‘The chamber was unused,’ one of the archers agreed. ‘A storeroom for rubbish.’
Athelstan moved to the open window, gratefully breathing in the fresh air. He peered out; night was over but a dense mist had swept in. He examined the shutters, the ruptured clasps and shattered bar.
‘I helped to break in,’ the archer declared. ‘The shutters were firmly clasped.’
‘And?’
‘We climbed in and saw poor Rosselyn. Who could do that? He would not give up his life easily.’
‘What else did you find?’ asked Athelstan, moving back to the corpse. He gently moved the head and felt the grizzled hair at the back. ‘No blow,’ he declared. ‘I do believe Rosselyn was conscious and awake when he was murdered. Well?’ Athelstan turned back to the archer. ‘What else did you find?’
‘The chamber key, close to his boot.’
‘That was probably slid back under the door.’ Athelstan grasped the handle of the rapier dagger, drawing it out, trying to ignore the stomach-churning plopping sound, not to mention the blood and mucus which seeped out. Athelstan felt his robe brush the dead man’s right hand; the fingers were curled but Athelstan glimpsed the scrap of parchment pushed there. He pulled this out, beckoning forward the archer now holding both torches.
‘Give it to me,’ Thibault demanded.
Athelstan ignored him. He unrolled the piece of parchment and loudly recited the doggerel verse scribbled there.
‘When Adam delved and Eve span,
Who was then the gentleman?
Now the world is ours and ours alone,
To cut the Lords to heart and bone.’
‘The Upright Men!’ Thibault rasped, plucking the parchment from Athelstan’s fingers. ‘But how could they gain entry here? How could they trap and kill a man like Rosselyn? Look around you, Athelstan, there is no disturbance no signs of struggle or any resistance. Rosselyn must have been drunk or drugged.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Then how?’ Thibault demanded. ‘What in God’s name was he doing here in the first place? Did he kill Samuel?’
‘How could he?’ Cranston asked. ‘Samuel’s chamber was locked and barred from the inside.’
‘For the moment,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I cannot answer these questions. Master Thibault, have both corpses taken to the Tower infirmary – they should be stripped ready for shrouding. I must examine each again before they are coffined. God knows if that might reveal anything more of this mystery.’
Athelstan settled himself comfortably in the chair in Thibault’s council chamber in the royal lodgings. Cranston sat to his right, while the rest were grouped around the table. The Straw Men, Samson, Rachael, Judith and Gideon were distraught at the death of Master Samuel, their tear-streaked faces ashen, strips of black mourning cloth tied to their clothes. Thibault, sitting at the far end, appeared distracted. Lascelles, standing behind him, constantly fingered the pommel of his sword. Cornelius threaded Ave beads as if lost in his own devotions. Athelstan sensed some of this must be pretence, people wearing masks to confront others wearing masks. He was utterly convinced that Rosselyn’s killer was here in this chamber and, despite appearances, even Master Samuel’s. Athelstan was convinced that there was something very wrong with that apparent suicide, though what he couldn’t say. He drummed his fingers gently on the leather master book of plays taken from Samuel’s chamber. Thibault had allowed that as he had permitted Athelstan to search Rosselyn’s narrow chamber. He and Cranston had discovered nothing though that came as no surprise; he suspected that as soon as Rosselyn’s corpse had been discovered, Thibault’s henchmen would have scrutinized the dead archer’s belongings. Knowing what he did of Thibault, Athelstan accepted that the Master of Secret’s minions, be it Rosselyn or Samuel, would be under strict instruction to keep as little as possible in writing. After all, what was said in secret could never be traced. The friar had also examined Rosselyn’s naked corpse in the Tower infirmary, but apart from that hideous wound to the left eye he could discover nothing to explain the archer’s mysterious death. Samuel’s naked corpse had also failed to produce any fresh evidence.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Thibault called out, ‘we are waiting.’
‘So is God,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘for the killer I hunt.’ The friar gathered himself, steeling his mind, will and soul to concentrate on the task in hand.
‘Master Samuel’s chamber,’ he began, ‘was locked and secured from within. No secret entrances or passageways exist. After apparently securing the door to his chamber and drinking a little wine and eating some food, Samuel took that rope and ended his life. Why?’ He turned to the Straw Men, who could only gaze tearfully back.
‘Did you meet Master Samuel last night?’
‘No.’ Rachael shook her head. ‘He retired very early. He left Gideon, Samson, Judith and myself playing chequers in the refectory with some of the guards. Eventually, when we retired,’ she turned to her companions, ‘the chapel bell was tolling the end of the day.’
‘And did Samuel betray any dark mood?’ Cranston asked.
‘No,’ Samson replied, lower lip jutting out, ‘he was quiet and withdrawn, but then again, so are we.’ He waved a hand. ‘This business…’ His voice trailed away.
‘Brother Athelstan,’ Gideon said forcefully, ‘we know nothing.’
‘Master Thibault, do you?’
Gaunt’s Master of Secrets still seemed profoundly shocked by Rosselyn’s brutal murder.
‘I hardly spoke to Samuel,’ Thibault murmured. ‘There was no need. How was all this done?’
‘According to the evidence Samuel committed suicide.’ Athelstan took a pair of Ave beads from his wallet, fingering the cross. ‘Rosselyn, on the other hand, was lured into that chamber by someone close enough, swift enough to drive that rapier blade deep into his left eye. Now,’ Athelstan stared round, ‘what was Rosselyn doing there?’ Nobody replied. ‘Why did he have his eyes shut?’ Athelstan
