The House of the Red Slayer

last night?’ he asked, trying to divert the conversation.
    Sir Fulke, his face now suffused with his usual false bonhomie, leaned forward. ‘My niece,’ he said, ‘wished to thank us for our kindness following the death of Sir Ralph. We sat and dined like a group of friends. We talked of old times and what might happen in the future.’
    ‘And no one left?’
    ‘Not until the tocsin sounded.‘
    ‘No, Sir Fulke,’ Geoffrey interrupted. ‘Remember, you drank deeply.’ He smiled falsely. ‘Perhaps too deeply to remember. The priest left.’ Geoffrey pointed to where the chaplain, William Hammond, dressed like a crow, sat perched on his stool near the fire. ‘Don’t you remember, Father, you left?’
    ‘I went back to my room,’ the chaplain announced. ‘I had a gift of some wine.’ He glared maliciously at Geoffrey and then at Colebrooke. ‘A parishioner gave it to me. It’s not from the Tower stores if that’s what you’re thinking.’ He shrugged. ‘Yes, I too drank deeply and I was unsteady and slow in returning. I was about to re-enter Beauchamp Tower when the bell began to toll.‘
    ‘What happened then?’ Athelstan asked. He glanced at Colebrooke and realised the lieutenant had told them little of his own movements. ‘Well, Lieutenant?’ Athelstan repeated. ‘What did happen?’
    ‘Well, the bell tolled. I and the others left Mistress Philippa. The garrison was roused and all gates were checked. We then scattered, trying to find what was wrong. Fitzormonde discovered Mowbray’s body, we joined him then Master Parchmeiner came. We examined the corpse and I went up on to the parapet.’
    ‘And?’ Cranston barked.
    ‘I found nothing. We were more concerned that the tocsin had been sounded.’
    ‘But you found no trace of the bell-ringer?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘No, I have told you that.’
    Athelstan gazed round in desperation. How, he wondered, could a bell ring and no one be seen pulling it? Or, indeed, any trace of someone being near the bell? What did happen? And how could the bell ringer run undetected across the Tower to arrange Mowbray’s fall? Athelstan drew a deep breath.
    ‘Where is Mowbray’s body now?’
    ‘It’s already sheeted,’ Philippa replied. ‘It lies in its coffin before the chancel screen in the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula.’
    ‘And I will join him there,’ Fitzormonde murmured. He looked up and smiled wanly. ‘Oh, yes, I have the mark of death upon me.’
    His statement hung like an arrow in the air, just before it turns and begins its fatal descent.
    Athelstan whirled round as a loud snore from Cranston broke the silence. He heard Geoffrey giggle, even whitefaced Philippa smiled, the chaplain grinned sourly whilst Fulke snorted with laughter.
    ‘Sir John has many problems to exhaust him,’ Athelstan announced. ‘Mistress Philippa, may we be your guests for a while?’ He looked at Colebrooke. ‘Master Lieutenant, I need words with Sir Brian. Is there a chamber here?’
    Philippa pointed to the door in the far wall. ‘There’s a small one at the end of the corridor.’ She blushed slightly. ‘Just past the privy. The chamber will be warm. I had a brazier put there this morning.’
    Athelstan bowed, smiled thinly at the rest of the group, glanced despairingly at the snoring Cranston and led Sir Brian down the corridor. On the left was the privy, covered by a curtain which hung from a metal rod. Athelstan pulled the curtain back and wrinkled his nose at the smell. The privy was crude, a small recess in the wall with a latrine seat, just under a tiny, open, oval-shaped window which looked down over the green.
    ‘It drains down to the moat,’ Sir Brian mumbled. Athelstan nodded, let the curtain fall and walked on. The chamber at the end of the passage was more fragrant and clean. The walls were lime-washed, the windows closely shuttered. Athelstan sat down on a stool and gestured to a bench which ran along the wall.
    ‘Sit down, Sir Brian. Now, tell me, what do you want?’ Sir Brian suddenly knelt at Athelstan’s feet and sketched the sign of the cross in the air. Athelstan glanced around despairingly. He suspected what was coming.
    ‘Bless me, Father,’ Fitzormonde murmured, ‘for I have sinned. And this is my confession.’
    Athelstan drew back, the legs of the stool scraping the hard stone floor. ‘I cannot,’ he whispered. ‘Sir Brian, you have tricked me! Whatever you tell me now will be covered by the seal of