House of the Red Slayer (30 page)

‘It happened that way,’ Cranston airily declared. ‘My clerk has proved it. The guards simply saw and heard what they were supposed to.’

‘Brother Athelstan!’

‘Yes, Sir Fulke?’

‘My brother’s body was cold when the lieutenant came up.’

‘Of course it was,’ Cranston snapped. ‘The brazier and the fire had died, which makes me think Whitton was drugged. The murderer threw the shutters open and the icy air rushed in. Remember, it was a freezing cold morning, and of course Master Parchmeiner’s delay in sending for Colebrooke would have helped matters.’

Athelstan suddenly caught a glimpse of colour from the corner of his eyes. ‘Sir John! Rastani!’

The coroner, in spite of his bulk, moved quickly. He caught the mute even as the fellow sprang at his master’s assassin. Cranston hoisted the struggling man by the front of his jerkin as easily as a baby.

‘You, sir,’ the coroner said quietly, ‘will keep your place till these matters are finished!’ He shook Rastani as if he was a rag doll. ‘You understand?’

The mute threw one vicious glance at Parchmeiner.

‘Do you understand?’ Cranston’s grip tightened.

The mute’s mouth opened and shut, then he nodded slowly. Cranston gently lowered him and two of Colebrooke’s guards now took up position on either side of the Moor.

‘You will watch him!’ Cranston ordered curtly. ‘Well, come on, pull your swords!’

During this spectacle Parchmeiner never turned a hair but looked coolly at the friar who knew he was in the presence of a natural killer, someone who had seized his opportunity to wreak the most terrible vengeance.

‘Master Colebrooke!’ Athelstan called, not taking his eyes off the murderer. ‘I want Master Parchmeiner’s hands bound and a rope tied round his waist.’

Colebrooke rapped out commands and one of the guards forced Parchmeiner’s arms behind his back, tying both wrists and thumbs together. Another soldier unloosed his belt and pushed one end through Parchmeiner’s, wrapping the other end tightly round his own wrist guard. Athelstan relaxed. He gazed round the freezing death chamber.

‘We need not stay here,’ he declared. ‘We may return to Mistress Philippa’s chamber.’

The young girl hardly said a word but moaned softly as her uncle enfolded her in his arms. The group left the North Bastion. As they crossed Tower Green, Colebrooke, now aware of the danger, ordered a serjeant-at-arms to beat the tambour, calling the garrison to arms. Orders rang out, gates were closed, and as they went up the steps to Philippa’s chamber, Athelstan heard men-at-arms and archers taking up positions below. He turned and smiled at Cranston.

‘I must apologise. Your dagger is still in the pile of masonry in the North Bastion tower.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he muttered. ‘What I have seen is worth more than a thousand daggers.’

In the chamber, Parchmeiner stood between the two guards. Athelstan looked at him curiously for the young man was now smiling as if savouring some secret joke. The rest were a quiet, captive audience. Rastani, sullen and withdrawn, slumped on a stool between two burly serjeants-at-arms. Philippa moaned softly, lost in her own grief, flanked on either side by her uncle and the chaplain. Cranston filled himself a goblet of wine. Athelstan went and crouched near the fire, warming his hands over the flames.

‘The other deaths were easy,’ he continued evenly. ‘The night Mowbray died, he went up on the parapet near the Salt Tower whilst the rest of you gathered here in Philippa’s chamber for supper. I suspect Master Parchmeiner arrived last You see Mowbray, like any soldier,’ he turned and grinned at Colebrooke, ‘was a creature of habit. Let us dismiss Master Parchmeiner’s fear of heights as a lie. He knew Mowbray was on the far side of the parapet, standing in his usual spot, so he crept up and placed the butt of a spear or an axe pole at the top of the steps, wedging it neatly between the crenellations of the wall. He then comes to Mistress Philippa’s chamber and the meal begins.’

‘But he never left,’ Sir Fulke interrupted. ‘He never left to ring the tocsin bell!’

‘Of course he didn’t!’ Cranston answered. ‘Master Colebrooke, everything is ready? The garrison has been warned? Well,’ Cranston slammed his wine goblet down on the table, ‘I need to relieve myself. I understand there’s a garde-robe down the passage?’

Sir Fulke, a perplexed look on his face, nodded. Cranston went out of the side door. The rest of the group remained impassive like figures in a fresco. Suddenly everyone jumped as the great tocsin bell began to sound, followed by shouted orders, men’s feet running, and then the bell stopped tolling. Cranston, grinning from ear to ear, sauntered back into the room.

‘Who rang the bell?’ the chaplain squeaked.

‘I did,’ Sir John replied.

‘How?’

‘What Sir John did,’ Athelstan replied quietly, turning his back to the fire, ‘was to go along to the garde-robe. An archer, carrying a small arbalest, went with him. I noticed that the window above the privy overlooked Tower Green. The archer, standing behind the curtain which hides the privy, shot a bolt and hit the bell.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘You know the mechanism. Once it is tilted slightly the bell begins to toll.’

‘But it was dark,’ Sir Fulke spoke up.

‘No, Sir Fulke. As you may remember, at night there are torches around the bell.’

‘But the bolt was never found!’

‘Of course not. The snow around the tocsin was thick and undisturbed. The bolt would hit the bell and fall into the snow. When the soldiers from the garrison checked why the bell had been rung, they would be looking for footprints, not a crossbow bolt, no bigger than your hand, embedded deep in the snow and ice.’

‘And the crossbow?’ Parchmeiner spoke for the first time, his voice harsh and staccato.

Athelstan shook his head. ‘Like the dagger, you could have left it in the corridor and, when finished, replaced it or dropped it down the privy hole. And who would notice? As you hastily left the garde-robe and ran back to the chamber, everything was in uproar as the tocsin sounded. No one would see any connection between your leaving and the bell sounding. You had gone to the privy, not downstairs, and the guards had seen no one approach the bell. The rest was easy,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘In night-shrouded confusion, you ran up to the parapet and tossed the weapon over the wall into the ditch. If anyone saw you on the steps, you could always pass as a hero looking for the cause of poor Mowbray’s death.’ Athelstan looked at Cranston. ‘When Sir John told me about the crossbow bolt found embedded in the bear, I suddenly realised how the tocsin bell could have been so mysteriously sounded.’ Athelstan felt suddenly tired and rubbed his face with his hands.

‘God knows,’ the coroner boomed, going to stand legs apart in front of the prisoner, ‘how you lured poor Horne to his death, though the man was so full of fears it would be easy enough to play on them.’ Cranston clutched Parchmeiner’s face in his hand and squeezed it tightly. ‘I saw the grisly remains of your work.’

Parchmeiner brought his head back, smiled, and spat full into Cranston’s face. The coroner wiped the spittle from his cheek with the hem of his robe then, bringing his hand back, slapped Parchmeiner across the face. He turned and looked at Athelstan as the young man struggled between his guards.

‘Don’t worry,’ Cranston said. ‘I won’t strike him again, but he deserved that for bringing his evil deeds into my house and under my roof.’

He went and refilled his wine goblet. He took it over and offered it to Philippa where she sat with her uncle, but she wouldn’t even raise her head. Sir Fulke looked away so Cranston walked into the middle of the room, sipping from the cup. ‘Finally, Fitzormonde’s death.’ He made a face. ‘That was easy.’ He gestured at Parchmeiner. ‘Our young killer here pretends to leave the Tower, with people milling about during the great thaw, no one would really notice him slipping back in again, perhaps wearing a different cloak or hood. There are enough shadowy corners in this fortress to hide an army. Every evening Fitzormonde always went to see the bear and Parchmeiner seized this opportunity. Once again armed with an arbalest, he fires. The beast, enraged, launches itself at Fitzormonde. The badly secured chain snaps and the hospitaller dies. Whilst Geoffrey exploits the chaos to slip through the main gate or one of the postern doors and be safe beyond reproach.’

‘You have no proof!’ Parchmeiner rasped. ‘No proof at all!’

‘No, but we can get it!’ Athelstan answered. ‘First, I can prove that a man may climb the North Bastion in the middle of the night and at the dead of winter. But could he climb down again? I can examine the rubble outside Sir Ralph’s chamber for stains of blood from the dagger you hid there but undoubtedly collected later. Master Colebrooke can also make enquiries about who oiled the locks and doors of Sir Ralph’s chambers. The tocsin can be examined for the mark of a crossbow bolt and the ground carefully searched, for it undoubtedly still lies hidden in the ice and snow. We could start making enquiries about who was where on the night Adam Horne died.’ Athelstan walked up to the white-faced man. ‘We can also hold you in a dungeon here until the snow melts, and make careful investigations after these friends and relatives of yours in Bristol.’

‘But why? Why?’ Philippa’s gaunt face was anguished, dark shadows appearing under her reddened eyes. ‘Why?’ she screamed.

‘Fifteen years ago,’ Cranston replied, too full of pity to look at her, ‘your father and the others whom Parchmeiner murdered served as knights in Outremer under the leadership of Sir Bartholomew Burghgesh. You have heard the name mentioned? Your father,’ Cranston continued, not waiting for a reply, ‘and the others, cruelly betrayed Sir Bartholomew in order to seize certain treasure he had taken from the Caliph of Egypt. Now Sir Bartholomew left Cyprus for Genoa but the others, led by Sir Ralph, secretly informed the Caliph and the ship Sir Bartholomew was travelling on was attacked.’ Cranston scratched his head. ‘The accepted story is that Bartholomew died on that ship but, as we now know, three years ago, just before Christmas, Burghgesh came to see your father at the Tower. Sir Ralph, either by trickery or force, took Sir Bartholomew captive and imprisoned him in a dungeon beneath this very tower. He used the madcap Red Hand to block up the cell. After all, who would listen to the rantings of an idiot?’ Cranston whirled round as the young man struggled between his guards.

‘He is here?’ Geoffrey shouted. ‘Bartholomew’s body is here?’ Parchmeiner suddenly went limp. ‘Oh, God!’ he whispered. ‘If only I had known!’

Athelstan crossed to his side. All the hatred and arrogance in the assassin’s face had now fled and the friar felt a twinge of compassion at the tears brimming in the young man’s eyes.

‘Who are you?’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Tell me! You have my promise, you will see Bartholomew’s last resting place.’

Parchmeiner looked down at the floor. ‘Burghgesh was not my father,’ he replied in a faraway voice. ‘But I wish to God he had been. I was on the same ship as him when it was taken. I was only an orphan so I clung to Sir Bartholomew.’ Geoffrey smiled faintly. ‘He protected me,’ he whispered. ‘He put me behind him and fought like a paladin until the Moors promised both of us our lives if he surrendered.’ The young man looked up and blinked. ‘They kept their word but Bartholomew was beaten with the bastinado until the soles of his feet turned to raw flesh. Then we were sold as slaves to a merchant in Alexandria. Sir Bartholomew tended the garden and I was put to work in the scriptorium, curing and storing parchment. The years passed. Sir Bartholomew never gave up hope. He looked after me, treated me as a son, protected me against those who would have preferred to treat me like a woman. One night Bartholomew cut our master’s throat and rifled his treasure room. We fled across the desert to Damietta, bribed a merchant and took ship to Cyprus, thence to Genoa and across Europe to Southampton.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘Three years ago. Sir Bartholomew had told me about Whitton and the treasure but,’ the young man’s voice almost broke, ‘my master was good and true. He still couldn’t accept that his comrades –’ the words were spat out ‘– his
comrades
had betrayed him!’ The young man shook his head, mouthing oaths quietly to himself. ‘We travelled to London. Sir Bartholomew still had the treasure he had stolen from the merchant in Alexandria, gold and silver coins, so we lived like lords in a tavern near Barbican Street.’ Geoffrey now stared at Athelstan. ‘Can you believe that, Brother? He wouldn’t accept he had been betrayed. He left me in the tavern and went to Woodforde, but returned disconsolate. His wife and son were both dead and the manor house in disrepair. We stayed for a while until Sir Bartholomew said his comrades would meet as planned near the Tower every Advent before Christmas.’ The young man licked his lips. ‘Sir Bartholomew made enquiries as to what had happened to each of his comrades. Two were hospitallers, one a merchant.’ Geoffrey laughed. ‘Sir Bartholomew, God bless him, was even pleased to hear that Whitton was now Constable of the Tower and told me all about this fortress, every nook and cranny.’

The murderer stirred restlessly between his captors, now lost in his own memories. ‘Bartholomew went to meet Whitton. He said he would find out the truth, whatever it cost.’ The young man made a grimace. ‘But he didn’t return and my own suspicions were proved correct. Whitton, who had betrayed him fifteen years ago, had now used his position to have Bartholomew killed.’ He glared at Athelstan. ‘I am glad I killed them! I gave them fair warning. I used the same sign Bartholomew always shared with me in our captivity – the three-masted ship which brought us together.’

‘And me?’ Philippa cried. ‘What about me?’

‘What about you?’

‘Didn’t you love me?’

The young man laughed. ‘You need a heart to love, Philippa. I have no heart, no soul. Bartholomew was my life.’ He dismissed the girl with a contemptuous glance. ‘I used you,’ he continued, ignoring her loud sobbing. ‘I took Bartholomew’s gold to plot Whitton’s downfall. I knew about manuscripts and vellum so I became Geoffrey Parchmeiner. Oh, by the way, Geoffrey is my Christian name. Geoffrey Burghgesh, you can call me. I sold the best parchment for a pittance to the Tower. I became friendly with the constable’s daughter and wheedled my way into her affections.’ The murderer smiled to himself.