Murder most holy

mellow voice was tinged with a slight accent.
    ‘I will not waste your time. The hour is late and we have all drunk deeply.’ He moved his hands and the rings on his fingers caught the brilliance of the light and flashed like the clearest stars. ‘Sir John Cranston has accepted my wager, a challenge to solve a problem no one has yet fathomed. Only I myself, and I have written the solution down in a sealed document. I have posed the problem to doctors in Paris, lawyers in Montpellier and professors in Cologne and Nantes , but to no effect.’ Galeazzo paused and drew a deep breath. ‘Many years ago my family owned a manor house outside Cremona — a large, three-storeyed building of great age and sinister reputation. Once, when I was a boy, I spent Yuletide there with my aged aunt, its owner.’ He smiled around the assembled company. ‘No matter what the place or its reputation, when the Yuletide log is burnt and we Italians celebrate Christ’s birth, an evening banquet is held.’ He laughed. ‘Not as lavish as this one but, as is customary, once the wine jug circulates, every guest has to tell a ghost story.
    ‘Now, I remember that evening well. It was the coldest Christmas anyone could remember. A biting north wind brought sheets of snow down from the Alps , the manor house was cut off by deep drifts and icy roads. Nevertheless, we had warm fires and plenty to eat and revelled in this time of shadows. Outside no sound was heard except the moaning wind and the haunting howls of the wolves as they came down from the mountains to hunt.’
    Galeazzo stopped and looked around. Cranston admired his prowess and skill: his audience was no longer aware of this lavish hall on an English summer’s evening but thinking of a lonely haunted manor house in faraway Cremona . Nevertheless, the coroner was anxious. He wished the Italian nobleman would come to the point so his own wily brain could seize upon the problem posed.
    ‘Once the storytelling ended, my venerable aunt was challenged by one of the guests. Were there not ghosts in that very house? At first she refused to answer, but when the guests insisted, explained about the scarlet chamber — a room at the top of the house kept barred and locked because anyone who slept there died a violent, mysterious death.’ Galeazzo stopped and sipped from a mother-of-pearl-encrusted goblet.
    ‘My Lords, you can imagine what happened. Everyone was full of wine and itching with a curiosity which had to be satisfied. To cut a long story short, my aunt was urged to show the guests the room. Servants were summoned, torches lit, and my aunt led us out of the hall and up the great wooden staircase. I was only a small boy and went unnoticed amongst the others. Now, I knew the top storey of that ancient manor house was always barred but this time servants removed the padlocks and chains and my aunt led us up a cold, deep staircase.’ He stopped speaking and shook his head. ‘I will always remember it: the rats slithering and squeaking, the moonlight shining on the motes of dust. We reached the top of the staircase and turned. The guests milled about, their excitement now tinged with fear for it was dreadfully cold and dark. Servants went ahead and lit the flambeaux jutting out from the wall: the passageway came to life and all eyes were fixed on the door at the bottom. Barred, padlocked and chained, it drew us like some awful curse.’ Again Galeazzo stopped, sipped from his wine cup and smiled quickly at Cranston .
    ‘The door was unlocked and we entered a small square chamber. I mean a perfect square. There was a table, a stool, a fireplace, a small lattice window in the far wall, but the chamber was dominated by a huge fourposter bed. What really made us catch our breath was when my aunt ordered the torches lit and candles brought in. The room positively flared into life. Believe me, everything — the floor, the ceiling, the walls, the carpet, the bed — everything was bright scarlet, as if drenched in fresh blood.’ Galeazzo paused, leaned forward and selected a grape from the bowl.
    ‘The mystery!’ one of the guests shouted from down the hall. ‘What is the mystery?’
    Cranston stared down the table. Gaunt slouched, his eyes half-closed, a slight smile on his face as if he knew what was coming next. The young king, like any child, sat round-eyed and open-mouthed. Yet Galeazzo, like the born storyteller he was, played his audience for a while. He chewed slowly on