The House of the Red Slayer

ear to ear and more blood on his chest than you would get from a gutted pig.’
    ‘Any sign of the murderer or the weapon?’
    Cranston shook his head, blowing on his ice-edged fingers. ‘Nothing,’ he grated. ‘Whitton had a daughter, Philippa. She was betrothed to Geoffrey Parchmeiner. Apparently Sir Ralph liked the young man and trusted him. Early this morning Geoffrey went to wake his prospective father-in-law and found him murdered.’ He took a deep breath. ‘More curious still, before his death Sir Ralph suspected someone had evil designs on his life. Four days prior to his death he received a written warning.’
    ‘What was this?’
    ‘I don’t know but apparently the constable became a frightened man. He left his usual chambers in the turret of the White Tower and for security reasons moved to the North Bastion. The stairway to his chamber was guarded by two trusted retainers. The door between the steps and the passageway was locked. Sir Ralph kept a key and so did the guards. The same is true of Sir Ralph’s chamber. He locked it from the inside, whilst the two guards had another key.‘
    Cranston suddenly leaned over and grabbed the bridle of Athelstan’s horse, pulling him clear as a huge lump of snow slipped from the sloping roofs above and crashed on to the ice.
    ‘We should move on,’ the friar remarked drily. ‘Otherwise, Sir John, you may have another corpse on your hands and this time you will be the suspect!‘
    Cranston belched and took a deep swig from his wineskin.
    ‘Is young Geoffrey one of the suspects?’ Athelstan enquired.
    Cranston shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Both doors were still locked; the guards unlocked one, let him through and then locked it again. Apparently Geoffrey went down the passageway, knocked and tried to rouse Sir Ralph. He failed to do this so came back for the guards who opened Sir Ralph’s room. Inside they found the constable sprawled on his bed, his throat cut and the wooden shutters of his window flung wide open.’ Cranston turned and spat, clearing his throat. ‘One other thing — the guards would never allow anyone through without a rigorous body search, and that included young Geoffrey. No dagger was found on him nor any knife in the room.‘
    ‘What was Sir Ralph so fearful of?’
    Cranston shook his head. ‘God knows! But there’s a fine array of suspects. His lieutenant, Gilbert Colebrooke, was on bad terms and wanted Sir Ralph’s post for himself. There’s the chaplain, William Hammond, whom Sir Ralph caught selling foodstocks from the Tower stores. Two friends of Sir Ralph’s, hospitaller knights, came as they usually did to spend Christmas with him. Finally there’s a pagan, a mute body servant, a Saracen whom Sir Ralph picked up whilst crusading in Outremer.’
    Athelstan pulled his hood closer as the cold wind nipped the corners of his ears. ‘ Cui bono? ’ he asked.
    ‘What does that mean?’
    ‘Cicero’s famous question; “Who profits?’”
    Cranston pursed his lips. ‘A good question, my dear friar. Which brings us to Sir Ralph’s brother, Sir Fulke Whitton. He stands to inherit some of his brother’s estate.’
    Cranston fell silent, half closing his eyes and gently burping after the good breakfast he had eaten. Athelstan, however, prided himself on knowing the fat coroner as well as the palm of his own hand.
    ‘Well, Sir John,’ he needled, ‘there is more, is there not?’
    Cranston opened his eyes. ‘Of course there is. Whitton was not liked by the court, nor by the Londoners, nor by the peasants.’
    Athelstan felt his heart sink. They had been down this road on numerous occasions.
    ‘You think it may be the Great Community?’ he asked.
    Cranston nodded, ‘It could be. And, remember, Brother, some of your parishioners may be part of it. If the Great Community acts and revolt spreads, the rebels will try to seize the Tower. Whoever controls it controls the river, the city, Westminster and the crown.’
    Athelstan pulled the reins closer to him and reflected on what Cranston had said. Matters were not going well in London. The king was a child; John of Gaunt, his uncle, a highly unpopular Regent. The court was dissolute, whilst the peasants were taxed to the hilt and tied to the soil by cruel laws. For some time there had been whispers, rumours carried like leaves on a strong breeze, of how peasants in Kent, Middlesex and Essex had formed a secret society called the Great Community. How its leaders