‘Did he use Hell’s mouth?’ Cranston pointed to the great dragon’s head tightly wedged in the doorway of the rood screen. ‘Look at those gaping jaws, Athelstan. Our assassin could have crawled in with his crossbow…’ Athelstan and Cranston pulled back the curtain at one end of the rood screen and walked into the sanctuary. Athelstan stared around, peering through the poor light.
‘Dark,’ he observed. ‘See, Sir John,’ he pointed to the heavy curtains hanging either end of the rood screen, ‘these block out the light from the window of the transepts. There’s the sanctuary lamp, but,’ Athelstan sniffed at the candles on their five-branched spigot, ‘once these are extinguished, murder could easily wrap its dark cloak around this holy place. Now Hell’s mouth.’ Athelstan swiftly scrutinized the back of the dragon’s head, at least two-and-a-half yards high. He marvelled at the artifice for it was simply fastened to a high-legged table; each leg had a wooden castor while a black canvas cloth clasped to the back of the dragon’s head covered the table entirely. In the gloomy light this did look like the rippling skin of a dragon. ‘Very clever, Sir John. The dragon’s head is simply a large mask with those splendid jaws fixed and wedged into the door of the rood screen. The rest of its body is quite simply a table and a canvas cloth. Now,’ Athelstan pushed the canvas back and, going on his hands and knees, crawled beneath the table, the top of which was well above the gaping jaws. Athelstan peered through this; it provided a good view of the chapel nave as well as the stool marking the spot where Lettenhove had fallen. The elder Oudernarde, however, would have been much more difficult, if not impossible, to mark down. The assassin would have to move sharply to the right but, even then, his target would be blocked. Oudernarde had been standing that little bit closer to Hell’s mouth. Moreover, there was the question of the two severed heads. Athelstan had wildly considered that both had been dropped through Hell’s mouth, but surely that would have been noticed? They would have rolled, yet he’d seen them placed like ornaments either side of the dragon’s head. Of course, Hell’s mouth might have been moved? Was that possible? Athelstan scrambled out from beneath the table.
‘Well, little friar,’ Cranston grinned down at him, ‘and what have you discovered?’
Athelstan dusted down his robe, got up and told him what he had concluded, before moving back into the chapel to examine the front of Hell’s mouth. He pushed hard but the scenery was wedged between the edges of the screen and held tight by clasps. Cranston did the same from the other side. Hell’s mouth was like a stopper in a wine skin. Athelstan reasoned it could be shoved loose but this would damage the clasps, the thick leather strips on either side, and there was no sign that this had happened.
‘The Straw Men must have made sure Hell’s mouth was secure,’ Athelstan sighed. ‘And yet, if it could be moved, the assassin might be able to place the heads, then push or pull it back in again. Of course,’ he rubbed his face, ‘that would have been seen or even heard; the clasps would have been broken, very obvious to detect. So, Sir John, the severed heads must have been put down in another way. Then there’s the vexed question of the assassin having a clear view of Oudernarde. The assassin would only gain this by moving Hell’s mouth, yet there’s not a shred of evidence to suggest that happened.’ Athelstan stood, arms crossed, staring down at the floor.
‘I’m back in the schools, Sir John.’ Athelstan scratched at a piece of wax on his wrist. ‘You can only get a logical conclusion, a truthful conclusion from a logical, truthful beginning, yet that escapes me. Look, Sir John.’ He nodded towards the now-empty doorway, ‘Of your kindness, please ask Lascelles and Rosselyn to join us. Plead with them to bring two hand-held arbalests like the ones our assassin certainly used, as well as a quiver of bolts on a war belt.’ He paused. ‘Oh, yes, and a small inflated pig’s bladder, the type children use as a ball.’ Cranston looked surprised but shrugged and strode away, shouting for the archer on guard.
Athelstan stayed for a while.
‘One assassin here,’ he murmured, ‘or could it have been two? And Barak? Murder, suicide or a simple accident?’
Athelstan left the chapel and went down the spiral staircase into the cavernous murky crypt. For a while he stumbled about with a cresset torch he’d taken from the stairwell. Eventually he lit every sconce, candle and lantern box in that dark, gloomy chamber. Athelstan walked up and down. ‘This is a strange place,’ he murmured. ‘Most crypts are beneath ground level but this is the first floor of the White Tower.’ He held the torch up. The crypt reminded him of a tithing barn: its paved stone floor was scrubbed clean with no matting, while the whitewashed walls lacked any ornamentation – even a cross. Apparently used for storing furniture, the crypt was bleak and soulless. He noticed how all the windows were shuttered and barred before moving down to where the shutters on the furthest window had been thrown back. According to all the evidence, Barak had tried to escape through this but had,
