The lieutenant ran to re-open the door and they all followed him down the cold, vaulted passageway. Colebrooke unlocked Whitton’s chamber and they followed him in. Sir Fulke promptly cursed. Philippa gave a short scream. The chamber was icy cold, the shutters wide open, and the bolster on the dirty, grey mattress of the four- poster bed had been savagely slashed, the goose feathers trickling out in grisly reminder of Sir Ralph’s murder.
‘Who did this? What evil nonsense is this?’ Hammond the chaplain spoke up.
Athelstan ignored him and confronted Parchmeiner.
‘You know what I have done,’ he said quietly. ‘Exactly what you did on the morning you murdered Sir Ralph, and I’ll tell you how. First, when Sir Ralph moved to the North Bastion, you acted the role of the obsequious future son-in-law. You helped him move a few possessions across. You see, the chamber was guarded when Sir Ralph moved in but not before, so you carefully oiled the hinges and the lock of the door which explains the oil stains in the corridor outside. Secondly, the floor above is sealed off, and at the far end of the corridor outside is a pile of fallen masonry. You hid a dagger there amongst the rubble, as I asked Colebrooke to conceal Sir John’s. After I slashed the bolster, I hid the dagger there again. On the night before Sir Ralph died, you sat with him at table. You helped him to drink deeply, aided probably by a fairly strong sleeping potion, enough to make him drowsy. Thirdly, you helped Sir Ralph to the foot of the steps, the guards took him up to his chamber, and it is probably then that you exchanged the keys. You took the one Sir Ralph left there for the use of the guards and slipped another on to the hook. I asked Colebrooke to do the same. He handed the real key to me when we were in Mistress Philippa’s chamber.’ Athelstan paused. ‘The next morning you come across, the guards search you, but you have nothing except your own harmless possessions which,’ Athelstan touched the young man’s side carefully, ‘like any merchant, include a ring of keys. You climb the steps, the guards let you through, and you proceed to Sir Ralph’s chamber. As you knock and shout, you open the door silently because the lock hinges are so well oiled. The rest was easy.’
‘But — ’ Colebrooke intervened.
‘Not yet,’ Athelstan snapped back. He studied Parchmeiner’s eyes carefully. ‘Once inside, you move very quickly. The shutters are unlatched, the cold air streams in. You cross to Whitton’s bed and yank his head back. Sir Ralph, still in a heavy stupor, may have opened his eyes for a brief few seconds as you slashed his throat. You wipe the knife on the bedclothes, lock the door, slip the knife back into its hiding place and stand knocking on the door at the far end of the corridor.’
Athelstan saw the faint look of amusement in Parchmeiner’s eyes though the young man’s face remained cold and impassive.
‘It was then,’ Athelstan continued, ‘that you slipped the key to Sir Ralph’s chamber off your ring. You go downstairs, ask for the false key, go back up the steps and make the sudden change whilst your back is turned. You return the correct key to the guards, I have just proved two keys can look alike. You then go looking for Colebrooke.’
‘Oh, no!’ Philippa, her face now white and drawn, as she slumped against Sir Fulke, her eyes fixed on Geoffrey. ‘Oh, please God, no!’ she repeated.
‘It happened that way,’ Cranston airily declared. ‘My clerk has proved it. The guards simply saw and heard what they were supposed to.’
‘Brother Athelstan!’
‘Yes, Sir Fulke?’
‘My brother’s body was cold when the lieutenant came up.’
‘Of course it was,’ Cranston snapped. ‘The brazier and the fire had died, which makes me think Whitton was drugged. The murderer threw the shutters open and the icy air rushed in. Remember, it was a freezing cold morning, and of course Master Parchmeiner’s delay in sending for Colebrooke would have helped matters.’
Athelstan suddenly caught a glimpse of colour from the corner of his eyes. ‘Sir John! Rastani!’
The coroner, in spite of his bulk, moved quickly. He caught the mute even as the fellow sprang at his master’s assassin. Cranston hoisted the struggling man by the front of his jerkin as easily as a baby.
‘You, sir,’ the coroner said quietly, ‘will keep your place till these matters are finished!’ He shook Rastani as if he was a rag doll. ‘You understand?’
The mute threw one vicious glance at Parchmeiner.
‘Do you understand?’ Cranston’s grip tightened.
The mute’s mouth opened and shut, then he nodded slowly. Cranston gently lowered him and two of Colebrooke’s guards now took up position on either side of the Moor.
‘You will watch him!’ Cranston ordered curtly. ‘Well, come on, pull your swords!’
During this spectacle Parchmeiner never turned a hair but looked coolly at the friar who knew he was in the presence of a natural killer, someone who had seized his opportunity to wreak the most terrible vengeance.
‘Master Colebrooke!’ Athelstan called, not taking his eyes off the murderer. ‘I want Master Parchmeiner’s hands bound and a rope tied round his waist.’
Colebrooke rapped out commands and one of the guards forced Parchmeiner’s arms behind his back, tying both wrists and thumbs together. Another soldier unloosed his belt and pushed one end through Parchmeiner’s, wrapping the other end tightly round his own wrist guard. Athelstan relaxed. He gazed round the freezing death chamber.
‘We need not stay here,’ he declared. ‘We may return to Mistress Philippa’s chamber.’
The young girl hardly said a word but moaned softly as her uncle enfolded her in his arms. The group left the North Bastion. As they crossed Tower Green, Colebrooke, now aware of the danger, ordered a serjeant-at-arms to beat the tambour, calling the garrison to arms. Orders rang out, gates were closed, and as they went up the steps to Philippa’s chamber, Athelstan heard men-at-arms and archers taking up positions below. He turned and smiled at Cranston.
‘I must apologise. Your dagger is still in the pile of masonry in the North Bastion tower.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he muttered. ‘What I have seen is worth more than a thousand daggers.’
In the chamber, Parchmeiner stood between the two guards. Athelstan looked at him curiously for the young man was now smiling as if savouring some secret joke. The rest were a quiet, captive audience. Rastani, sullen and withdrawn, slumped on a stool between two burly serjeants-at-arms. Philippa moaned softly, lost in her own grief, flanked on either side by her uncle and the chaplain. Cranston filled himself a goblet of wine. Athelstan went and crouched near the fire, warming his hands over the flames.
‘The other deaths were easy,’ he continued evenly. ‘The night Mowbray died, he went up on the parapet near the Salt Tower whilst the rest of you gathered here in Philippa’s chamber for supper. I suspect Master Parchmeiner arrived last You see Mowbray, like any soldier,’ he turned and grinned at Colebrooke, ‘was a creature of habit. Let us dismiss Master Parchmeiner’s fear of heights as a lie. He knew Mowbray was on the far side of the parapet, standing in his usual spot, so he crept up and placed the butt of a spear or an axe pole at the top of the steps, wedging it neatly between the crenellations of the wall. He then comes to Mistress Philippa’s chamber and the meal begins.’
‘But he never left,’ Sir Fulke interrupted. ‘He never left to ring the tocsin bell!’
‘Of course he didn’t!’ Cranston answered. ‘Master Colebrooke, everything is ready? The garrison has been warned? Well,’ Cranston slammed his wine goblet down on the table, ‘I need to relieve myself. I understand there’s a garde-robe down the passage?’
Sir Fulke, a perplexed look on his face, nodded. Cranston went out of the side door. The rest of the group remained impassive like figures in a fresco. Suddenly everyone jumped as the great tocsin bell began to sound, followed by shouted orders, men’s feet running, and then the bell stopped tolling. Cranston, grinning from ear to ear, sauntered back into the room.
‘Who rang the bell?’ the chaplain squeaked.
‘I did,’ Sir John replied.
‘How?’
‘What Sir John did,’ Athelstan replied quietly, turning his back to the fire, ‘was to go along to the garde-robe. An archer, carrying a small arbalest, went with him. I noticed that the window above the privy overlooked Tower Green. The archer, standing behind the curtain which hides the privy, shot a bolt and hit the bell.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘You know the mechanism. Once it is tilted slightly the bell begins to toll.’
‘But it was dark,’ Sir Fulke spoke up.
‘No, Sir Fulke. As you may remember, at night there are torches around the bell.’
