The House of the Red Slayer

Whitton was drugged. The murderer threw the shutters open and the icy air rushed in. Remember, it was a freezing cold morning, and of course Master Parchmeiner’s delay in sending for Colebrooke would have helped matters.’
    Athelstan suddenly caught a glimpse of colour from the corner of his eyes. ‘Sir John! Rastani!‘
    The coroner, in spite of his bulk, moved quickly. He caught the mute even as the fellow sprang at his master’s assassin. Cranston hoisted the struggling man by the front of his jerkin as easily as a baby.
    ‘You, sir,’ the coroner said quietly, ‘will keep your place till these matters are finished!’ He shook Rastani as if he was a rag doll. ‘You understand?’
    The mute threw one vicious glance at Parchmeiner.
    ‘Do you understand?’ Cranston’s grip tightened.
    The mute’s mouth opened and shut, then he nodded slowly. Cranston gently lowered him and two of Colebrooke’s guards now took up position on either side of the Moor.
    ‘You will watch him!’ Cranston ordered curtly. ‘Well, come on, pull your swords!‘
    During this spectacle Parchmeiner never turned a hair but looked coolly at the friar who knew he was in the presence of a natural killer, someone who had seized his opportunity to wreak the most terrible vengeance.
    ‘Master Colebrooke!’ Athelstan called, not taking his eyes off the murderer. ‘I want Master Parchmeiner’s hands bound and a rope tied round his waist.‘
    Colebrooke rapped out commands and one of the guards forced Parchmeiner’s arms behind his back, tying both wrists and thumbs together. Another soldier unloosed his belt and pushed one end through Parchmeiner’s, wrapping the other end tightly round his own wrist guard. Athelstan relaxed. He gazed round the freezing death chamber.
    ‘We need not stay here,’ he declared. ‘We may return to Mistress Philippa’s chamber.’
    The young girl hardly said a word but moaned softly as her uncle enfolded her in his arms. The group left the North Bastion. As they crossed Tower Green, Colebrooke, now aware of the danger, ordered a serjeant-at-arms to beat the tambour, calling the garrison to arms. Orders rang out, gates were closed, and as they went up the steps to Philippa’s chamber, Athelstan heard men-at-arms and archers taking up positions below. He turned and smiled at Cranston.
    ‘I must apologise. Your dagger is still in the pile of masonry in the North Bastion tower.’
    ‘Don’t worry,’ he muttered. ‘What I have seen is worth more than a thousand daggers.’
    In the chamber, Parchmeiner stood between the two guards. Athelstan looked at him curiously for the young man was now smiling as if savouring some secret joke. The rest were a quiet, captive audience. Rastani, sullen and withdrawn, slumped on a stool between two burly serjeants-at-arms. Philippa moaned softly, lost in her own grief, flanked on either side by her uncle and the chaplain. Cranston filled himself a goblet of wine. Athelstan went and crouched near the fire, warming his hands over the flames.
    ‘The other deaths were easy,’ he continued evenly. ‘The night Mowbray died, he went up on the parapet near the Salt Tower whilst the rest of you gathered here in Philippa’s chamber for supper. I suspect Master Parchmeiner arrived last. You see Mowbray, like any soldier,’ he turned and grinned at Colebrooke, ‘was a creature of habit. Let us dismiss Master Parchmeiner’s fear of heights as a he. He knew Mowbray was on the far side of the parapet, standing in his usual spot, so he crept up and placed the butt of a spear or an axe pole at the top of the steps, wedging it neatly between the crenellations of the wall. He then comes to Mistress Philippa’s chamber and the meal begins.’
    ‘But he never left,’ Sir Fulke interrupted. ‘He never left to ring the tocsin bell!‘
    ‘Of course he didn’t!’ Cranston answered. ‘Master Colebrooke, everything is ready? The garrison has been warned? Well,’ Cranston slammed his wine goblet down on the table, ‘I need to relieve myself. I understand there’s a garde-robe down the passage?’
    Sir Fulke, a perplexed look on his face, nodded. Cranston went out of the side door. The rest of the group remained impassive like figures in a fresco. Suddenly everyone jumped as the great tocsin bell began to sound, followed by shouted orders, men’s feet running, and then the bell stopped tolling. Cranston, grinning from ear to ear, sauntered back into the room.
    ‘Who rang