‘It was deliberate, wasn’t it?’ Athelstan turned to the beastmaster.
‘Oh, of course, Brother, we can’t understand how the intruder entered.’
‘What do you mean?’
The beastmaster pointed to the door leading down to the wharf, then the great gate which Maximus would go through to swim in the moat.
‘They are always locked, Brother, lest anyone tries to gain entry from the river. If Artorius left by the way we came in, he always locked the door behind him. When he returned, he’d do the same.’
‘But visitors? Artorius allowed Sir John and I to view Maximus.’
‘Oh, come, Brother, we all know why you are here.’
Athelstan smiled and turned away. They left the Tower, and Athelstan beckoned at the beastmaster to follow.
‘Whoever killed Artorius must have first persuaded him to open that door and allow him inside?’
‘Yes, and I reported so to Magister Thibault. Artorius was surly; he didn’t take kindly to visitors.’
Athelstan stared back at the door: of course, the bear keeper had no choice but to admit Cranston yet, even then, silver had changed hands.
‘There is another problem,’ the beastmaster declared. ‘Artorius was an old soldier; he served at Poiters. He was quick-witted, swift on his feet and could defend himself.’
‘What about some member of the garrison?’
‘Artorius despised them as weaklings, while he openly resented Master Thibault and his coven.’
Athelstan thanked him and strolled back into the inner bailey, lost in his thoughts.
‘Again there is a mystery,’ he murmured and stared up at the darkening sky. How could someone persuade Artorius to take him into that aisle then kill him? Athelstan walked on. If he remembered correctly, Thibault had informed him that a crossbow bolt had been loosed straight into Artorius’ forehead so he must have been facing his killer. Athelstan returned to his chamber in the Garden Tower. He fired the brazier, built up the meagre fire then nibbled at the dried bread, meat and fruit left on the platter. He was sure the good coroner would be feasting himself in the Tower refectory. Athelstan washed his hands, sat down at the chancery table and began to list what he termed ‘the steps’ leading into this mystery. Firstly, the attack on Cranston near Aldgate. Secondly, the assault on the Roundhoop. Thirdly, the murderous assault in Saint John’s Chapel. Fourthly, the attack on him outside St Peter’s. Fifthly, the murder of Eli. Sixthly, the slaying of the Wardes. Seventhly, the freeing of the great white bear, the murder of Artorius and the Upright Men’s assault on the Tower. Eighthly, the attack on himself and Sir John at Saint Erconwald’s. Ninthly, the meeting with Eleanor – or Mara – in Beauchamp Tower. Athelstan studied these steps. Was there, he wondered, dipping his quill into the ink, anything to connect all these? Was it the same one person behind all the mayhem, or most of it? Athelstan conceded that he was working on imperfect knowledge and uncertain facts. However, he reasoned, if one person was responsible for the murders, the assaults and the treachery, that person was not only a professional assassin but one who could move freely both in the Tower and outside it. Yet then again, according to what Athelstan knew, Thibault had severely restricted all passage in and out of the Tower; only he and Cranston had been permitted to leave and re-enter the fortress as they wished. Yet who had left the Tower and gained such easy entry into the Warde household to deal out death so silently, so carefully? And had the same person, armed with a war bow, struck down Huddle? If a professional assassin was at work outside the Tower, that would explain everything which had occurred beyond its walls, but Athelstan was sure that the same person was responsible for the attack on him near St Peter’s as well as the murder of Eli. Athelstan curbed his annoyance; try as he might, he could make little sense of what had happened. He drank a full goblet of wine, finished the meagre platter food and returned to his scrutiny.
‘If I make no progress,’ he whispered, ‘perhaps I am following the wrong path, but where is the right one?’ Athelstan felt himself slacking. He was hungry but also tired and did not want to brave the cold outside. He prepared himself for sleep, wrapped a heavy military coat around him and lay down on the cot bed, murmuring the opening words of the sequence from the Mass of the Holy Spirit. He fell into a deep sleep, disturbed slightly by Sir John returning, but then slipped back into his dreams even as the good coroner wished him goodnight. Both were awakened, just as a greying dawn broke, by the bell booming out the tocsin. He and Cranston hurriedly dressed, stumbling out into the eye-watering, limb-numbing freezing air. Mercifully it had not snowed but what lay on the ground had hardened into a sheet of slippery ice. The sky was crystal clear, the stars beginning to disappear. Somewhere a night bird shrieked, answered by the bell-like howling
