Red Hand’s watery eyes caught Athelstan’s. The madman smiled. ‘You’re Red Hand’s friend?’
Athelstan studied the hunchback’s face, his scrawny, white hair and grotesque mottled rags. He recalled Father Anselm’s other words of wisdom: ‘Always remember, Athelstan, every man is in God’s image. A flame burns as fiercely in a broken jar as it does in the most elaborately carved lamp.’
‘I am your friend,’ Athelstan replied. ‘But I need your help.’
Red Hand’s eyes became wary.
‘I want you to show me your secrets.’
‘What secrets, Master?’
‘What the bloody hell are you doing, Brother?’
Athelstan threw a warning glance at the coroner.
‘Look, Red Hand,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘You talked to me of chambers, dungeons, which were bricked up.’
Red Hand tried to prise his fingers free of Athelstan’s but the friar held firm.
‘Please,’ he murmured. ‘Did Sir Ralph have such secret cells? If you tell me, Red Hand, I can trap the man responsible for the bear’s death.’
The madman needed no further encouragement. He turned. ‘Wait! Wait there!’ he pleaded, and ran back through the small door of the White Tower. He re-emerged a few seconds later with a little bell which he tinkled. ‘Follow Red Hand!’ he shouted. ‘Follow Red Hand!’
Cranston looked in disbelief at Athelstan. Colebrooke seemed angry.
‘What’s the little sod up to?’ Cranston murmured as the scampering madcap led them across Tower Green to a door which had rusted firmly shut at the foot of Wakefield Tower. Red Hand stopped at the door, bowed three times and tinkled his bell.
‘What’s in there?’
Colebrooke shrugged. ‘Some dungeons dug deep into the earth.’
‘Open it!’
‘I haven’t got any keys.’
‘Don’t be obstructive,’ Cranston barked. ‘Open the bloody thing!’
Colebrooke turned, hands on hips, and yelled orders. Soldiers ran over. Under Colebrooke’s instruction they wheeled across a huge battering ram, swinging its iron head against the door until it buckled and swung off its hinges.
‘Torches!’ Cranston ordered.
Cressets were brought and hastily lit. Red Hand scampered down the slime-covered stairs which fell away into icy cold darkness. At the bottom of the steps ran a small corridor, narrow, dank and evil-smelling. On the right nothing but mildewed walls; on the left two cell doors, their locks rusted shut. Athelstan stiffened as he heard squeaks and rustles and, spinning round, glimpsed a brown, greasy body slinking away into the darkness.
‘Break the doors down!’ Cranston bellowed.
The soldiers attacked the heavy but rotting wood, smashing open a huge hole. Athelstan took a torch and went in. There was nothing there except rats, squeaking and scampering on a rotting pile of straw in the far corner.
‘Hell’s teeth!’ Cranston hissed. ‘Nothing!’
They clambered out through the open door. Cranston held the torch up and examined the wall between the doors.
‘Look, Athelstan!’ he exclaimed.
The friar studied the wall carefully.
‘There’s another door,’ Cranston continued. ‘But it’s been bricked up. Look, it bulges out and the plaster is fresher than the rest of the wall.’
‘You found it! You found it! You found it!’ Red Hand clapped his hands and jumped up and down like a child playing a game. ‘They have found the secret door!’ he sang out. ‘They’ve won the game!’ The madcap stopped shouting. ‘I did that,’ he announced proudly. ‘Sir Ralph Whitton told me to do it. The door was locked and I bricked up the entrance.’
‘When?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Oh, years ago. Years ago!’
Cranston snapped his fingers. ‘Smash that wall down!’
The soldiers set to with iron-headed mallets and hammers. Soon the corridor was thick with a foul white dust
‘There’s a door!’ one of them exclaimed.
‘And that too!’ Cranston ordered.
In a few minutes the rotting wood behind the destroyed wall buckled and snapped, the soldiers creating a large enough hole for Cranston and Athelstan to crawl through. Torches were ordered and Cranston held one up.
‘Oh, Good Lord!’ Cranston whispered, staring at the decaying skeleton slumped on a bed of rotted muck. ‘Who is that? And what terrible son of Satan ordered such a hideous death?’
‘To answer your questions, Sir John, I suspect these are the mortal remains of Sir Bartholomew Burghgesh. And Whitton, a man steeped in murder, ordered it.’
‘Look!’ Sir John hissed, snatching the torch and holding it up against the wall just where the white skeletal arm rested. Athelstan peered at the crude drawing of the three-masted ship carved into the stone, the same as had been found on the letters sent to Sir Ralph and others. Cranston’s eyes rounded in surprise.
‘Brother, you are right.’
‘Yes, Sir John. Now, let’s see if the rest of my theory has substance.’
They told Colebrooke to leave guards near the cell and eagerly returned to the cold brisk air of Tower Green.
‘What did you find?’ the lieutenant asked anxiously, coming up behind them.
‘Be patient, Master Lieutenant. But come, I have further favours to ask of you.’
Athelstan guided him by the elbow away from the rest. Cranston watched the friar and soldier talk quietly together.
‘Is Red Hand needed?’ The hunchback suddenly appeared, jumping up and down.
Cranston smiled, dug into his purse and pushed two silver pieces into the man’s hand, patting him gently on the cheek.
‘Not for the moment, Red Hand. But you have my thanks and that of the Regent, the Mayor, and the city of London.’
The hunchback’s eyes danced with delight. He ran off, leaping with glee, cavorting and laughing at the dark ravens which cawed noisily above him.
‘Red Hand’s a champion! Red Hand’s a champion!’ he yelled.
Athelstan rejoined Sir John. ‘The lieutenant has his orders,’ he murmured. ‘Come, My Lord Coroner, the drama is about to begin.’
The rest of the Tower household were waiting in Philippa’s chamber. Sir Fulke was dressed most elegantly in a dark gown of gold-fringed murrey. Philippa, now wearing full mourning weeds and a black veil, sat in the window seat, head bowed over a piece of embroidery. Rastani crouched by the fireplace, the chaplain sat on a stool opposite. All except Philippa looked up and glowered as Athelstan and Cranston entered.
‘We have been waiting for an hour,’ Sir Fulke bellowed.
‘Good!’ Sir John replied. ‘And, by the sod, you will wait another bloody hour if I want it! We are here on the King’s business. Four men lie dead, one of them Sir Ralph Whitton, a high-ranking official albeit a perfect bastard!’
Mistress Philippa looked up, her face a white mask of fury. Athelstan closed his eyes, even as Sir John gave the girl his most profuse apologies.
‘So, shall we begin?’ Sir Fulke shouted.
‘In a while, in a while,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘We wait for Master Colebrooke and young Geoffrey, I believe.’
Cranston slumped on to a window seat next to Philippa but she turned her back. Athelstan brought a stool
