The House of the Red Slayer

established, on good authority, that neither sentry left his post nor did they see or hear anything untoward.’
    ‘And now the murder?’ Athelstan prompted.
    ‘Young Geoffrey,’ Cranston continued, ‘whom Sir Ralph apparently doted upon, comes across early the next morning. The guards search him for weapons and open the door to the gallery. The same door is then locked, apparently on Sir Ralph’s orders, and Geoffrey goes to rouse him. The guards hear him knocking and shouting but then our young hero comes back. He announces his inability to arouse Sir Ralph, is about to return and unlock Whitton’s chamber himself, then changes his mind and goes for Colebrooke the lieutenant. They both return to Sir Ralph’s chamber and open it; the room is undisturbed but Whitton is lying on his bed, his throat slashed, the corpse icy cold, and the shuttered windows wide open. That, my dear friar, is where our problem begins.‘
    ‘Not if we accept our conclusion,’ Athelstan replied. ‘That someone crossed the frozen moat and, using the steps in the wall, climbed up to Sir Ralph’s chamber. The assassin prised open the lever on the shutters, entered and committed the crime. Nevertheless,’ he persisted, ‘our conclusion has its own problems. Why did Sir Ralph just lie there and allow his throat to be cut? He was a soldier, a warrior.’ The friar shook his head. ‘All we do know,’ he concluded, ‘is that the assassin must have been a member of the community at the Tower who knew Sir Ralph had changed his bed chamber, and he or she either committed the murder or hired a professional assassin to do it for them.’ Athelstan stared across at a group of dicers who sat playing noisily on the other side of the tavern.
    ‘And Sir Gerard Mowbray’s murder,’ Cranston observed, ‘is no clearer. Who rang the bell? How did Mowbray fall? Of course Horne’s murder,’ he continued, ‘was relatively easy. The assassin played upon his guilt and fear and probably lured the hapless man to his grisly death in that lonely place.‘
    ‘Where did he die?’ Athelstan queried.
    ‘In the old ruins to the north of the Tower. And, before you ask, his murderer left no trace.’
    ‘And the suspects?’ Athelstan asked wearily. He leaned across and tapped Sir John on the arm. ‘Come on, My Lord Coroner, apply that sharp brain of yours!‘
    Cranston shrugged.
    ‘Well, it could be Sir Fulke. His buckle was found on the ice and he stands to gain from his brother’s death. Sir Ralph’s servant Rastani was lithe and able enough to climb up that wall.’ Cranston made a face at Athelstan. ‘By the way, I checked on their story for the night Sir Ralph died; both Sir Fulke and Rastani were absent from the Tower and there are people who can guarantee their whereabouts.’
    ‘Master Geoffrey could be the felon,’ Athelstan remarked. ‘But on the night Sir Ralph died he was in Philippa’s bed, and on the night Sir Gerard died, in his lady’s chamber. True, he went to rouse Sir Ralph but he was searched for any weapons, he had no key, and even if he had entered the room, favoured son or not, Sir Ralph would scarcely have offered his throat to be cut.’ Athelstan rubbed his face. ‘The possibilities are endless,’ he said. ‘Hammond, the felonious chaplain. Colebrooke, the envious Lieutenant. The gracious Mistress Philippa. Not to mention our hospitaller who may have told us a pack of lies.’ The friar narrowed his eyes. ‘We must check on them all,’ he murmured.
    ‘Or Red Hand,’ Cranston observed. ‘The mad man who may not be as insane as he appears.‘
    Athelstan looked up and smiled. ‘But we have made some progress, Sir John. If Fitzormonde is to be believed, we know the reason for the murders: Burghgesh’s death on that unfortunate ship in the Middle Sea so many years ago. The picture on the parchment is to remind his murderers of their foul act and the sesame seed cake a warning of their impending doom.’
    ‘And that —‘ Cranston almost shouted, glaring across at the landlord to bring his food for his stomach was growling with hunger ‘- leads us to another mystery. Did Burghgesh really die? Or is he back, hiding in London, even the Tower? Or is there someone else? Perhaps his son or some other friend?’
    Cranston leaned back as Joscelyn brought across the steaming platters of food. The landlord served Sir John himself, cutting thick slices of pheasant breast and laying them deftly with his one hand on the