The House of the Red Slayer

to slide from the sloping tiled roofs. The Horne house stood deserted, no lantern above the door, only a tired-looking Christmas wreath. Cranston stepped back and looked up at the lead-paned windows.
    ‘No candlelight,’ he murmured.
    Athelstan pulled Benedicta closer into the side of the house to protect her from any snow falling from the small canopied hood of the doorway. He lifted the great brass knocker, cast in the shape of a dragon’s head and brought it crashing down. There was no answer so he knocked again. They heard the patter of footsteps and a whey-faced maid answered the door.
    ‘Is Alderman Horne here?’ Cranston slurred.
    The young girl shook her head wordlessly.
    ‘Who is it?’ a voice asked from the darkness beyond.
    ‘Lady Horne?’ Cranston queried. ‘I am Sir John Cranston, Coroner. You sent a message earlier today to the sheriffs at the Guildhall?’
    The woman stepped out of the darkness, her drawn face bathed even whiter by the light of the candle she carried. Her cheeks were tear-stained, her eyes dark-shadowed and sad, whilst her steel-grey hair hung in untidy tresses beneath a white veil.
    ‘Sir John.’ She forced a smile. ‘You had best come in. Girl, light the torches in the solar! Bring candles!‘
    Lady Horne led them up a stone-vaulted passageway into a comfortable but cold solar. A weak fire flickered in the hearth. Lady Horne told them to sit whilst behind them the girl lit candles. Athelstan gazed round. The room was positively luxurious with bright-hued tapestries on the walls, and exquisitely embroidered linen cloths placed on tables, chests and over the backs of chairs. Nevertheless, he could almost smell the stench of fear: the house was too quiet. He looked at Lady Horne who sat on the other side of the fireplace, an ivory and pearl rosary entwined around her fingers.
    ‘You wish some refreshment?’ she murmured.
    Cranston was about to reply but Athelstan intervened.
    ‘No, My Lady. This matter is urgent. Where is your husband?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘That terrible message arrived this morning and Sir Adam left immediately afterwards. He said he was going upriver to the warehouses.’ She clenched her hands tightly. ‘I have sent messages there but the boy returned and said my husband had already left. Sir John, what is the matter?’ Her tired eyes pleaded with the coroner. ‘What does this all mean?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ he lied. ‘But your husband, Lady Horne, is in terrible danger. Does anyone know where he has gone?’
    The woman bowed her head, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Benedicta rose and crouched beside her, stroking her hands gently.
    ‘Lady Horne, please,’ Athelstan persisted. ‘Do you know anything about the message or why your husband was so frightened?’
    The woman shook her head. ‘No, but Adam was never at peace.’ She looked up. ‘Oh, he was a man of great wealth but at night he would awake screaming about foul, bloody murder, his body coated in sweat. Sometimes he would tremble for at least an hour, but never once did he confide in me.’
    Cranston stared across at Athelstan and made a face. The friar looked at the hour candle which stood on the table behind him.
    ‘Sir John,’ he whispered, getting up, ‘it’s almost seven o’clock. We must go!’
    ‘Lady Horne.’ The merchant’s wife was about to rise but Cranston gently touched her on the shoulder. ‘Stay and keep warm, the maid will see us out. If your husband returns, tell him to come to my house. It’s not far. You promise?’
    The woman nodded before looking away into the dying embers of the fire.
    Outside Cranston stamped his feet, clapping his hands together.
    ‘That woman,’ he observed, ‘is terrified. I suspect she knows the source of her husband’s wealth, but what can we do? Horne could be anywhere in the city.’
    Athelstan shrugged. ‘Sir John, Benedicta and I must go to Fleet prison. We promised the parish we would visit Simon the carpenter.’
    ‘Ah, yes,’ Cranston replied tartly. ‘The murderer.’
    ‘You will go home?’
    Sir John stared into the gathering darkness. He would have loved to but what was the use? All he’d do was sit and drink himself stupid.
    ‘Sir John,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘the Lady Maude will be waiting for you.’
    ‘No,’ Cranston answered stubbornly. ‘I’ll go to the Fleet with you. Perhaps I can help.’
    Athelstan glanced at Benedicta and raised his eyes heavenwards. The friar wanted