The House of the Red Slayer

the gaunt figure of a dying Christ on a black, wooden crucifix. Pride of place was given to a huge four-poster bed, its begrimed, tawny curtains tightly closed. There was a table, stools and three or four wooden pegs driven into the wall next to the bed. A cloak, heavy jerkin and broad leather sword belt still hung there. On the other side of the bed stood a wooden lavar-ium with a cracked pewter bowl and jug over which a soiled napkin had been placed. A small hooded fireplace would have afforded some warmth but only cold powdery ash lay there. A brazier full of half-burnt charcoal stood forlornly in the centre of the room. Athelstan was sure it was colder in here than outside. Cranston snapped his fingers at the open shutters.
    ‘By the Devil’s tits, man!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s freezing!’
    ‘We left things as we found them, my Lord Coroner,’ Colebrooke snapped back.
    Athelstan nodded towards the window. ‘Is that where the assassin is supposed to have climbed in?’
    He stared at the huge diamond-shaped opening.
    ‘It could have been the only way,’ Colebrooke muttered, going across and slamming the shutters firmly together. Athelstan stared round the room. He recognised the fetid stench of death and noticed with distaste the soiled rushes on the floor and the cracked chamber pot full of night stools and urine.
    ‘By the sod!’ Cranston barked, tapping it with his boot. ‘Get that removed or the place will stink like a plague pit!‘
    The coroner crossed to the bed and pulled the curtains back. Athelstan took one look and stepped away in horror. The corpse sprawled there, white and bloodless against the grimy bolsters and sheets; rigid hands still clutched the olood-soaked bedcovers and the man’s head was thrust back, face contorted in the rictus of death. The heavy-lidded eyes of the coipse were half-open and seemed to be staring down at the terrible slash which ran from one ear to the other. The blood had poured out like wine from a cracked barrel and lay in a thick congealed mess across the dead man’s chest and bedclothes. Athelstan pulled the sheets back and gazed at the half-naked, white body.
    ‘The cause of death,’ he muttered, ‘is obvious. No other wounds or bruise marks.’ He silently made the sign of the cross over the corpse and stepped back.
    Colebrooke wisely stood well away. ‘Sir Ralph feared such a death,’ he murmured.
    ‘When did this fear begin?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Oh, three to four days ago.’
    ‘Why?’ Cranston queried. ‘What did Sir Ralph fear?’
    Colebrooke shrugged. ‘God knows! Perhaps his daughter or kinsman will tell you that. All I know is that before he died, Sir Ralph believed the Angel of Death stood at his elbow.‘
    Cranston walked across to the window, pulled back the shutters and leaned out into the chill air.
    ‘A sheer drop,’ he commented, drawing himself back, much to Athelstan’s relief. He alone realised how much the good coroner had drunk. Cranston slammed the shutters closed.
    ‘Who would make such a climb at the dead of night and in the depths of winter?’
    ‘Oh, there are steps cut in the wall,’ Colebrooke answered smugly. ‘Although few people know they are there.’
    ‘Why?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘They’re really just footholds,’ Colebrooke answered. ‘A precaution of the mason who built the tower. If anyone fell in the moat, they could climb out.‘
    ‘So,’ Cranston mumbled, slumping down on to the stool and wiping his forehead, ‘you are saying someone, probably a soldier or paid assassin, used these footholds and climbed to the window.’ He turned and looked at the shutters. ‘According to you,’ the coroner continued, ‘the killer prised a dagger through the crack to lift the catch, got in, and slashed Sir Ralph’s throat.‘
    Colebrooke nodded slowly. ‘I suppose so, Sir John.’
    ‘And I suppose,’ Cranston added sarcastically, ‘Sir Ralph just allowed his assassin entry, didn’t even get out of his bed but lay back like a lamb and allowed his throat to be cut?’
    Colebrooke went across to the shutters, and, pushing the wooden clasp back into place, locked them shut. He then took out his dagger, slid it into the crack between the shutters and gently levered the clasp open. He drew the shutters wide, turned and smiled at Cranston.
    ‘It can be done, my Lord Coroner,’ he observed drily. ‘The assassin, quiet-footed, crossed the chamber. It only takes seconds to cut a man’s throat,