House of the Red Slayer smoba-2

by Paul Doherty

  ‘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 Rastani, sullen and withdrawn, slumped on a stool between two burly serjeants-at-arms.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 lie. 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 the bell?’ the chaplain squeaked.

  ‘I did,’ Sir John replied.

  ‘How?’

  ‘What Sir John did,’ Athelstan replied quietly, turning his back to the fire, ‘was to go along to the garde-robe. An archer, carrying a small arbalest, went with him. I noticed that the window above the privy overlooked Tower Green. The archer, standing behind the curtain which hides the privy, shot a bolt and hit the bell.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘You know the mechanism. Once it is tilted slightly the bell begins to toll.’

  ‘But it was dark,’ Sir Fulke spoke up.

  ‘No, Sir Fulke. As you may remember, at night there are torches around the bell.’

  ‘But the bolt was never found!’

  ‘Of course not. The snow around the tocsin was thick and undisturbed. The bolt would hit the bell and fall into the snow. When the soldiers from the garrison checked why the bell had been rung, they would be looking for footprints, not a crossbow bolt, no bigger than your hand, embedded deep in the snow and ice.’

  ‘And the crossbow?’ Parchmeiner spoke for the first time, his voice harsh and staccato.

  Athelstan shook his head. ‘Like the dagger, you could have left it in the corridor and, when finished, replaced it or dropped it down the privy hole. And who would notice? As you hastily left the garde-robe and ran back to the chamber, everything was in uproar as the tocsin sounded. No one would see any connection between your leaving and the bell sounding. You had gone to the privy, not downstairs, and the guards had seen no one approach the bell. The rest was easy,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘In night-shrouded confusion, you ran up to the parapet and tossed the weapon over the wall into the ditch. If anyone saw you on the steps, you could always pass as a hero looking for the cause of poor Mowbray’s death.’ Athelstan looked at Cranston. ‘When Sir John told me about the crossbow bolt found embedded in the bear, I suddenly realised how the tocsin bell could have been so mysteriously sounded.’ Athelstan felt suddenly tired and rubbed his face with his hands.

  ‘God knows,’ the coroner boomed, going to stand legs apart in front of the prisoner, ‘how you lured poor Horne to his death, though the man was so full of fears it would be easy enough to play on them.’ Cranston clutched Parchmeiner’s face in his hand and squeezed it tightly. ‘I saw the grisly remains of your work.’

  Parchmeiner brought his head back, smiled, and spat full into Cranston’s face. The coroner wiped the spittle from his cheek with the hem of his robe then, bringing his hand back, slapped Parchmeiner across the face. He turned and looked at Athelstan as the young man struggled between his guards.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Cranston said. ‘I won’t strike him again, but he deserved that for bringing his evil deeds into my house and under my roof.’

  He went and refilled his wine goblet. He took it over and offered it to Philippa where she sat with her uncle, but she wouldn’t even raise her head. Sir Fulke looked away so Cranston walked into the middle of the room, sipping from the cup. ‘Finally, Fitzormonde’s death.’ He made a face. ‘That was easy.’ He gestured at Parchmeiner. ‘Our young killer here pretends to leave the Tower, with people milling about during the great thaw, no one would really notice him slipping back in again, perhaps wearing a different cloak or hood. There are enough shadowy corners in this fortress to hide an army. Every evening Fitzormonde always went to see the bear and Parchmeiner seized this opportunity. Once again armed with an arbalest, he fires. The beast, enraged, launches itself at Fitzormonde. The badly secured chain snaps and the hospitaller dies. Whilst Geoffrey exploits the chaos to slip through the main gate or one of the postern doors and be safe beyond reproach.’

  ‘You have no proof!’ Parchmeiner rasped. ‘No proof at all!’

  ‘No, but we can get it!’ Athelstan answered. ‘First, I can prove that a man may climb the North Bastion in the middle of the night and at the dead of winter. But could he climb down again? I can examine the rubble outside Sir Ralph’s chamber for stains of blood from the dagger you hid there but undoubtedly collected later. Master Colebrooke can also make enquiries about who oiled the locks and doors of Sir Ralph’s chambers. The tocsin can be examined for the mark of a crossbow bolt and the ground carefully searched, for it undoubtedly still lies hidden in the ice and snow. We could start making enquiries about who was where on the night Adam Horne died.’ Athelstan walked up to the white-faced man. ‘We can also hold you in a dungeon here until the s
now melts, and make careful investigations after these friends and relatives of yours in Bristol.’

  ‘But why? Why?’ Philippa’s gaunt face was anguished, dark shadows appearing under her reddened eyes. ‘Why?’ she screamed.

  ‘Fifteen years ago,’ Cranston replied, too full of pity to look at her, ‘your father and the others whom Parchmeiner murdered served as knights in Outremer under the leadership of Sir Bartholomew Burghgesh. You have heard the name mentioned? Your father,’ Cranston continued, not waiting for a reply, ‘and the others, cruelly betrayed Sir Bartholomew in order to seize certain treasure he had taken from the Caliph of Egypt. Now Sir Bartholomew left Cyprus for Genoa but the others, led by Sir Ralph, secretly informed the Caliph and the ship Sir Bartholomew was travelling on was attacked.’ Cranston scratched his head. ‘The accepted story is that Bartholomew died on that ship but, as we now know, three years ago, just before Christmas, Burghgesh came to see your father at the Tower. Sir Ralph, either by trickery or force, took Sir Bartholomew captive and imprisoned him in a dungeon beneath this very tower. He used the madcap Red Hand to block up the cell. After all, who would listen to the rantings of an idiot?’ Cranston whirled round as the young man struggled between his guards.

  ‘He is here?’ Geoffrey shouted. ‘Bartholomew’s body is here?’ Parchmeiner suddenly went limp. ‘Oh, God!’ he whispered. ‘If only I had known!’

  Athelstan crossed to his side. All the hatred and arrogance in the assassin’s face had now fled and the friar felt a twinge of compassion at the tears brimming in the young man’s eyes.

  ‘Who are you?’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Tell me! You have my promise, you will see Bartholomew’s last resting place.’

  Parchmeiner looked down at the floor. ‘Burghgesh was not my father,’ he replied in a faraway voice. ‘But I wish to God he had been. I was on the same ship as him when it was taken. I was only an orphan so I clung to Sir Bartholomew.’ Geoffrey smiled faintly. ‘He protected me,’ he whispered. ‘He put me behind him and fought like a paladin until the Moors promised both of us our lives if he surrendered.’ The young man looked up and blinked. ‘They kept their word but Bartholomew was beaten with the bastinado until the soles of his feet turned to raw flesh. Then we were sold as slaves to a merchant in Alexandria. Sir Bartholomew tended the garden and I was put to work in the scriptorium, curing and storing parchment. The years passed. Sir Bartholomew never gave up hope. He looked after me, treated me as a son, protected me against those who would have preferred to treat me like a woman. One night Bartholomew cut our master’s throat and rifled his treasure room. We fled across the desert to Damietta, bribed a merchant and took ship to Cyprus, thence to Genoa and across Europe to Southampton.’

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  ‘Three years ago. Sir Bartholomew had told me about Whitton and the treasure but,’ the young man’s voice almost broke, ‘my master was good and true. He still couldn’t accept that his comrades — ’ the words were spat out ‘- his comrades had betrayed him!’ The young man shook his head, mouthing oaths quietly to himself. ‘We travelled to London. Sir Bartholomew still had the treasure he had stolen from the merchant in Alexandria, gold and silver coins, so we lived like lords in a tavern near Barbican Street.’ Geoffrey now stared at Athelstan. ‘Can you believe that, Brother? He wouldn’t accept he had been betrayed. He left me in the tavern and went to Woodforde, but returned disconsolate. His wife and son were both dead and the manor house in disrepair. We stayed for a while until Sir Bartholomew said his comrades would meet as planned near the Tower every Advent before Christmas.’ The young man licked his lips. ‘Sir Bartholomew made enquiries as to what had happened to each of his comrades. Two were hospitallers, one a merchant.’ Geoffrey laughed. ‘Sir Bartholomew, God bless him, was even pleased to hear that Whitton was now Constable of the Tower and told me all about this fortress, every nook and cranny.’

  The murderer stirred restlessly between his captors, now lost in his own memories. ‘Bartholomew went to meet Whitton. He said he would find out the truth, whatever it cost.’ The young man made a grimace. ‘But he didn’t return and my own suspicions were proved correct. Whitton, who had betrayed him fifteen years ago, had now used his position to have Bartholomew killed.’ He glared at Athelstan. ‘I am glad I killed them! I gave them fair warning. I used the same sign Bartholomew always shared with me in our captivity — the three-masted ship which brought us together.’

  ‘And me?’ Philippa cried. ‘What about me?’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Didn’t you love me?’

  The young man laughed. ‘You need a heart to love, Philippa. I have no heart, no soul. Bartholomew was my life.’ He dismissed the girl with a contemptuous glance. ‘I used you,’ he continued, ignoring her loud sobbing. ‘I took Bartholomew’s gold to plot Whitton’s downfall. I knew about manuscripts and vellum so I became Geoffrey Parchmeiner. Oh, by the way, Geoffrey is my Christian name. Geoffrey Burghgesh, you can call me. I sold the best parchment for a pittance to the Tower. I became friendly with the constable’s daughter and wheedled my way into her affections.’ The murderer smiled to himself.

  ‘You studied the constable? His movements? His moods?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Brother. I knew that each Advent he and the other murderers met to feast and glory in their sin. I became what he wanted me to be — a rich young merchant besotted with his rather plain daughter. You see, Brother, if you spend your youth as a prisoner of the Moors, you learn how to act. You have to in order to survive.’

  ‘Why now?’ Cranston barked. ‘Why not a year ago?’

  The young man shook his head. ‘Sir John, I had to plan. I had to study my quarry, and when the Thames froze over I struck. Oh, I enjoyed it I would have been successful if it hadn’t been for you, Brother. I sent Horne’s head to Sir John to show justice had been done.’

  The young man grinned at Cranston as if relating a good story, and Athelstan realised for the first time that Geoffrey’s mind was disturbed.

  ‘Of course,’ he continued, ‘my scheme might have gone awry, but if so I would have plotted something else. After all, there’s more than one road to Hell. And I waited because revenge, as you can all appreciate, is a dish best served cold.’

  ‘You bastard!’ Sir Fulke shouted.

  ‘A limb of Satan!’ Hammond cried.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Parchmeiner retorted. ‘But they all deserved to die.’

  ‘No, they didn’t,’ Athelstan said quietly. ‘They did wrong but at least two of them were genuinely sorry. You could have brought an appeal against them at King’s Bench. The very accusation would have destroyed Sir Ralph.’

  ‘I am God’s judgment!’ Parchmeiner yelled, glaring round the room. ‘I am their doom! Horne knew that when he saw me dressed in armour similar to that Sir Bartholomew had worn.’ He turned and spat in Sir Fulke’s direction. ‘God damn you and all your family. I even took the buckle from your shoe and left it on the ice. It would have been a nice twist, eh? To be hanged for the murder of your own brother?’

  Sir Fulke turned his back.

  ‘The rest was so easy,’ Geoffrey continued. ‘The letters were sent. Sir Ralph moved to the North Bastion. I oiled both the hinges and lock of the chamber door, and hid a dagger in the rubble in the passageway. I changed the keys when I helped the drunken bastard to his last resting place.’

  ‘And the rest?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘Oh, Mowbray was easy, sulking in the darkness. I’d been up to the parapet before and he’d never noticed. I did place an arbalest in the corridor and hit the tocsin bell then threw it down the sewer hole.’ Geoffrey giggled. ‘Horne was a victim of his own fears, a veritable fool, and I did warn Fitzormonde about that bear.’ The assassin bit his lip. ‘I could have killed them by other means but, once Whitton accepted me, the game had to be played.’

  Cranston walked up to face him. ‘Geoffrey Parchmeiner,’ he intoned, ‘also known as Burghgesh, I arrest you for murder. You will be taken to Ne
wgate prison and, at a fixed time, answer for your terrible crimes in the court of King’s Bench.’ He looked round and nodded at Colebrooke. ‘Take him away.’

  ‘I want to see Bartholomew’s last resting place!’

  ‘Yes, you may,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Master Lieutenant, let him look at what we discovered this morning, but bind him well!’

  The murderer threw one ferocious look at Fulke before Colebrooke and his soldiers hustled him out of the door. Athelstan sighed and looked round.

  ‘Sir Fulke, Mistress Philippa, I am sorry.’

  Philippa buried her face in her uncle’s shoulder and silently wept. Sir Fulke just looked away.

  ‘Sir John,’ Athelstan said, ‘we are finished here.’ He put his writing implements back into the canvas bag, bowed to Sir Fulke and followed Sir John down the now darkening steps.

  Outside Cranston took a deep breath. ‘Thank God that’s over. Brother!’

  They walked under the forbidding mass of Wakefield Tower where they waited whilst a servant scurried back to the North Bastion tower to collect Cranston’s dagger.

  ‘A true murderer,’ Sir John said quietly.

  ‘Aye!’ Athelstan replied. ‘Insane or possessed, driven by hatred and revenge.’ He looked up at the ravens cawing noisily above them. ‘I’ll be glad to be free of here, Sir John. This place has the stink of death about it.’

  ‘It is called The House of the Red Slayer.’

  ‘It’s well named,’ Athelstan replied.

  They stood aside as Colebrooke marched by, Parchmeiner now tightly bound, almost hidden in the middle of his guards. The servant came back with Cranston’s dagger and they left for the nearest tavern.

  Sir John, of course, demanded refreshment after what he called his ‘arduous labours’. Athelstan matched him cup for cup until they separated. Sir John went back to continue his rejoicing whilst Athelstan led a protesting Philomel up Billingsgate and across London Bridge to the dark loneliness of St Erconwald’s.

  A few days later, on Christmas Eve, Athelstan sat at his bench just inside the chancel screen, cradling a purring, contented Bonaventura on his lap. The friar looked around the sanctuary. All was ready for Christmas. The altar had a fresh cloth trimmed in gold, the sanctuary had been swept, the altar decorated with holly and ivy, the greenery and blood red berries shimmering in the candlelight. The children had rehearsed their mummers’ play. Athelstan laughed softly remembering how Crim, who had played the role of Joseph, had disrupted the proceedings by a short fist fight with one of the angels. Cecily had swept the nave and dusted the ledgers, and tomorrow he would celebrate three Masses: one at dawn, one mid-morning and the other at noon. Athelstan closed his eyes. He would remember his dead, his parents and his brother Francis, the men killed so violently in the Tower, as well as young Parchmeiner who would surely hang.