The House of the Red Slayer

sweet butter and wild berries, a skillet pasty, an apple tansy, and a prodigious marrow pudding. Athelstan sat in complete stupefaction, drinking his beer, as Cranston cleared every platter, washing it all down with another bowl of claret. At last Cranston belched, stretched, and beamed round the tavern, snapping his fingers to call Talbot over.
    ‘Master Miles, a favour!‘
    ‘Anything you wish, Sir John.’
    ‘Your house is frequented, or rather was frequented, by the late Constable of the Tower, Sir Ralph Whitton?’ Talbot’s face became guarded. ‘Now and again,’ he mumbled. ‘He used to meet here every Yuletide — he, two hospitallers, and others.’
    ‘Oh, come, Miles. I’m not your enemy, you can trust me. What did they talk about?’
    Talbot tapped the table with his stubby fingers. ‘They sat here like you do, Sir John, well away from the rest. When I or any of the servants came near, they always fell silent.’
    ‘And their demeanour? Were they sad or happy?’
    ‘Sometimes they would laugh but they were generally very secretive. Often the two hospitallers would be locked in argument with Sir Ralph, and he would become quite hostile and snap back at them.’
    ‘Anything else?’
    Talbot shook his head and turned away. Cranston made a face at Athelstan and shrugged. Suddenly the taverner came back to the table.
    ‘One thing,’ he announced. ‘Only one strange thing: about three years ago, around Christmas, a stranger came here.’
    ‘What did he look like?’
    ‘Oh, I can’t remember his appearance but there was something about him. He was cowled and hooded, but he spoke like a soldier. He wanted to know if Sir Ralph drank here. I told him I knew nothing. He went on his way and I never saw him again.’ Talbot smiled apologetically. ‘Sir John, on my oath, that’s all I know.’
    The coroner sat with lips pursed, staring down at the empty platters and dishes as if wishing the food he had devoured would magically reappear. Athelstan studied him carefully, rather concerned, for by now Sir John would usually have been shouting for more claret or sack.
    ‘My Lord Coroner?’
    ‘Yes, Brother Athelstan.’
    ‘We must formulate some conclusions about Sir Ralph’s death.’
    Cranston blew noisily through his lips. ‘What can we say?’
    ‘First, you will agree that Sir Ralph was not murdered because he was Constable of the Tower. I mean, by peasant knaves plotting treason and rebellion?’
    ‘I agree, Brother, but the assassin might have come from outside. He could have been a professional. There are plenty of ex-soldiers for hire in the city who would cut their mothers’ throats if the price was right.’
    Athelstan skimmed the rim of the wine goblet with his finger.
    ‘I would like to believe that, Sir John, but it strikes me as false.’ He shrugged. ‘Yet, for the sake of argument, we will accept that the assassin crossed the frozen moat, climbed the North Bastion, undid the wooden shutters and quietly slashed Sir Ralph’s throat.’
    ‘It can and has been done, my good priest.’
    ‘Of course,’ Athelstan continued, ‘the assassin may have been someone in the Tower who knew where Sir Ralph lay, and seized the opportunity of the moat freezing over to gain access to the footholds on the North Bastion. Accordingly either the murderer did this himself or paid someone else to do it.’
    Cranston took a deep gulp from the wine bowl. ‘Let us put the two together,’ he said, cracking his knuckles softly. ‘Let us say, for the sake of argument, that the plotter and the assassin are one and the same person. Virtually everyone we questioned, including Mistress Philippa, who may be plump but is very fight on her feet, young and agile, could have climbed that tower.’
    ‘Yet, in the main, they all have stories to explain their whereabouts.’
    Cranston nodded. ‘So they have. And it would be the devil’s own job to prove any of them a liar. Moreover, have you noticed how each, apart from the chaplain, has someone to confirm their tale? Which means,’ Cranston concluded, ‘we could be hunting two murderers not one; the two hospitallers, Sir Fulke and Rastani, Philippa and her young swain, Colebrooke and one of the guards.‘ Athelstan stared idly up at one of the hams turning on its skewer from one of the rafters. ‘In reality, we know nothing,’ the friar concluded. ‘We have no idea who the murderer is or how he or she gained access to Sir Ralph, though we did find Sir