The Straw Men

trap them, confront them and despatch them to judgement. So, let us begin.’ Athelstan got off the bed, picked up the sack and moved across to the chancery table. ‘As I said, I do not wish to leave. I have looked on enough blood. Sir John, I’d be grateful if you would visit the chapel in the White Tower. Summon whoever you can. Try to recreate what happened. I hope to join you there. Perhaps we might also visit the death chamber where Eli died.’

Cranston took another gulp from his wine skin, gathered his cloak and left. The coroner was pleased that his little friend wished to be by himself. That enigmatic friar, like any good lurcher, was casting about for a scent. The hunt had begun!

After Cranston had left, Athelstan emptied the contents of the sack on to the table, the manuscripts from Humphrey Warde’s house, ledgers, bills, memoranda and the beautiful calfskin-bound psalter. Athelstan opened this and was immediately intrigued. Warde had been a spicer, and had apparently commissioned this especially for himself. The author and illuminator of the psalter had described the history of spices, especially the mystical qualities of certain herbs and plants as well as the role spices played in Man’s constant war against the demons. The miniature bejewelled pictures depicted devils bubbling in a huge cauldron containing, according to the inscription written beneath, oil, resin, garlic, myrrh, cloves and cinnamon. In one picture a flying serpent-devil with scaly wings was being pierced by shafts of henbane and hemlock. Next to this a miniature displayed Satan’s eye, huge as a fist, open and luminous, flaring with malevolent life, being assailed by thick clouds of frankincense from a golden thurible. Another picture showed a demon in a shape of a huge slug tortured by the holy oil poured over him while a fellow demon was being showered with sacred chrism. Athelstan read on, fascinated, turning the stiffened leaves as he half listened to the sounds of the garrison and the eerie noises of the Tower. At one point he rose and pulled across the wheeled brazier for greater warmth. He glanced around. The juddering candlelight made the shadows shift and rise as if another world, a secret one, thrived here in this bleak stone chamber. Athelstan rubbed his fingers over the spluttering coals. ‘Yet there is another reality,’ he whispered to his own shadow. ‘This straight and narrow place shelters an assassin, a soul throbbing with hatred, who exults in dealing out sudden and mysterious death.’

The attacks on the Flemings he understood, the murder of Warde was brutal yet logical, but why the Straw Men? Athelstan returned to the psalter, leafing through the pages till his eye was caught by an exquisitely illuminated full page picture of Lucifer falling from Paradise. Athelstan stared, shivering at the chill which abruptly seized him. ‘Jesu Miserere.’ He prayed softly. ‘Jesus, have mercy on us. Is it possible?’ Athelstan put the psalter aside and pulled across the bills and memoranda. He sifted through these, searching for items bought and sold while listing Master Warde’s customers. Athelstan revised what he had written, looking for a pattern, and eventually found it. He threw the quill pen down, staring at what he had written. ‘Warde was a spy,’ he murmured. ‘He was sent into my parish to listen, collect and report, but he was not the hand which wielded the dagger — he was only the glove.’ Athelstan beat his breast. ‘Mea Culpa! Mea Culpa! Mea Culpa! My fault entirely, I was too quick to judge those two rogues, God bless them. Watkin and Pike were correct. A Judas man did, and is, sitting at the heart of our community.’ Athelstan rose and carefully collected his papers, now determined to join Sir John in the White Tower. ‘I will not tell him my suspicions,’ he murmured, ‘not here in this murky, treacherous place where the walls listen and deceit flourishes thick and rich as any tangle of weed.’

Athelstan took his cloak and braved the freezing weather. Night was edging in. Daylight was swiftly fading. The Tower garrison was preparing for sleep. Figures and shapes slid through the ever-present mist. Athelstan glanced towards Beauchamp where torches flared above the doorway, gleaming on the armoured mail of the guards. ‘I wonder who you really are?’ Athelstan whispered to himself. He made his way across the icy ground into the White Tower, up the stairs and into St John’s Chapel. Cranston, Lascelles, Cornelius, Rosselyn and the Straw Men were gathered there. Athelstan smiled to himself. The coroner had exercised his authority. The chapel itself hadn’t changed much since the day of the killing. The heavy tapestry curtains still hung between the pillars on either side, screening off the aisles or transepts where the food tables had stood. The bloodstained turkey carpet and matting had been removed but Hell’s mouth still stood wedged into the entrance of the rood screen. On either side of this hung the heavy arras concealing the left and right aisles flanking the sanctuary. Athelstan stared around and, ignoring the hubbub of conversation, walked out of the chapel, down the steps and into the cold darkness of the crypt. He took a cresset from its holder and went along to the far window. He stared at this then crossed to the small recess where Barak’s body must have lain. Athelstan was convinced Barak was no assassin. He’d either been killed or felled unconscious here, then swiftly dragged up, the arbalest and war belt used to depict him as such. Those shutters had been opened and Barak’s body violently hurled out. He heard raised voices so he walked back up the steps to join the rest in St John’s Chapel.

Cranston had persuaded Rachael to act as Oudernarde, Samuel as Lettenhove. The rest of the Straw Men were arguing about where they were on that day. The others were just as vague about their whereabouts, especially Rosselyn and Cornelius, who never mentioned anything about their swift departure from the chapel to check on Beauchamp Tower. Eventually Cranston imposed order. He reached a consensus that Oudernarde and Lettenhove had been standing on opposite sides of the chapel.

‘As were the two braziers when the small explosions occurred,’ Cranston declared. ‘They caused the first confusion, then Lettenhove was struck, followed by Oudernarde. Yes?’ They all murmured in agreement. ‘And the assassin,’ Cranston pointed down the chapel towards the door, ‘could not have stood or knelt there; he would have been glimpsed by the guards or the musicians, yes?’ Again, everyone agreed.

‘In the aisles either side,’ Samuel offered but then shrugged as he realized the foolishness of what he had said.

‘The killer,’ Cranston answered, ‘if he had stood in the aisles, would be in full view of all those pressing around the food tables. The assassin first loosed at Lettenhove then somehow moved across the chapel to release a second bolt at Meister Oudernarde. And that,’ the coroner wagged a finger, ‘is the mystery. How could this assassin carry, prime and loose not one crossbow bolt but two then hide his weapon, all without being seen?’

‘Not to mention producing those two severed heads,’ Athelstan intervened. He walked to the rood screen, gesturing with his hands to either side. ‘Both are found halfway along either side of Hell’s mouth. Of course,’ Athelstan pulled at the arras on the right side of the rood screen, ‘the assassin may have hidden behind this, loosed the bolt then moved swiftly across the sanctuary behind Hell’s mouth to the other arras and done the same again, then pushed out those two heads. And yet for one person this would be difficult, very difficult.’

‘And we were there,’ Rachael spoke up. ‘I’m sure we were, collecting costumes, masks and other items.’

‘And I went behind to check all was well.’ Rosselyn, crouching at the foot of a pillar, spoke up. ‘I saw nothing untoward.’ He rose clumsily to his feet. ‘And remember the crossbow was never found.’ Athelstan did not answer him; he was desperately trying to recall what had been happening when those crossbow bolts had been loosed. He pointed to one of the polished oblong tables on which the food had been served.

‘Please, if you could bring one of those over here.’

Samuel and Rosselyn did, moving chairs and putting the table down in the centre of the chapel. Athelstan asked them to gather around.

‘Look,’ he smoothed the top of the table with his hand, ‘the chapel of Saint John is a rectangle stretching west to east. On the eastern side here,’ Athelstan pointed to the top of the table, ‘stretches a line which includes the rood screen and the arras hanging either side. The entrance through that rood screen is blocked by Hell’s mouth.’

‘Are you sure,’ Lascelles intervened, ‘that the assassin did not hide there? You can survey the room from it, prime a crossbow then loose.’ Lascelles shrugged. ‘I know it can be done — we tried that. I appreciate your objections but it remains the only possibility.’

‘I suspect the assassin wanted us to believe that,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But for the crossbow to be used correctly, Hell’s mouth would have to be prised loose and pulled back. No evidence exists that took place. When we did pull it back, the tight fastenings were broken. If the murderer had done that, it would have been obvious; someone would have noticed.’ The Straw Men loudly agreed, adding that they had all worked to place it there.

‘Hell’s mouth,’ Samuel spoke out, ‘is our pride and joy. In the main it can be wedged in the door of most rood screens. Rachael here always polishes and paints it. To move it as you describe, Brother, would have been nigh impossible. The paint work would have been scuffed, the fastenings would have been broken and the noise alone would have attracted attention.’ Athelstan, nodding in agreement, gestured to the side of the table.

‘These are the aisles or transepts. On that day they were busy, food and drink tables stood here, guests and