The House of the Red Slayer

refuse piled high before him. The madman, Red Hand, sat like an elf fascinated by the great beast.
    ‘You are content, Red Hand?’ Athelstan asked softly.
    The man grimaced, waving his hands in the air as if mimicking the bear. Athelstan crouched down beside him. ‘You like the bear, Red Hand?’
    The fellow nodded, his eyes intent on the bear.
    ‘So does the knight,’ Red Hand slurred and Athelstan caught the stench of wine fumes on his breath.
    ‘Which knight?’
    ‘The one with the cross.’
    ‘You mean Fitzormonde?’
    ‘Yes, yes, Fitzormonde. He often comes to stare. Red Hand likes Fitzormonde. Red Hand likes the bear. Red Hand does not like Colebrooke. Colebrooke would kill Red Hand.’
    ‘Did you like Burghgesh?’ Athelstan asked quickly. He caught the gleam of recognition in the madman’s eyes. ‘You knew him,’ Athelstan continued. ‘As a young soldier, he once served here.‘
    Red Hand looked away.
    ‘Surely you remember?’ Athelstan persisted.
    The madman shook his head and stared at the bear but Athelstan saw him blink away the tears which pricked his madcap eyes. The friar sighed and rose, dusting the wet ice from his robe.
    ‘Brother Athelstan!’ Cranston barked. ‘Master Colebrooke is a busy man. He says he cannot waste the day whilst you converse with a madman.’
    ‘Master Colebrooke should realise,’ Athelstan replied, ‘that it is a matter of opinion, as well as the judgment of God, who is sane and who is mad.’
    ‘Father, I mean no offence,’ Colebrooke answered, taking off his conical helmet and cradling it in his arms. ‘But I have a garrison to command. I will do what you want.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Good! Mowbray’s body, where does it he?’
    Colebrooke pointed to the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula. ‘Before the chancel screen. Tomorrow it will be buried in the cemetery of All Hallows church.‘
    ‘Is it coffined?’
    ‘No, no.’
    ‘Good, I wish to see the corpse, and after that My Lord Coroner and I would like to speak with all those affected by Sir Ralph’s death.’
    Colebrooke groaned.
    ‘We are here on the Regent’s authority,’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘When these matters are finished, Master Lieutenant, I shall report on the support, or lack of it, we have had in our investigation. We will meet the group in St John’s Chapel.’
    Colebrooke forced a smile and hurried off, shouting at his soldiers to search out Sir Fulke and others. Cranston and Athelstan walked over to St Peter’s. The church was a dour, sombre place, cold and dank. The nave was shaped like a box, with rounded pillars guarding darkened aisles. At the top a small rose window afforded some light. The chancel screen was of polished oak and before it, surrounded by a ring of candles, lay the corpses of Sir Ralph Whitton and Sir Gerard Mowbray. The embalmers had done what they could but, even as they walked up the nave, both Cranston and Athelstan caught the whiff of putrefaction. The two bodies lay under canvas sheets on wickerwork mats supported by wooden trestles. Cranston stood away, waving Athelstan on.
    ‘I’ve eaten too richly, Brother,’ he murmured. ‘Look for what you want and let’s get out.’
    Athelstan was only too happy to oblige. He ignored Sir Ralph’s corpse but lifted back the insignia over the hospitaller’s and the canvas sheet which lay underneath. He did not wish to look at Mowbray’s face. Athelstan had seen enough of death. Instead he examined the white, scabrous legs of the hospitaller, picking up one of the candles to study the purple-yellow bruise just above the shin on the corpse’s right leg. Satisfied, he pulled back the canvas sheet, replaced the tallow candle, genuflected towards the sanctuary and left the church, Cranston following as quickly as possible. They stood on the porch steps and eagerly drank in the invigorating cold air.
    ‘Good Lord, Sir John,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘I always thought St Erconwald’s was bad but, if ever I moan about it again, remind me of this church and I’ll keep my mouth shut.’
    Cranston grinned. ‘It will be my pleasure, Brother. You found what you are looking for?’
    ‘Yes, I did, Sir John. I believe Sir Gerard was not pushed from the parapet. Someone laid a spear or a piece of wood at the top of the steps whilst the hospitaller was at his usual place at the far end of the parapet walk, near Salt Tower.‘ Athelstan pursed his lips. ‘Yes, it could be done under cover of darkness whilst Sir Gerard