by Paul Doherty
There is one matter we have overlooked.
‘What’s that?’ Cranston mumbled, his mouth full of food.
‘Horne’s murderer means the assassin knows us or why should he send such a grisly trophy to your house?’
‘Because the bastard’s mad!’
‘No, no, Sir John. It’s meant as a warning. This murderer sees himself as doing God’s work. He is sending a message: Keep well away until my work is done. Don’t interfere.’ Athelstan lowered his spoon. ‘Such a terrible thing,’ he whispered. ‘A man’s genitals hacked off and stuffed into the mouth of his decapitated head. Of course,’ he continued, ‘Fitzormonde mentioned that.’
‘What?’
‘Well, how the Caliph of Egypt would punish in such a way anybody who transgressed his command. The head and genitals hacked off and both exposed above the city gates in Alexandria. It’s obvious. Sir John,’ he continued, ‘our murderer must be someone who has lived in Outremer, someone who knows about the Hashishoni — the flat sesame seed cake, and that awful way of humiliating the corpse of an executed criminal.’
Cranston lowered his knife. ‘But who is the murderer, Brother?’
‘I don’t know, Sir John, but I think we should re-visit the Tower and speak to our group of suspects.’
‘And then?’
‘We go to Woodforde.’
Cranston groaned.
‘Sir John,’ Athelstan persisted, ‘it’s not far — a few miles through Aldgate and down the Mile End Road. We must find out if Burghgesh ever returned and what happened to his son. Moreover,’ he continued, ‘perhaps it may give you some time to reflect on the Lady Maude.’
Cranston jabbed the point of his knife into a piece of soft meat, mumbled his assent and continued to eat as if his very life depended upon it.
CHAPTER 10
Athelstan and Cranston finished their meal and crossed London Bridge. Beneath them the water moved black and sluggish and they heard chunks of ice crashing against the starlings which protected the wooden arches from the fury of the Thames. They passed through Billingsgate. The air stank with the odour from the stalls, now freshly stocked with herring, cod, tench and even pike as the fishing fleets took advantage of a break in the weather.
The Tower was all abustle when they arrived. Like any good soldier, Colebrooke had the garrison working to break the tedium caused by the freezing weather, as well as to take his own mind off the recent murders. The lieutenant was standing on Tower Green, shouting orders at workmen who were refurbishing mangonels, scorpions and the great battering rams. A number of archers stood ankle-deep in the slush, practising at the butts, whilst others were being mercilessly drilled by the Serjeants. Athelstan vaguely remembered rumours about how, in the spring, the French might attack the Channel ports and even force their way up the Thames to plunder and burn the city.
Colebrooke’s displeasure at seeing Cranston and Athelstan was more than apparent.
‘You have found the murderers?’ he yelled.
‘No, Master Lieutenant!’ Cranston bellowed back. ‘But we will. And, when we do, you can build the gallows.’
Cranston stepped aside as a butcher and two fletchers rolled barrels of salted pork down to the store house. The coroner wrinkled his nose. Despite the heavy spices and thick white salt, the pork smelt rancid and his gorge rose as he saw insects crawling out from under the rim of the barrel. He quietly vowed not to accept any food from the Tower buttery or kitchens. Colebrooke, seeing his visitors would not be deterred, turned away to issue further orders. Athelstan took advantage of the delay to walk over to where the bear, squatting in its own filth, was busy plundering a mound of 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 lie?’
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, 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 us
ual 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 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 lips 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, his eyes never flickered.
‘It’s true!’ Fitzormonde intervened. ‘It was over the Moor that the bad blood first surfaced between Burghgesh and Whitton.’
Fulke slumped back on the bench. ‘I’ve said enough,’ he snarled. ‘But I’m tired of these questions. Mistress Philippa, your father was a bastard and no one here will gainsay me.’
Cranston and Athelstan just stood amazed at this sudden outburst of hatred and animosity. Good Lord, Athelstan thought, anyone here could be Sir Ralph’s murderer. Burghgesh had been well loved. Did someone in this room believe he was God’s executioner to avenge a good man’s death? Athelstan looked around.
‘Master Parchmeiner will not be here today?’ he asked, taking advantage of the sudden lull.
‘No,’ Sir Fulke replied wearily. ‘For pity’s sake, Father, who would want to stay here? So many memories, so much hatred.’
Mistress Philippa sat huddled on one of the benches, her face in her hands. Sir Fulke went over to her and patted her gently on the shoulder. Cranston caught a smirk on Rastani’s face. Was he the murderer? the coroner wondered. He recalled Athelstan’s words, how the slayer of Adam Horne used a method practised in Moorish countries to desecrate the body of a criminal and traitor.
‘We have seen enough,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘We should go.’
‘Just one more thing,’ Cranston announced. ‘You knew Adam Horne the merchant?’
‘Another bastard!’ Sir Fulke hissed. ‘Yes, yes, Sir John. Horne was my brother’s friend.’
‘Well, he’s dead!’ Cranston proclaimed flatly. ‘Found murdered last night in the ruins just north of here.’
Fitzormonde swore quietly. The others looked up in alarm.
‘I wonder where you all were?’ Cranston asked.
‘Hell’s teeth, Sir John!’ Colebrooke snapped. ‘Now the thaw’s come, anyone could slip in and out of a postern gate.’
Cranston smiled wanly. The lieutenant was right: it would be nigh impossible to make everyone account for their movements. Horne could have been murdered any time between dusk and dawn.
‘Come, Sir John,’ Athelstan murmured.
They took their leave unceremoniously, Cranston waving Colebrooke aside. They hardly spoke a word until they had collected their horses and left the Tower, going up towards Eastcheap.
‘Oh, Lord save us!’ Cranston suddenly broke the silence. ‘What hatred exists in the human heart, eh, Brother?’
‘Aye,’ Athelstan replied, gently guiding Philomel away from the snow-covered sewer which ran down the middle of the street. ‘Perhaps we should all remember that, Sir John. Minor jealousies and misunderstandings can fan the petty flames of bickering into the roaring fires of hatred.
Cranston glanced at Athelstan out of the corner of his eye and smiled at the barbed reminder what was true of Fulke and others in the Tower was also true of his relationship with the Lady Maude.
‘Where to now, Brother?’ he asked.
‘To Master Parchmeiner’s shop opposite Chancellor’s Inn near St Paul’s.’
‘Why?’ Cranston asked.
‘Because, my dear Cranston, he was not present with the rest in the Tower and we must interrogate everyone.’
They rode up Candlewick Street and into Trinity, a prosperous part of the city Athelstan rarely frequented. The houses were spacious and grand; their lower storeys were built of solid timber, the projecting
gables above were a framework of black beams and white plaster. The roofs were tiled, unlike the houses of many of Athelstan’s parishioners who had to be content with reeds and straw. Many of the windows had pure glass and were protected by wood and iron. Servants from these houses regularly flushed out the sewers with the water they used to wash clothes so the streets did not reek as they did in Southwark. Before several of the imposing entrances stood armed retainers wearing the gaudy escutcheons of their patrons: bears, swans, wyverns, dragons, lions, and even stranger beasts. Stocky, well-fed merchants walked arm-in-arm with their plump wives, clad in garments of silk and satin, decorated with miniature pearls of exquisite delicacy. Two canons swaggered by from the cathedral, clad in thick woollen robes lined with miniver. A group of lawyers in gowns of red, violet and scarlet, trimmed with lambswool, sauntered arrogantly by, their cloaks pulled back to display decorated, low-slung girdles.
Pigs wandered here with bells slung round their necks to show they were the property of the Hospital of St Anthony and couldn’t be slaughtered. Beadles armed with steel-pointed staffs dispersed fowl or curbed the yapping of fierce yellow-haired dogs, whilst bailiffs tried to move on a strange creature dressed like a magpie in black and white rags. The fellow loudly claimed he had in his battered, leather coffer some of the most marvellous relics of Christendom: ‘One of Charlemagne’s teeth!’ he yelled. ‘Two legs of the donkey that carried Mary! The skull of Herod’s servant and some of the stones Christ turned into bread!’
Athelstan stopped and restrained the beadles who were harassing the poor fellow.
‘You say you have one of the stones Christ turned into a loaf of bread?’ the friar queried, trying hard to hide his laughter.
‘Yes, Brother.’ The relic-seller’s eyes brightened at the prospect of profit.
‘But Christ didn’t change stones into bread. The devil asked him to but Christ refused.’
Cranston, also grinning, drew close to watch the charlatan’s reaction. The relic-seller licked dry lips.
‘Of course, he did, Brother,’ he replied in a half-whisper. ‘I have it on good authority that when Satan left, Christ did it but then changed them back to show he would not be tempted to eat. It will only cost you a penny.’