House of the Red Slayer

by Paul Doherty

  ‘That chain,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘is not as secure as it should be.’

  ‘Goodbye, Ursus,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Let’s go, Athelstan. Very softly!’

  They collected their horses and made their way out of the Tower into Petty Wales. A few stalls stood uncovered and some brave souls made their way through the ankle-deep, mucky slush. Two beggar children, arms and legs as thin as sticks, stood beside a brazier singing a carol. Cranston tossed them a penny, and turned to watch as a woman condemned as a scold was led by a beadle up to the stocks in Tower Street, a steel brank fastened tightly around her head. Down the dirt-filled alleyways business was thriving for the red-wigged whores and their constant stream of clients from the Tower garrison.

  Cranston asked directions from a one-eyed beggarman and came back beaming from ear to ear.

  ‘I have found it!’ he announced. ‘The Golden Mitre tavern! You know, the one Sir Ralph and the hospitallers went to every year for their banquet.’

  The tavern was just near the Custom House on the corner of Thames Street, a grand, spacious affair with a green-leaved ale-stake pushed under the eaves from which hung a huge, gaudily painted sign. A red-nosed ostler took their horses. Inside, the tap room was airy and warmed by a fire. The rushes on the floor were clean and sprinkled with rosemary and thyme. The walls were lime-washed to keep off insects, and the hams which hung from the blackened beams gave off a sweet crisp smell which made Cranston smack his lips. They hired a table between the fire and the great polished wine butts. The landlord, a small, red-faced, balding fellow with a surprisingly clean apron draped across his expansive front, took one look at Sir John and brought across a deep bowl brimming with blood red claret.

  ‘Sir John!’ he exclaimed. ‘You remember me?’

  Cranston seized the bowl by its two silver handles and half drained it at a gulp. ‘Yes, I do,’ he replied, smacking his lips and glaring over the rim. ‘You are Miles Talbot who once worked as an ale-conner in the taverns round St Paul’s.’ Cranston put down the bowl and shook the landlord’s hand. ‘Let me introduce an honest man, Brother Athelstan. Talbot always knew when a blackjack of ale had been watered down. Well, well, well!’ Cranston unclasped his cloak and basked in the sweet odours and warmth of the tavern. ‘What can you serve us, Master Talbot? And don’t give me fish. We know the river is frozen and the roads blocked, so anything from the water must be weeks old!’

  The landlord grinned, listed the contents of his larder, and within the half-hour served a couple of pullets stuffed with herbs and covered with a piquant sauce of sweet butter and wild berries, a skillet pasty, an apple tansy, and a prodigious marrow pudding. Athelstan sat in complete stupefaction, drinking his beer, as Cranston cleared every platter, washing it all down with another bowl of claret. At last Cranston belched, stretched, and beamed round the tavern, snapping his fingers to call Talbot over.

  ‘Master Miles, a favour!’

  ‘Anything you wish, Sir John.’

  ‘Your house is frequented, or rather was frequented, by the late Constable of the Tower, Sir Ralph Whitton?’

  Talbot’s face became guarded. ‘Now and again,’ he mumbled. ‘He used to meet here every Yuletide – he, two hospitallers, and others.’

  ‘Oh, come, Miles. I’m not your enemy, you can trust me. What did they talk about?’

  Talbot tapped the table with his stubby fingers. ‘They sat here like you do, Sir John, well away from the rest. When I or any of the servants came near, they always fell silent.’

  ‘And their demeanour? Were they sad or happy?’

  ‘Sometimes they would laugh but they were generally very secretive. Often the two hospitallers would be locked in argument with Sir Ralph, and he would become quite hostile and snap back at them.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Talbot shook his head and turned away. Cranston made a face at Athelstan and shrugged. Suddenly the taverner came back to the table.

  ‘One thing,’ he announced. ‘Only one strange thing: about three years ago, around Christmas, a stranger came here.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t remember his appearance but there was something about him. He was cowled and hooded, but he spoke like a soldier. He wanted to know if Sir Ralph drank here. I told him I knew nothing. He went on his way and I never saw him again.’ Talbot smiled apologetically. ‘Sir John, on my oath, that’s all I know.’

  The coroner sat with lips pursed, staring down at the empty platters and dishes as if wishing the food he had devoured would magically reappear. Athelstan studied him carefully, rather concerned, for by now Sir John would usually have been shouting for more claret or sack.

  ‘My Lord Coroner?’

  ‘Yes, Brother Athelstan.’

  ‘We must formulate some conclusions about Sir Ralph’s death.’

  Cranston blew noisily through his lips. ‘What can we say?’

  ‘First, you will agree that Sir Ralph was not murdered because he was Constable of the Tower. I mean, by peasant knaves plotting treason and rebellion?’

  ‘I agree, Brother, but the assassin might have come from outside. He could have been a professional. There are plenty of ex-soldiers for hire in the city who would cut their mothers’ throats if the price was right.’

  Athelstan skimmed the rim of the wine goblet with his finger.

  ‘I would like to believe that, Sir John, but it strikes me as false.’ He shrugged. ‘Yet, for the sake of argument, we will accept that the assassin crossed the frozen moat, climbed the North Bastion, undid the wooden shutters and quietly slashed Sir Ralph’s throat.’

  ‘It can and has been done, my good priest.’

  ‘Of course,’ Athelstan continued, ‘the assassin may have been someone in the Tower who knew where Sir Ralph lay, and seized the opportunity of the moat freezing over to gain access to the footholds on the North Bastion. Accordingly either the murderer did this himself or paid someone else to do it.’

  Cranston took a deep gulp from the wine bowl. ‘Let us put the two together,’ he said, cracking his knuckles softly. ‘Let us say, for the sake of argument, that the plotter and the assassin are one and the same person. Virtually everyone we questioned, including Mistress Philippa, who may be plump but is very light on her feet, young and agile, could have climbed that tower.’

  ‘Yet, in the main, they all have stories to explain their whereabouts.’

  Cranston nodded. ‘So they have. And it would be the devil’s own job to prove any of them a liar. Moreover, have you noticed how each, apart from the chaplain, has someone to confirm their tale? Which means,’ Cranston concluded, ‘we could be hunting two murderers not one; the two hospitallers, Sir Fulke and Rastani, Philippa and her young swain, Colebrooke and one of the guards.’

  Athelstan stared idly up at one of the hams turning on its skewer from one of the rafters. ‘In reality, we know nothing,’ the friar concluded. ‘We have no idea who the murderer is or how he or she gained access to Sir Ralph, though we did find Sir Fulke’s buckle.’

  ‘And yet he claims he walked on the frozen moat this morning before our arrival.’

  ‘I believe him,’ Athelstan answered. ‘But remember how he said he lost the buckle the previous day.’

  ‘What are you saying, friar?’

  ‘Either he lost it as he crept across the moat to kill Sir Ralph or else someone put it there. I believe the latter. Sir Fulke’s honesty in admitting he walked on the frozen moat saved him from suspicion. If he had denied it, and we later proved he had been on the moat, then it would have been a different matter.’

  ‘How do we know he’s honest?’ Cranston barked. ‘Did you notice the postern gate we used to gain access to the moat? Its hinges were rusty. Before we did, no one had used that door for years. Sir Fulke could be lying.’

  ‘Or he could have used another postern gate.’

  ‘An interesting thought, Brother, but let’s look at motives.’

  Athelstan spread his ha
nds. ‘There are as many motives as there are people in the Tower, Sir John. Was Sir Fulke greedy? Was the chaplain angry at being called a thief? Did Colebrooke want Sir Ralph’s post? Did Philippa and her lover see Sir Ralph as an obstacle to their marriage or to Mistress Philippa’s inheritance?’

  ‘Which brings us,’ Cranston concluded, ‘to the two hospitallers. Now we know they are not telling the truth. Somehow or other that piece of parchment and the seed cake lie at the very heart of the murder and they must know something about both. Sir Ralph’s death note bore the impression of a three-masted ship, the type often used in the Middle Sea, whilst the seed cake is the mark of the Assassins. Ergo, Sir Ralph’s death must be linked to some mystery in his past, something connected with his days as a warrior in Outremer.’

  Athelstan put his blackjack down on the table. He opened and shut his mouth.

  ‘What’s the matter, friar?’

  ‘There’s only one conclusion we can reach, Master Coroner – Sir Ralph might not be the first person to die in the Tower before Yuletide comes.’

  CHAPTER 5

  They stayed in the tavern a little longer. Athelstan expected Cranston to mount his horse and ride back to Cheapside but the coroner shook his head.

  ‘I want to go back to your damned graveyard,’ he snorted. ‘You need a keen brain to plumb the mysteries there.’

  ‘But Lady Maude will be waiting.’

  ‘Let her!’

  ‘Sir John, tell me, is there anything wrong?’

  Cranston scowled and looked away.

  ‘Is it Matthew?’ Athelstan asked gently. ‘Is it the anniversary of his death?’

  Cranston stood up and linked his arm through Athelstan’s as they went out to stand at the door whilst the ostler saddled their horses. ‘Tell me. Brother, when you ran away from your order as a novice and took your younger brother to the wars in France, were you happy?’

  Athelstan felt his own heart lurch. ‘Of course.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I was young then. The blood boiled in my veins for some great adventure.’

  ‘And when you found your brother dead, cold as ice in that battlefield, and trailed back to England to confess your deeds to your parents, what then?’

  Athelstan looked across the darkening yard. ‘In the gospels, Sir John, Christ says that at the end of the world the very heavens will rock and the planets fall to earth in a fiery blaze.’ Athelstan closed his eyes. He sensed Francis’s ghost very close to him now. ‘When I found my brother dead,’ he continued, ‘my heaven fell to earth.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose it was the end of my world.’

  ‘And what did you think of life then?’

  Athelstan rubbed his mouth with his thumb and gazed directly at Cranston’s sorrowful face. ‘I felt betrayed by it,’ he whispered.

  Cranston tapped him gently on the shoulder. ‘Aye, Brother, always remember the carmined kiss of the traitor is ever the sweetest. You remember that, as I shall.’

  Athelstan gazed speechlessly back. He had never seen Cranston like this before. By now the coroner should have been singing some lewd song at the top of his voice, bellowing abuse at the landlord, or urging Athelstan to come back to his house in Cheapside.

  They mounted their horses and made their way quietly up snow-packed Billingsgate, turning left into the approaches to London Bridge. A large crowd milled there despite the cold wind which lashed face and hand. Under a sky shrouded by deep snow clouds, some boys threw snowballs at each other, shrieking with laughter as they hit their target. A legless beggar pulled himself along through the slush on wooden slats. A group of tattered watermen muttered abuse at the frozen river and cursed the great frost which had taken their livelihood from them. Others, hooded and cowled, pushed forward into the city or joined Athelstan and Cranston in crossing the narrow frozen bridge to Southwark.

  The coroner suddenly reined in his horse, staring back at a group of dark figures who had just slipped by. Were they a group, he wondered, or just individuals travelling together for comfort and security? He was sure he had glimpsed Lady Maude amongst them, her pale face peering out from beneath her hood. But what would she have been doing in Southwark? Apart from Athelstan she knew no one there, and Southwark was a dangerous place to visit on a dark winter’s day.

  ‘Sir John, is all well?’

  Cranston stared once more at the group receding into the darkness. Should he go back? But then a great metal-rimmed cart came crashing by, the people behind Cranston began to mutter and moan, so the coroner nodded at his companion that they should continue on their way. They crossed the bridge, passing the Priory of St Mary Overy at the far end, and took the main highway into Southwark. The two men rode down the narrow alleyways where the great four-storey houses were interspaced with the ramshackle cottages and lean-tos of the workmen and artisans. The coroner caught the acrid tang of dog urine.

  ‘The snow doesn’t hide the stench!’ he muttered, twitching his nose.

  Athelstan agreed, pulling the cowl of his hood closer against the sight of rotting refuse, discarded food and human excrement tossed out in night pots, mixed with the sweepings from the houses as the citizens prepared for a festive season. Southwark, of course, never rested. The artisans and cottagers continually plied their trades: chandlers making tallow from pig fat; skinners, cheesemongers, capmakers, blacksmiths, and at night, when the stalls came down, the raw-boned villains of the underworld who scrounged for easy pickings amongst the brothels and stewsides of the Thames. No one, however, approached Cranston or Athelstan. The friar was well respected whilst Cranston was more feared than the Chief Justice himself.

  They found St Erconwald’s in darkness. Athelstan was pleased that Watkin had doused the lights. He was about to lead Sir John through the wicket gate to the priest’s house when a dark shape jumped from the shadows and grabbed Philomel by the bridle. Athelstan stared down at the long, white face under its tarry black hood.

  ‘Ranulf, for God’s sake, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Father, I have been waiting for you all afternoon.’

  ‘Tell him to bugger off, Athelstan! I’m cold!’

  ‘Never mind Sir John.’ Athelstan replied soothingly. ‘What do you want, Ranulf?’

  The rat-catcher licked bloodless lips.

  ‘I have an idea, Father. You know how the great guilds across the river have their own churches? St Mary Le Bow for the mercers, St Paul’s for the parchment-makers?’

  ‘Yes. So?’

  The rat-catcher looked up pleadingly.

  ‘Go on, Ranulf, what do you want?’

  ‘Well, Father, I and the other rat-catchers wondered whether St Erconwald’s could be the church for our guild fraternity?’

  Athelstan hid a smile, glanced at Cranston’s glowering face and bunched the reins in his hands.

  ‘A guild of rat-catchers, Ranulf? With St Erconwald’s as your chancery church and I your chaplain?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  Athelstan dismounted. ‘Of course.’

  ‘We would pay our tithes.’

  ‘In what?’ Cranston bellowed. ‘A tenth of the rats you catch!’

  Ranulf flashed the coroner a dagger glance but Cranston was already rocking to and fro in the saddle, laughing uproariously at his own joke.

  ‘I think it an excellent idea,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘And we shall talk about it again. You have my agreement in principle, Ranulf, but for the moment Sir John and I are both busily engaged on other matters. If you could stable our horses, give them some hay?’

  The rat-catcher nodded vigorously and, gathering the reins of Sir John’s horse, trotted into the darkness. Philomel followed, moving a little faster as he sensed feeding-time was very close. Athelstan led Cranston round the church, stopped, and told the coroner to wait until he fetched a sconce torch. He hurried back to the priest’s house, plucked one from the wall, lit it with a tinder and ran back before Cranston’s litany of curses became too audible.

  They crossed into the cemetery. Even in summer time
it was a sombre place. Now, under a carpet of white snow, the branches of the yew trees spread like huge white claws over the forlorn mounds of earth, crude crosses and decaying headstones. Athelstan felt a deep sense of isolation. An eerie stillness hung like a cloud and even the breeze seemed softer. The trees were motionless. No night bird sounded. In places, the shadows seemed oppressively dark, sinister hiding-places where some demon or evil sprite might lurk. Athelstan held up his torch and Cranston looked around this most benighted of God’s acres.

  ‘By the sod, Athelstan!’ he whispered. ‘Who would come here in the dead of night, never mind pluck corpses from their final resting place? Where are the graves?’

  Athelstan showed him the forlorn, shallow holes in the ground, the mud piled high on either side as if some demented creature had clawed the corpses out. Cranston knelt down next to them and whistled softly through his teeth. He looked up, fat face distorted by the torchlight.

  ‘Brother, you said that only the corpses of beggars and strangers have been stolen?’

  ‘Yes, Sir John.’

  ‘And how were they buried?’

  ‘The corpse, wrapped in canvas, is placed on a piece of wicker-work in the parish coffin. During the funeral ceremony this is covered by a purple canopy and removed when the body is lowered into the soil.’

  ‘And you found no trace of the grave robbers?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  Cranston stood up, wiping the slushy mud from his hands. ‘We have three possibilities, Brother. First, it could be a macabre joke. Some of our idle rich young fops think it funny to place such a corpse in the bed of a friend, but there’s no rumour of such an evil prank recently. Secondly, it could be animals, either four-footed or human. Oh, yes,’ he murmured at Athelstan’s shocked expression. ‘When I served in France I witnessed such abominations outside Poitou. However,’ he stamped his feet and looked up at the darkened mass of the church, ‘no one, not even in Southwark can be that degenerate. Finally, mere are Satanists, the Astrasoi, those born under an evil star.’ He shrugged. ‘You know more about such people than I do, Brother. The corpse may be used as an altar or the blood drained to raise a demon or they may need one of the limbs. You have heard of the hand of glory?’