The House of the Red Slayer

up at them. ‘You have heard the legends, Sir John? While the ravens are here the Tower will never fall. And that when they caw so stridently, it’s always a sign of impending death.’ Colebrooke blew on the tips of his fingers. ‘Unfortunately, the ravens’ song is turning into a constant hymn.‘
    ‘Did anyone know that Mowbray had received the same warning as Sir Ralph?’ Cranston abruptly asked.
    Colebrooke shook his head. ‘No. Mowbray was uneasy but, following Sir Ralph’s death, so were we all. He and Sir Brian kept to themselves. Last night Mowbray went for his usual walk on the parapet between the Salt and Broad Arrow Towers. He was still there when the tocsin sounded. Mowbray apparently heard the alarm, ran, slipped and fell to his death.’
    ‘There was no one else on the parapet with him?’
    ‘No. Indeed, if it wasn’t for the warning we found in his pouch, we would have assumed it was a simple accident.‘ ‘Was the parapet slippery?’
    ‘No, of course not, Sir John. You are a soldier. Sir Ralph was most strict on such matters. As soon as the weather worsens, sand and gravel are strewn on every step.’
    ‘Then who rang the bell?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Ah, that’s the mystery. Come, I’ll show you.’
    They walked into the centre of Tower Green. The snow was relatively unmarked here, packed high around a great wooden post with a beam jutting out like a scaffold. The tocsin bell was balanced on an iron ring and from its great brass tongue hung a long piece of cord.
    ‘You see,’ Colebrooke said, pointing up to the bell, ‘this is only sounded when the Tower is under direct attack. If you touch the rope even, the bell is angled so as to sound continuously.’
    Sir John looked up and nodded wisely. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I have seen such a mechanism before. If the guard is wounded, once he starts the bell, it will swing and toll until someone stops it.‘
    ‘Exactly!’ Colebrooke exclaimed. ‘And that’s the real mystery. I stopped the bell myself. No one else was about.‘
    ‘But someone could have rung it and run off?’ Cranston queried.
    Colebrooke shook his head. ‘Impossible. I came out here with a sconce torch. I stopped the bell but, when I examined the snow, found no other footprints around.’
    ‘What?’ Cranston barked. ‘None at all?’
    ‘None, Sir John.’ Colebrooke pointed to the surrounding carpet of snow. ‘Because this bell is so important,’ he explained, ‘no one is allowed anywhere near it. Even the soldiers, when they are drunk, keep clear of the area in case they stumble and start the bell tolling.‘
    ‘And nothing else was found?’
    ‘Nothing except the claw marks of the ravens.’
    ‘But that’s impossible,’ Athelstan said.
    Colebrooke sighed. ‘I agree, Father, and what makes it even more mysterious is that we also had guards patrolling the green. They saw no one approach the bell. They found no foot prints.’ Colebrooke turned away and spat. ‘A time of death,’ he mourned. ‘The ravens’ song is the only one we hear.‘
    ‘And where was everyone?’ Cranston snapped.
    ‘Oh, Mistress Philippa had invited us all for supper in Beauchamp Tower.’
    ‘All of you?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Well, the two hospitallers demurred. Rastani did not come, and I left occasionally to make my rounds. I’d just returned to Mistress Philippa’s when the bell began to sound.’
    ‘And you found no one?’ Cranston repeated.
    ‘No one at all,’ Colebrooke muttered. ‘Now the soldiers are uneasy. They talk darkly of demons and ghosts and the Tower is not a popular garrison. You know soldiers, Sir John, they’re worse than sailors. They repeat stories of how the Tower was built on a place used for ancient sacrifice. How blood is mixed with the mortar, and men were nailed to the earth in its foundation.’
    ‘Nonsense!’ Cranston barked. ‘What do you think, Brother?’
    Athelstan shrugged. ‘The lieutenant may be right, Sir John. There are more forces under heaven than we know.’
    ‘So you believe the nonsense about ghosts?’
    ‘Of course not! But the Tower is a bloody place. Men and women have died horrible deaths here.’
    Athelstan stared round the green and shivered despite the bright sunshine.
    ‘Fear is the real ghost,’ he continued. ‘It saps harmony of the mind and disturbs the soul. It creates an air of danger, of threatening menace. Our murderer is highly skilled and intelligent. He is achieving exactly what he