watched the friar and soldier talk quietly together.

‘Is Red Hand needed?’ The hunchback suddenly appeared, jumping up and down.

Cranston smiled, dug into his purse and pushed two silver pieces into the man’s hand, patting him gently on the cheek.

‘Not for the moment, Red Hand. But you have my thanks and that of the Regent, the Mayor, and the city of London.’

The hunchback’s eyes danced with delight. He ran off, leaping with glee, cavorting and laughing at the dark ravens which cawed noisily above him.

‘Red Hand’s a champion! Red Hand’s a champion!’ he yelled.

Athelstan rejoined Sir John. ‘The lieutenant has his orders,’ he murmured. ‘Come, My Lord Coroner, the drama is about to begin.’

The rest of the Tower household were waiting in Philippa’s chamber. Sir Fulke was dressed most elegantly in a dark gown of gold-fringed murrey. Philippa, now wearing full mourning weeds and a black veil, sat in the window seat, head bowed over a piece of embroidery. Rastani crouched by the fireplace, the chaplain sat on a stool opposite. All except Philippa looked up and glowered as Athelstan and Cranston entered.

‘We have been waiting for an hour,’ Sir Fulke bellowed.

‘Good!’ Sir John replied. ‘And, by the sod, you will wait another bloody hour if I want it! We are here on the King’s business. Four men lie dead, one of them Sir Ralph Whitton, a high-ranking official albeit a perfect bastard!’

Mistress Philippa looked up, her face a white mask of fury. Athelstan closed his eyes, even as Sir John gave the girl his most profuse apologies.

‘So, shall we begin?’ Sir Fulke shouted.

‘In a while, in a while,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘We wait for Master Colebrooke and young Geoffrey, I believe.’

Cranston slumped on to a window seat next to Philippa but she turned her back. Athelstan brought a stool across and set out his writing tray, ink stand and pen on the table before him. Colebrooke, breathing heavily, pushed open the door.

‘All is ready, Sir John.’ The lieutenant went over to Athelstan. ‘Here, Brother!’

Athelstan clasped his hand and hid up his voluminous sleeve what the lieutenant had given him. The friar stared round the silent chamber. It is here, he thought, we shall trap the murderer.

Cranston twiddled his thumbs and beamed around. Athelstan noticed with quiet amusement that beneath his cloak Sir John was wearing doublet and hose of a deep bottle-green, with silver fringes and buttons to match. One of the coroner’s best set of robes, a sure sign Cranston was in good fettle. The rest of the group, however, remained subdued: Hammond staring at the floor, Rastani gazing into the fire. Sir Fulke bit his lip and tapped his foot impatiently. Colebrooke fidgeted whilst Philippa stabbed furiously at a piece of embroidery. Footsteps sounded outside, the door swung open and Parchmeiner entered. Athelstan glimpsed the guards outside and was glad Colebrooke had the sense to have armed soldiers nearby. The young man was red-cheeked and breathless. He smiled at Philippa, crossed the room and kissed her gently on the lips before gazing round expectantly.

‘Sir John! Brother Athelstan! Why the sudden affray?’

The friar rose. ‘Shalom, Geoffrey!’

‘Peace to you, Brother.’ The young man’s face was suddenly tinged a deep red.

Athelstan smiled. ‘How do you know the Arabic word for peace?’

The young man shrugged. ‘I buy and sell. I know more than one language.’

‘Pull back your cuffs, Master Parchmeiner!’

The young man looked flustered. ‘Why?’

‘Pull them back!’

‘I can’t see…’

‘Pull them back!’ Cranston ordered. ‘Now!’

Parchmeiner undid the embroidered cuffs and Athelstan gazed down at the white rings which broke the dark flesh of the man’s wrists.

‘How did you come by the marks of slave manacles?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Trading?’ He moved quickly and suddenly pulled the man’s knife from his belt and tossed it across to Cranston. ‘And how are your relatives in Bristol? Have you heard from them?’

The young man’s eyes narrowed and Athelstan noticed his determined mouth and chin. The veil was slipping. In future, Athelstan promised himself quietly, he would study faces more closely.

‘Don’t lie, Geoffrey. You have no relatives in Bristol. You sent no letters. The West Country has been cut off by snow. How could you be in communication with people in Bristol when the western roads have been impassable?’ Athelstan smiled bleakly at Cranston. ‘Isn’t it strange how such an innocent remark brought all these matters to a head?’ Athelstan stepped closer, aware of the sudden change of atmosphere in the room. Philippa now stood, her fist pressed to her mouth. The others were tense, immobile as statues.

‘But your name’s not Parchmeiner, is it?’ Cranston barked.

Athelstan took a step nearer. ‘Who are you?’ he said quietly. ‘Mark Burghgesh?’

A smile flickered across Parchmeiner’s face as he tried to assert himself. ‘What nonsense is this?’ he snapped. ‘Philippa, I have known you two years. I come from Bristol. My sister lives there. She will be here in a few days.’

Athelstan shook his head. ‘No, she won’t, young man. That road is blocked, both literally and metaphorically. Moreover,’ he continued, ‘you still haven’t told us about the rings round your wrists.’

The young man looked away. ‘I used to wear bracelets,’ he lied glibly.

‘This is nonsense,’ Philippa intervened. ‘Are you going to accuse Geoffrey of my father’s murder?’

‘Yes, I am!’ Athelstan announced.

‘But someone climbed the North Bastion!’

‘No, they didn’t!’ Athelstan looked at Colebrooke. ‘Master Lieutenant, you have everything ready?’

Colebrooke blinked nervously and nodded.

‘Then let us begin,’ Cranston barked. ‘Master Lieutenant, you have armed guards and archers, both in the corridor and downstairs?’

‘Yes, Sir John.’

‘Good. They will guard everyone here. If anyone attempts to escape, shoot them!’

With Cranston leading they walked out of the chamber, down the stairs and out across Tower Green beyond the first curtain wall to where the lonely, bleak North Bastion stood. They entered the doorway and stood in the porch where the two soldiers stood expectantly on guard. On the far wall there was a wooden rack with metal hooks from which keys hung.

‘Now,’ Athelstan said to the guards, ‘on the morning Sir Ralph was found dead… Tell me again what happened.’

One of the soldiers grimaced. ‘I takes young Parchmeiner upstairs,’ he said. ‘No, I take the key from the rack. I takes him upstairs. I unlocks the door to the passageway, let him through, lock it and come down.’

‘Then what?’

‘Well,’ the second soldier interrupted, ‘we hear Master Geoffrey calling Sir Ralph.’

‘What happened then?’ Athelstan asked.

‘He comes back and knocks on the door.’ The fellow pointed to the top of the stairs. ‘We unlock it, he comes down and sends for the lieutenant.’

‘No,’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘Something else happened, or so you told us.’

One of the guards scratched his unshaven chin.

‘Ah,’ his companion spoke up. ‘I knows what. Young Geoffrey said he would rouse Sir Ralph himself and we gives him the key. He then goes up the stairs, changes his mind, comes back, returns the key and goes for Master Colebrooke.’