House of the Red Slayer

by Paul Doherty

  ‘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.

  ‘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 Joh
n 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.

  CHAPTER 14

  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.’

  ‘Good,’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Now, Sir John, I will retrace Parchmeiner’s steps.’ He glanced quickly at the young man, whose face was pale, eyes narrowed and watchful. Philippa was staring at him like a child who cannot explain the sudden, unexpected mood of a parent. Sir Fulke and the chaplain stood bemused but Athelstan noticed the mute Rastani had edged closer to Parchmeiner, his hand not far from the knife hilt stuck in his scabbard.

  ‘My Lord Coroner,’ Athelstan exclaimed, ‘before we go any further, everyone should give up their arms except Lieutenant Colebrooke.’

  There were mild protests but Cranston repeated Athelstan’s order and knives and swords clattered to the ground in an untidy heap.

  ‘Now we shall begin,’ Athelstan said. ‘Sir John, you will start counting?’

  The friar nodded to one of the guards. ‘Unlock the door at the top!’

  Cranston bellowed out the numbers as Athelstan went upstairs. The door swung open and was locked behind him. Cranston stopped for a few seconds at number twenty as he heard Athelstan call out Sir Ralph’s name before continuing. He had just passed the number fifty when he heard Athelstan pounding on the door at the top of the steps. One of the guards ran up and opened the door. Athelstan emerged. He tripped down the steps behind the soldier.

  ‘Now,’ the friar exclaimed, ‘I want the key to Sir Ralph’s chamber!’

  Athelstan took one of the keys from its hook and went halfway back up the stairs, shook his head and came down.

  ‘On second thoughts,’ he said, ‘let us send for Master Colebrooke.’ He handed the key back to the soldier. ‘Tell me,’ the friar asked, ‘did I take any longer than young Geoffrey?’

  ‘No, about the same. He was a little longer in the passageway, but not much.’

  Sir Fulke pushed his way forward. ‘What does this all mean?’ he demanded.

  Athelstan smiled. ‘Now I will show you. Master lieutenant, re-open the door at the top of the stairs and let us all go up.’

  The lieutenant ran to re-open the door an
d they all followed him down the cold, vaulted passageway. Colebrooke unlocked Whitton’s chamber and they followed him in. Sir Fulke promptly cursed. Philippa gave a short scream. The chamber was icy cold, the shutters wide open, and the bolster on the dirty, grey mattress of the four-poster bed had been savagely slashed, the goose feathers trickling out in grisly reminder of Sir Ralph’s murder.

  ‘Who did this? What evil nonsense is this?’ Hammond the chaplain spoke up.

  Athelstan ignored him and confronted Parchmeiner.

  ‘You know what I have done,’ he said quietly. ‘Exactly what you did on the morning you murdered Sir Ralph, and I’ll tell you how. First, when Sir Ralph moved to the North Bastion, you acted the role of the obsequious future son-in-law. You helped him move a few possessions across. You see, the chamber was guarded when Sir Ralph moved in but not before, so you carefully oiled the hinges and the lock of the door which explains the oil stains in the corridor outside. Secondly, the floor above is sealed off, and at the far end of the corridor outside is a pile of fallen masonry. You hid a dagger there amongst the rubble, as I asked Colebrooke to conceal Sir John’s. After I slashed the bolster, I hid the dagger there again. On the night before Sir Ralph died, you sat with him at table. You helped him to drink deeply, aided probably by a fairly strong sleeping potion, enough to make him drowsy. Thirdly, you helped Sir Ralph to the foot of the steps, the guards took him up to his chamber, and it is probably then that you exchanged the keys. You took the one Sir Ralph left there for the use of the guards and slipped another on to the hook. I asked Colebrooke to do the same. He handed the real key to me when we were in Mistress Philippa’s chamber.’ Athelstan paused. ‘The next morning you come across, the guards search you, but you have nothing except your own harmless possessions which,’ Athelstan touched the young man’s side carefully, ‘like any merchant, include a ring of keys. You climb the steps, the guards let you through, and you proceed to Sir Ralph’s chamber. As you knock and shout, you open the door silently because the lock hinges are so well oiled. The rest was easy.’

  ‘But –’ Colebrooke intervened.