The parchment was greasy and finger-stained, a six-inch square with a three-masted ship crudely drawn in the centre and a large black cross in each corner.
‘Is that all?’ Athelstan asked, passing the parchment back.
The girl tensed. Her lower lip trembled, tears pricked her eyes.
‘There was something else,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Wasn’t there?’
Philippa nodded. Geoffrey took her hand and held it, stroking it gently as if she was a child.
‘There was a sesame seed cake.’
‘What?’ Cranston barked.
‘A seed cake like a biscuit, a dirty yellow colour.’
‘What happened to it?’ Cranston asked.
‘I saw my father walk along the parapet. He seemed very agitated. He brought his arm back and threw the cake into the moat. After that he was a changed man, keeping everyone away from him and insisting on moving to the North Bastion Tower.’
‘Is that correct?’ Cranston asked the rest of the group.
‘Of course it is!’ the chaplain snapped. ‘Mistress Philippa is not a liar.’
‘Then, Father,’ Cranston asked silkily, ‘did Sir Ralph share his secrets with you?’ He held up a podgy hand. ‘I know about the seal of confession. All I’m asking is, did he confide in you?’
‘I think not,’ Colebrooke sniggered. ‘Sir Ralph had certain questions to ask the chaplain about stores and provisions which appear to have gone missing.’
The priest turned on him, his lip curling like that of an angry dog.
‘Watch your tongue, Lieutenant!’ he rasped. ‘True, things have gone missing, but that does not mean that I am the thief. There are others,’ he added meaningfully, ‘with access to the Wardrobe Tower.’
‘Meaning?’ Colebrooke shouted
‘Oh, shut up!’ Cranston ordered. ‘We are not here about stores but about a man’s life. I ask all of you, on your allegiance to the King — for this could be a matter of treason — did Sir Ralph confide in one of you? Does this parchment mean anything to any of you?’
A chorus of ‘No's’ greeted the coroner’s demands though Athelstan noticed that the hospitallers looked away as they mumbled their responses.
‘I hope you are telling the truth,’ Cranston tartly observed. ‘Sir Ralph may have been slain by peasant leaders plotting rebellion. Your father, Mistress Philippa, was a close friend and trusted ally of the court.’
Athelstan intervened, trying to calm the situation. ‘Mistress Philippa, tell me about your father.’
The girl laced her fingers together nervously and looked at the floor.
‘He was always a soldier,’ she began. ‘He served in Prussia against the Latvians, on the Caspian, and then travelled to Outremer, Egypt, Palestine and Cyprus.’ She blinked and nodded at the hospitallers. ‘They can tell you more about that than I.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Fifteen years ago,’ she continued, ‘he was in Egypt in the army of the Caliph and then he came home covered in glory, a rich man. I was three years old. My mother died a year later and we entered the household of John of Gaunt. My father became one of his principal retainers; four years ago he was appointed Constable of the Tower.’
Athelstan smiled understandingly. He knew Sir Ralph’s type: a professional soldier, a mercenary who would crusade for the faith but was not averse to serving in the armies of the infidel. Athelstan stared round the group. How quiet and calm they appeared, though he sensed something was wrong. They were hiding mutual dislikes and rivalries in their over-eagerness to answer his questions.
‘I suppose,’ he remarked drily, ‘you have already been through Sir Ralph’s papers?’
Athelstan looked at Sir Fulke who nodded.
‘Of course I have been through my brother’s documents, household accounts, memoranda and letters. I found nothing untoward. I am, after all,’ he added, glaring round the room as if expecting a challenge, ‘the executor of Sir Ralph’s will.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Cranston assured him.
Athelstan groaned to himself. Yes, he thought, and if there was anything damaging it will have been removed. He stared at the young man next to Philippa.
‘How long, sir, have you known your betrothed?’
Geoffrey’s wine-flushed face was wreathed in smiles as he gripped her hand more firmly. ‘Two years.’
Athelstan noticed the conspiratorial smiles the two lovers exchanged. Cranston leered at the girl whilst he considered the incongruous couple. Geoffrey was outstandingly handsome and probably quite wealthy, yet Philippa was almost plain. Moreover, Sir Ralph had been a soldier and Geoffrey was not, at first glance, the sort of man likely to be welcomed into such a family. Cranston then remembered Maude and his own passionate courting of her. Love was strange, as Athelstan kept reminding him, and opposites were often attracted to each other.
‘Tell me, Geoffrey, why did you stay in the Tower?’
The young man belched and blinked his eyes as if he was on the point of falling asleep. ‘Well,’ he mumbled, ‘the great frost has killed all trade in the city. Sir Ralph wished me to stay during the Yuletide season — even more so after he became distraught and upset.’
‘Did you know the reason for his anxiety?’
‘No,’ Geoffrey slurred. ‘Why should I?’
‘Did you like Sir Ralph?’
‘I loved him as a son does a father.’
Cranston switched his attention to Sir Fulke who was beginning openly to fidget.
‘Sir Fulke, you say you are the executor of Sir Ralph’s will?’
‘Yes, I am. And, before you ask, I am also a beneficiary, after the will is approved in the Court of Probate.’
‘What does the will provide?’
‘Well, Sir Ralph had property next to the Charterhouse in St Giles. This and all of the monies banked with the Lombards in Cornhill will go to Philippa.’
‘And to you?’
‘Meadows and pastures in the Manor of Holywell outside Oxford.’
‘A rich holding?’
‘Yes, Sir John, a rich holding, but not rich enough to murder for.’
‘I didn’t say that’
‘You implied it’
‘Sir Ralph,’ Alhelstan hurriedly interrupted, ‘was a wealthy man?’
‘He amassed wealth in his travels,’ Sir Fulke snapped back. ‘And he was careful with his monies.’ Athelstan noticed the sour smile on the chaplain’s face. Sir Ralph, he thought, was probably a miser. The friar looked sideways at Cranston and quietly groaned. The good coroner was taking one of his short naps, his great belly sagging, mouth half-open. Oh, Lord, Athelstan quietly prayed, please make sure he doesn’t snore!
‘Why do you live in the Tower, a bleak dwelling place for any man?’ Athelstan abruptly asked.
Sir Fulke shrugged. ‘My brother paid me to help him in an unofficial capacity.’
Both he and Athelstan chose to ignore the snorting laughter of Colebrooke. Cranston was now quietly nodding, belching softly and smacking his lips. Mistress Philippa tightened her mouth and Athelstan cursed; he did not wish his interrogation to end in mocking laughter.
‘Sir Gerard, Sir Brian,’ he almost shouted in an attempt to rouse Cranston, ‘how long have you been in the Tower?’
‘Two weeks,’ Fitzormonde replied. ‘We come every year.’
‘It’s a ritual,’ Mowbray added, ‘ever since we served with Sir Ralph in Egypt. We met to discuss old times.’
‘So you were close friends of Sir Ralph?’
‘In a sense. Colleagues, veterans from old wars.’ Mowbray stroked his evenly clipped beard. ‘But, I’ll be honest with you, Sir Ralph was a man more feared and respected than loved.’
Athelstan picked up the yellowing piece of parchment and thrust it at them.
‘Do you know what this drawing means or the significance of the seed cake?’
Both knights shook their heads but Athelstan was sure they were lying. He leaned forward. ‘Why?’ he whispered. ‘Why should Sir Ralph be so terrified of this?’ He stared slowly round the rest of the group.
‘A cup of sack!’ Cranston muttered thickly.
‘Who found this?’ Athelstan quickly asked.
Sir Fulke pointed to Rastani who sat with his dark face fearful and anxious. Athelstan leaned forward. ‘What does this mean, Rastani?’
The eyes stared blankly back.
‘Where did you find it?’
The fellow suddenly made strange gestures with his fingers.
‘He can hear but not speak,’ Philippa reminded the friar.
Fascinated Athelstan watched the strange hand signs which Philippa translated for him.
‘He found it on a table in my father’s chamber,’ she announced. ‘Four days ago. Early on the morning of the ninth of December — that and the hard-baked seed cake.’
Athelstan caught and held Rastani’s glance.
‘You were a faithful servant to Sir Ralph?’
The man nodded in response.
‘Why didn’t you move with your master to the North Bastion?’ Athelstan continued.
The fellow’s mouth opened and shut like a landed carp’s.
‘I can answer that,’ Philippa said. ‘When the message was received, my father distanced himself from Rastani, though God knows why.’ She gently stroked the man’s hand. ‘As I have said, Father became strange. Even I did not recognise him from his actions.’
Cranston smacked his lips and suddenly stirred.
‘Yes, yes, very good!’ he bawled. ‘But did any of you approach the North Bastion Tower the night Sir Ralph was killed?’
A series of firm denials greeted his question.
‘So you can all account for your movements?’
‘I can,’ the kinsman spoke up. ‘Rastani and I were out of the Tower. We were sent to buy stores from a merchant in Cripplegate. Or, at least, that’s where the warehouse is. You can ask Master Christopher Manley in Heyward Lane near All Hallows.’
‘That’s near the Tower?’
‘Yes, it is, Sir John.’
‘And when did you leave?’
‘Before dinner, and did not return until after Prime this morning when we heard of Sir Ralph’s death. Rastani and I can vouch for each other. If you doubt that, speak to Master Manley. He saw us take lodgings at a tavern in Muswell Street.’
Sir John rose and stretched.
‘Well, well! Now my clerk and I,’ he trumpeted, ‘would like to question each of you alone. Though,’ he smiled at the girl, ‘Mistress Philippa and Geoffrey had best stay together. Master Colebrooke, there’s a chamber below. Perhaps our guests could wait there?’
There were mumbled protests and groans but Cranston, refreshed after his nap, glared round beneath thick furrowed brows. Led by Colebrooke, all left except for Philippa and Geoffrey.
‘Your chamber, Master Geoffrey?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Where is it?’
‘Above the gatehouse.’
‘And you stayed there all night?’
The young man smiled weakly. ‘You’re a perceptive man, Sir John. That’s why you asked me to stay, I suppose? I spent the night with Philippa.’
The girl looked away, blushing. Cranston smiled and tapped the man gently on the shoulder. ‘Why did you not rouse Sir Ralph yourself?’
The young man rubbed his eyes. ‘As I have said before, I didn’t have a key and, God be my witness, I knew there was something wrong. The corridor was cold, with no sound from Sir Ralph’s chamber.’ He smiled bleakly at Athelstan. ‘I am not the bravest of men, I’ll be honest I did not like Sir Ralph using me as a page boy but he distrusted the others.’
‘You mean Colebrooke and the rest?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
Cranston stared at Philippa. ‘Had your father been in such dark spirits before?’
‘Yes, about three years ago, just before Christmas. But it passed when he met his companions, as was their custom, and supped at the Golden Mitre.’
‘Who were your father’s companions?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Well, the two hospitallers, Sir Gerard Mowbray and Sir Brian Fitzormonde, and Sir Adam Home — he’s a merchant in the city.’
‘Did these include all your father’s comrades-in-arms?’
‘Oh, there was someone called Bartholomew. Bartholomew…’ the girl repeated, biting her lip ‘… Burghgesh, I believe. But he never came.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’ She half laughed. ‘I think he’s dead.’ ‘Why did your father insist on meeting his friends every year just before Christmas?’
‘I don’t know. Some pact they made a long time ago.’
Athelstan scrutinised the girl carefully. He was sure she was hiding something. ‘Tell me,’ he said, changing tack, ‘is there more than one postern gate on to the moat?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Philippa replied. ‘Quite a number.’
Athelstan glanced at Cranston, ‘My Lord Coroner, do you have any questions?’
‘No,’ Sir John replied. ‘Enough is enough! Ask Master William Hammond to come in.’
The priest entered in a surly, disgruntled way, biting his thumb nail to the quick as he gave curt answers to Athelstan’s questions. Yes, he had been in the fortress that evening, but in his chamber in the Beauchamp Tower near the Church of St Peter ad Vincula.
The two hospitaller knights were more courteous but equally adamant. They had chambers in Martin Tower and spent most of the evening drinking or trying their hand at chess.
‘I assure you, Sir John,’ Mowbray rasped, ‘we can hardly find our way around the Tower in the full light of day, never mind on a freezing winter’s night.’
‘But you know what this means, don’t you?’ Athelstan accused, picking up the piece of yellow parchment.
‘By heaven, we do not!’ Fitzormonde replied.
‘Sir,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘I think you do, as you also know about the seed cake.’
The two hospitallers shook their heads.
‘Oh, come,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Let’s not be coy. You are monks and knights. Your Order fights for the cross in Outremer. My Order, too, has brothers who serve there. They bring back tales which they relate over the dinner table at Blackfriars.’
‘What tales?’ Mowbray challenged.
‘How in the mountains of Palestine live a secret sect of infidels called the Assassins, ruled by a chieftain called the Old Man of the Mountain. This coven deals in secret assassination. They are fed on drugs and despatched by their master with golden daggers to kill whomever he has marked down for destruction.’
Cranston watched the two knights tense and, for the first time, show a flicker of nervousness, Fitzormonde particularly.
‘Now these assassins,’ Athelstan continued, ‘always give their victim fair warning. They do not leave a picture but a flat seed cake as a sign that violent death will soon be upon them.’ Athelstan stood up and stretched to ease the cramp in his thighs and legs. ‘I ask myself, why is this secret sect which flourishes in the Middle Sea, carrying out murder in the cold and sombre chambers of the Tower of London?’
‘Are you accusing us?’ Mowbray shouted. ‘If so, do it!’
‘I am not accusing anyone, just remarking on a strange coincidence.’
‘Rastani is from Palestine!’ Mowbray cried. ‘Sir Ralph did distance himself from his so-called faithful servant.’
Why do you say “so-called”?’ Cranston quickly asked.
‘Because I do not believe Rastani’s conversion to our faith was genuine. Such men bear grudges, they wait years to settle accounts.’ ‘But Rastani was absent from the Tower?’
‘He could have slipped back.’
‘No, no, no!’ Athelstan sat down and shook his head.
‘Sir Ralph’s death is more complex than that. You served with him?’
‘Yes, we did. The Caliph of Cairo hired us to crush revolts in the city of Alexandria.’
‘And after that?’
‘Sir Ralph came home. We stayed a while longer before returning to our house in Clerkenwell.’
‘Have you ever returned across the seas?’ Cranston asked.
Mowbray shook his head. ‘No, Fitzormonde is slightly wrong. When we served with Sir Ralph we were not hospitallers. We joined after we left him. The Order sent us back to England. I am at Clerkenwell, Fitzormonde in our house at Rievaulx near York.’
Athelstan stared at the closed, set faces of both knights.
‘Forgive me,’ Athelstan said quietly, ‘I do not wish to call you liars but there is a great mystery here and you are party to it. ‘He leaned over and suddenly pulled back Mowbray’s cloak. ‘You wear chained mail? And you, too, Sir Brian. Why? Do you also fear the assassin’s dagger? How well do you sleep at night? What secrets did you share with Sir Ralph?’
‘By the Rood!’ Sir Brian suddenly stood up. ‘I have heard enough. We have told you what we can. Leave it at that!’
Both hospitallers swept out of the room. Cranston slumped on the stool and stretched out his legs.
‘A pretty mess, eh, Friar? What have we here? Treason by persons unknown or foul midnight murder?’
‘I don’t know.’ Athelstan replaced the stopper in the ink horn as he rearranged his writing materials. ‘But we do have the buckle we found on the icy moat, and I know who it belongs to.’
‘By the sod!’ Cranston cried. ‘For a monk you are sharp-eyed, Athelstan.’
‘For a friar I am very quick, My Lord Coroner, and so would you be if you drank less claret!’
‘I drink to drown my sorrows.’ Cranston looked away. What would Maude be doing now? he fretted. What was she hiding? Why wouldn’t she just tell him instead of giving those long, mournful glances? Cranston glared at the small statue in a niche, the Virgin and Child; secretly, the coroner hated Christmas. Yuletide always brought back the memories of little Matthew, taken by the plague, but not before the mite had shown Sir John the wonder with which every child greeted Christmas. Did Maude also have her memories?
‘Sir John!’
Cranston blinked to hide his tears and grinned over at Athelstan.
‘I have a need of refreshment, monk!’
Athelstan saw the pain in his friend’s face and looked away.
‘In a while, Sir John. First, let us see Sir Fulke. I wish to search Sir Ralph’s bed chamber here in the White Tower.’
Cranston nodded and lumbered off whilst Athelstan packed his writing tray away. The friar sat for a while admiring the beauty of St John’s Chapel, comparing it to the grimness of St Erconwald’s. He thought of Benedicta. How lovely she had looked at the early morning Mass. He wondered if Huddle would use her in the painting of the Visitation he was planning for one of the aisles. What, Athelstan wondered, would she do at Christmas? She had mentioned a brother in Colchester. Perhaps she might stay in Southwark and agree to go for a walk, or at least sit and share a goblet of wine with him and gossip about the past. Christmas could be so lonely… Athelstan’s eye caught a crucifix and he suddenly remembered the horrors being perpetrated in the cemetery at St Erconwald’s. He must get to the bottom of that matter. Who could it be, and why?
‘Brother Athelstan! Brother Athelstan!’ Cranston stood, leering down at him. ‘You drink too much claret, priest,’ the coroner mockingly announced. ‘Come, we must visit the late constable’s chamber. Colebrooke and Sir Fulke are on their way.’
Sir Ralph’s quarters were up a polished wooden staircase in one of the turrets of the White Tower, a pleasant, sweet-smelling chamber in sharp contrast to the grim cell over in the North Bastion. Two small bay windows with cushioned seats below and an oriel window, glazed with stained glass depicting the Agnus Dei, provided light. The walls were of plaster, painted soft green and decorated with silver and gold lozenges. A thick tapestry hung just above the small canopied fireplace, the floor had been polished smooth, and the great bed was covered by a gold-tasselled counterpane. At the foot of the four-poster, with its lid thrown back, stood Sir Ralph’s huge personal coffer.
‘It’s luxurious,’ Cranston whispered. ‘What terrified Sir Ralph so much he had to move from here to that bleak prison cell?’
Cranston and Athelstan squatted down before the coffer and began to go through Sir Ralph’s personal papers, but they found nothing about his years in Outremer. Every document concerned his office as constable or his service in the retinue of John of Gaunt. They must have spent an hour sifting through letters, indentures and memoranda. Only a Book of Hours caught Athelstan’s attention. Each page was decorated with delicate filigree-like scrollwork in a range of dazzling colours: on one page lightly drawn angel figures, on another a priest sprinkling a shrouded corpse with holy water as he committed it to the grave. The Nativity, with Mary and Joseph bowing over a sleeping child; Christ’s walk through Limbo, driving away black-faced demons with the power of his golden eye. Athelstan became engrossed, fascinated by its beauty. He looked inside the cover and noticed how Sir Ralph had scrawled prayer after prayer to St Julian. ‘St Julian, pray for me! St Julian, avert God’s anger! St Julian, intercede for me with Christ’s mother!’ Each of the blank pages at the back of the book was filled with similar phrases. Athelstan read them all, ignoring Cranston’s mutterings and the angry boot-tapping of Sir Fulke. Finally Athelstan closed the coffer and stood up.
‘You are finished, friar?’ the kinsman snapped.
Athelstan looked sharply at him: Sir Fulke was apparently a man who hid behind a veil of bonhomie and good humour but now he looked angry, suspicious, and resentful of their intrusion.
‘Am I finished?’ Athelstan echoed. ‘Yes and no, Sir Fulke.’
The knight blew out his cheeks. ‘The day is passing, friar,’ he observed tartly, glaring out of the window. ‘I am a busy man with matters to attend to. What more do you want?’
‘You wear boots, Sir Fulke?’
‘Yes, I wear boots!’ came the mimicking reply.
‘And there are buckles on your boots?’
The colour drained from Sir Fulke’s face.
‘Yes,’ he mumbled.
‘Well,’ Athelstan pulled from his wallet the buckle he had found on the frozen moat, ‘I believe this is yours. We found it on the ice outside the North Bastion tower, yet you said you were in the city all night.’
Sir Ralph’s kinsman paled, the arrogance draining from his face.
‘I lost the buckle yesterday.’
‘Were you on the ice?’
Sir Fulke suddenly smiled. ‘Yes, I was. I went there early this morning. You are not the only one, Brother, to think the assassins scaled the tower at dead of night to murder Sir Ralph.’
Athelstan tossed the buckle at him and Sir Fulke caught it clumsily.
‘Then, Sir John, we are finished here. Perhaps some refreshment?’
They met Colebrooke in the passageway outside, thanked him for his attentions and went down the outside steps into the Tower bailey. Athelstan gauged it to be about two o’clock in the afternoon and this was confirmed by a servant who bumped into them as they passed the great hall. They were on the point of going under the Archway of Wakefield when Athelstan caught sight of the great brown bear chained to the wall in the corner near Bell Tower.
‘I have never seen a bear so huge, Sir John!’ he exclaimed.
Cranston clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Then, my lad, it’s time you did!’
The friar was fascinated by Ursus. The bear scarcely repaid the compliment but sat on his hindquarters, hungrily stuffing his great muzzle from a pile of scraps thrown around him. Cranston clapped his hands and the beast raised his huge, dark head. One paw came up and Athelstan stood, riveted by the great, slavering jaws, the teeth — long, white and pointed like a row of daggers — and the insane ferocity blazing in those red-brown eyes. The bear lurched slightly towards them, growling softly in his throat. Cranston grabbed Athelstan’s arm and pulled him back. The animal, alarmed by such rapid movement, now sprang to his full height, his great unsheathed paws beating the air as he strained at the massive steel collar around his neck. Both the coroner and his companion saw the chain fastened to the wall strain at its clasps.
‘That chain,’ Athelstan murmured, ‘is not as secure as it should be.’
‘Goodbye, Ursus,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Let’s go, Athelstan. Very softly!’
They collected their horses and made their way out of the Tower into Petty Wales. A few stalls stood uncovered and some brave souls made their way through the ankle-deep, mucky slush. Two beggar children, arms and legs as thin as sticks, stood beside a brazier singing a carol. Cranston tossed them a penny, and turned to watch as a woman condemned as a scold was led by a beadle up to the stocks in Tower Street, a steel brank fastened tightly around her head. Down the dirt-filled alleyways business was thriving for the red-wigged whores and their constant stream of clients from the Tower garrison.
Cranston asked directions from a one-eyed beggarman and came back beaming from ear to ear.
‘I have found it!’ he announced. ‘The Golden Mitre tavern! You know, the one Sir Ralph and the hospitallers went to every year for their banquet.’
The tavern was just near the Custom House on the corner of Thames Street, a grand, spacious affair with a green-leaved ale-stake pushed under the eaves from which hung a huge, gaudily painted sign. A red-nosed ostler took their horses. Inside, the tap room was airy and warmed by a fire. The rushes on the floor were clean and sprinkled with rosemary and thyme. The walls were lime-washed to keep off insects, and the hams which hung from the blackened beams gave off a sweet crisp smell which made Cranston smack his lips. They hired a table between the fire and the great polished wine butts. The landlord, a small, red-faced, balding fellow with a surprisingly clean apron draped across his expansive front, took one look at Sir John and brought across a deep bowl brimming with blood red claret.
‘Sir John!’ he exclaimed. ‘You remember me?’
Cranston seized the bowl by its two silver handles and half drained it at a gulp. ‘Yes, I do,’ he replied, smacking his lips and glaring over the rim. ‘You are Miles Talbot who once worked as an ale-conner in the taverns round St Paul’s.’ Cranston put down the bowl and shook the landlord’s hand. ‘Let me introduce an honest man, Brother Athelstan. Talbot always knew when a blackjack of ale had been watered down. Well, well, well!’ Cranston unclasped his cloak and basked in the sweet odours and warmth of the tavern. ‘What can you serve us, Master Talbot? And don’t give me fish. We know the river is frozen and the roads blocked, so anything from the water must be weeks old!’
The landlord grinned, listed the contents of his larder, and within the half-hour served a couple of pullets stuffed with herbs and covered with a piquant sauce of sweet butter and wild berries, a skillet pasty, an apple tansy, and a prodigious marrow pudding. Athelstan sat in complete stupefaction, drinking his beer, as Cranston cleared every platter, washing it all down with another bowl of claret. At last Cranston belched, stretched, and beamed round the tavern, snapping his fingers to call Talbot over.
‘Master Miles, a favour!’
‘Anything you wish, Sir John.’
‘Your house is frequented, or rather was frequented, by the late Constable of the Tower, Sir Ralph Whitton?’
Talbot’s face became guarded. ‘Now and again,’ he mumbled. ‘He used to meet here every Yuletide — he, two hospitallers, and others.’
‘Oh, come, Miles. I’m not your enemy, you can trust me. What did they talk about?’
Talbot tapped the table with his stubby fingers. ‘They sat here like you do, Sir John, well away from the rest. When I or any of the servants came near, they always fell silent.’
‘And their demeanour? Were they sad or happy?’
‘Sometimes they would laugh but they were generally very secretive. Often the two hospitallers would be locked in argument with Sir Ralph, and he would become quite hostile and snap back at them.’
‘Anything else?’
Talbot shook his head and turned away. Cranston made a face at Athelstan and shrugged. Suddenly the taverner came back to the table.
‘One thing,’ he announced. ‘Only one strange thing: about three years ago, around Christmas, a stranger came here.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Oh, I can’t remember his appearance but there was something about him. He was cowled and hooded, but he spoke like a soldier. He wanted to know if Sir Ralph drank here. I told him I knew nothing. He went on his way and I never saw him again.’ Talbot smiled apologetically. ‘Sir John, on my oath, that’s all I know.’
The coroner sat with lips pursed, staring down at the empty platters and dishes as if wishing the food he had devoured would magically reappear. Athelstan studied him carefully, rather concerned, for by now Sir John would usually have been shouting for more claret or sack.
‘My Lord Coroner?’
‘Yes, Brother Athelstan.’
‘We must formulate some conclusions about Sir Ralph’s death.’
Cranston blew noisily through his lips. ‘What can we say?’
‘First, you will agree that Sir Ralph was not murdered because he was Constable of the Tower. I mean, by peasant knaves plotting treason and rebellion?’
‘I agree, Brother, but the assassin might have come from outside. He could have been a professional. There are plenty of ex-soldiers for hire in the city who would cut their mothers’ throats if the price was right.’
Athelstan skimmed the rim of the wine goblet with his finger.
‘I would like to believe that, Sir John, but it strikes me as false.’ He shrugged. ‘Yet, for the sake of argument, we will accept that the assassin crossed the frozen moat, climbed the North Bastion, undid the wooden shutters and quietly slashed Sir Ralph’s throat.’
‘It can and has been done, my good priest.’
‘Of course,’ Athelstan continued, ‘the assassin may have been someone in the Tower who knew where Sir Ralph lay, and seized the opportunity of the moat freezing over to gain access to the footholds on the North Bastion. Accordingly either the murderer did this himself or paid someone else to do it.’
Cranston took a deep gulp from the wine bowl. ‘Let us put the two together,’ he said, cracking his knuckles softly. ‘Let us say, for the sake of argument, that the plotter and the assassin are one and the same person. Virtually everyone we questioned, including Mistress Philippa, who may be plump but is very light on her feet, young and agile, could have climbed that tower.’
‘Yet, in the main, they all have stories to explain their whereabouts.’
Cranston nodded. ‘So they have. And it would be the devil’s own job to prove any of them a liar. Moreover, have you noticed how each, apart from the chaplain, has someone to confirm their tale? Which means,’ Cranston concluded, ‘we could be hunting two murderers not one; the two hospitallers, Sir Fulke and Rastani, Philippa and her young swain, Colebrooke and one of the guards.’
Athelstan stared idly up at one of the hams turning on its skewer from one of the rafters. ‘In reality, we know nothing,’ the friar concluded. ‘We have no idea who the murderer is or how he or she gained access to Sir Ralph, though we did find Sir Fulke’s buckle.’
‘And yet he claims he walked on the frozen moat this morning before our arrival.’
‘I believe him,’ Athelstan answered. ‘But remember how he said he lost the buckle the previous day.’
‘What are you saying, friar?’
‘Either he lost it as he crept across the moat to kill Sir Ralph or else someone put it there. I believe the latter. Sir Fulke’s honesty in admitting he walked on the frozen moat saved him from suspicion. If he had denied it, and we later proved he had been on the moat, then it would have been a different matter.’
‘How do we know he’s honest?’ Cranston barked. ‘Did you notice the postern gate we used to gain access to the moat? Its hinges were rusty. Before we did, no one had used that door for years. Sir Fulke could be lying.’
‘Or he could have used another postern gate.’
‘An interesting thought, Brother, but let’s look at motives.’
Athelstan spread his hands. ‘There are as many motives as there are people in the Tower, Sir John. Was Sir Fulke greedy? Was the chaplain angry at being called a thief? Did Colebrooke want Sir Ralph’s post? Did Philippa and her lover see Sir Ralph as an obstacle to their marriage or to Mistress Philippa’s inheritance?’
‘Which brings us,’ Cranston concluded, ‘to the two hospitallers. Now we know they are not telling the truth. Somehow or other that piece of parchment and the seed cake lie at the very heart of the murder and they must know something about both. Sir Ralph’s death note bore the impression of a three-masted ship, the type often used in the Middle Sea, whilst the seed cake is the mark of the Assassins. Ergo, Sir Ralph’s death must be linked to some mystery in his past, something connected with his days as a warrior in Outremer.’
Athelstan put his blackjack down on the table. He opened and shut his mouth.
‘What’s the matter, friar?’
‘There’s only one conclusion we can reach, Master Coroner — Sir Ralph might not be the first person to die in the Tower before Yuletide comes.’