The House of the Red Slayer

step. They leaned against the curtain wall. Cranston, breathing heavily, looked down, curiously watching the figures below as they scurried around like black ants on the various tasks of the garrison. He then stared up at the blue sky. The clouds were now only faint wisps fit by the strong mid-day sun. The coroner suddenly felt rather giddy and quietly cursed himself for drinking so much.
    ‘Old age,’ he murmured.
    ‘Sir John?’
    ‘ In media vitae, sumus in morte ,’Cranston replied. ‘In the midst of life we are in death, Brother. I do not feel too safe here, yet in France when I was younger but not so wise, I held one of these parapet walks against the best the French could send.’ Cranston felt self-pity seep through him. Did Maude also think him old? he wondered. Was that it? Sir John breathed deeply, trying to control the spasm of rage and fear which shot through him. ‘Go on, Athelstan,’ he muttered. ‘Make your careful, bloody study.’
    ‘Stay there, Sir John,’ Athelstan replied softly. The friar glanced despondently down at the sand and gravel. ‘I suppose so many have been up here since Mowbray’s fall, I doubt we will find anything.’
    Athelstan walked gingerly along the parapet, using the crenellated wall as his guide. He walked slowly, not daring to look at the drop on his right and becoming ever more aware of the cold, biting wind and eerie sense of loneliness, as if he hung half way between heaven and earth. On either side of the parapet walk were two towers. Near the Salt Tower he found the gravel-strewn slush had been disturbed, indicating someone had stood there for some time. Athelstan studied this spot for a while.
    ‘What have you found, Brother?’ Cranston bellowed.
    Athelstan walked carefully back.
    ‘Mowbray stood where I stopped. Now, Sir John, if you go first?’
    Cranston went back to the top of the steps. Athelstan followed behind.
    ‘Go on, Sir John. Stand on the top step.‘
    Cranston obliged, closing his eyes for he had begun to feel rather dizzy.
    ‘What is it, Brother?’ he rasped.
    Athelstan crouched and stared closely where the sand and gravel had been scattered. ‘I suspect Mowbray fell from here,’ he replied. ‘But why, and how?’ The friar examined the crenellations from which an archer would shoot if the wall was under attack. ‘Strange,’ he murmured. ‘There’s a fresh mark in the wall as if an axe has been swung against it. And look, Sir John.’ Athelstan carefully picked up some splinters of wood. ‘These are fresh.’
    Cranston opened his eyes. ‘Yes, Brother, but what do they mean?’
    ‘I don’t know, but it would appear that someone took an axe and drove it hard against the wall, with such force the stone was marked and the wooden handle of the axe shattered.’
    Cranston shook his head in disbelief.
    ‘What it all means,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘I don’t know. I cannot make die connection between Mowbray’s fall and these fragments of evidence.‘ The Dominican looked suspiciously at the white, haggard face of Cranston, the bleary red eyes, and the way he was swaying rather dangerously on the top step. ‘Come on, Sir John,’ he said gently. ‘We are finished here and others await.‘
    They made their way gingerly down the steps. At the bottom Cranston immediately felt better, turned and beamed at Athelstan.
    ‘Thank God!’ he bellowed. ‘You don’t do that every day, eh, Brother?’
    Thank God, Athelstan thought, you are not in such a mood every day. The friar looked around. The Tower garrison was now busy: soldiers in half-armour lounged on benches. Despite the cold they wished to revel in the sunshine. A few played dice, others shared a wineskin. A scullion ran across with a basket of fresh-cooked meat, taking it to one of the kitchens where it would hang to be cured, diced, salted and stored for the duration of the winter. The clanging from the blacksmith’s rang like a bell through the air; somewhere a child cried, the son or daughter of one of the garrison. In the outer bailey an officer was shouting orders about a gate being oiled. A dog barked and they heard laughter from the kitchens. Athelstan smiled and relaxed.
    He must not forget the small things of life, he concluded, they kept you sane. He linked his arm through Sir John’s and they ambled across Tower Green, making their way carefully through the soft, dirty slush, alert for the icy patches which hadn’t thawed. A guard ushered them into the Beauchamp