The House of the Red Slayer

was lost in his own thoughts.’ He narrowed his eyes and stared at the distant wall of the Tower. ‘The tocsin sounded. Mowbray hurried along the parapet. In the dark he would not see the obstacle. His leg struck it, he slipped and fell to his death.‘ ‘But we don’t know who rang the bell or placed the pole on the parapet. Remember,’ Cranston continued, ‘apart from Fitzormonde and Colebrooke, everybody was in Mistress Philippa’s chamber.’
    ‘Colebrooke might have done it,’ the friar replied. ‘He might have seen the knight standing on the parapet, crept up, placed the pole there, and somehow or other arranged for the tocsin to be sounded.’
    ‘But we have no proof?’
    ‘No, Sir John, we do not. But we are collecting it. In bits and pieces.’ He sighed. ‘Only time will tell if we are successful.’
    They found Colebrooke and the rest of the group sitting on benches in the Chapel of St John. Their displeasure at being summoned was more than apparent. Hammond kept his back half-turned; Fulke slouched, staring up at the ceiling; Rastani seemed more confident and Athelstan caught the sardonic mocking look in his dark, brilliant eyes. Colebrooke marched up and down as if he was on parade whilst Mistress Philippa leaned against the wall, looking sorrowfully down at Tower Green.
    ‘Where is Geoffrey?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘Geoffrey Parchmeiner,’ Fulke replied, ‘being a rather frightened, silly young man, may have many vices.’ The knight ignored his niece’s furious look. ‘But he works hard. He has better things to do than hang around the Tower answering idle questions whilst good men are killed and the murderer walks scot free.’
    ‘Thank you for that speech, Sir Fulke,’ Cranston replied, beaming falsely around. ‘We have only one question and I apologise to you, Sir Brian, but it’s a name, that’s all. Bartholomew Burghgesh — does it mean anything to any of you?
    Athelstan was amazed at the transformation caused by Cranston’s words. The coroner’s smile widened.
    ‘Good,’ he announced. ‘Now we have your attention.’ He glanced quickly at the hospitaller’s angry face. ‘Sir Brian, you must not answer, and if you are patient, you will see why we ask. Well,’ the coroner clapped his hands, ‘Bartholomew Burghgesh?’
    ‘Hell’s teeth!’ Sir Fulke snarled and walked into the centre of the room. ‘Don’t play games, Sir John. Burghgesh was one name my brother, Sir Ralph, would never have mentioned in his presence.‘
    ‘Why?’ Athelstan asked innocently.
    ‘My brother could not stand the man.’
    ‘But they were comrades in arms.’
    ‘ Were ,’ Fulke emphasised. ‘They quarrelled in Outremer. Bartholomew was later killed on a ship taken in the Middle Sea by Moorish pirates.’
    ‘Why?’ Cranston barked.
    ‘Why what?’
    ‘Why did your brother dislike Burghgesh so much?’ Fulke stepped closer and lowered his eyes. ‘It was a matter of honour,’ he murmured. He licked his tips and glanced nervously towards Philippa. ‘Sir Ralph once accused Bartholomew of paying too much attention to your mother, Sir Ralph’s wife.’
    ‘Were the allegations true?’ Athelstan asked.
    Fulke’s face softened. ‘No,’ he stammered. ‘I’ll be honest — I liked Bartholomew. He was funny, always thought the best of people. He was both gentle and courteous.’
    Athelstan suddenly glimpsed the steel in Sir Fulke’s character.
    ‘You really did like him, didn’t you?’
    ‘Yes, yes, I did. I was much distressed at the news of his death.’ Fulke shuffled his feet and looked down at the floor. ‘I’ll be honest,’ he continued. ‘When I was younger, I used to wish Bartholomew was my brother because, God forgive me, I did not like Ralph.’ He looked up, his eyes, sad. ‘Years ago he and Bartholomew served as officers here in the Tower.’ Fulke coughed and cleared his throat. ‘My brother was treacherous. He was cruel. He ill-treated Red Hand. He even beat the priest here when he was only a young clerk.’
    The chaplain blushed with embarrassment.
    ‘Come on, tell the truth!‘ Fulke now glared round, snarling like a dog. ‘Sir Ralph was hated!‘
    Mistress Philippa stepped forward, her face white with fury. ‘My father is sheeted, waiting for burial, and you speak ill of him!’
    ‘God forgive me, Philippa, I only tell the truth!’ Fulke flung out his hand. ‘Ask Rastani! When he was a boy, who plucked his tongue out?’
    The Moor just stared back,