The House of the Red Slayer

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 he 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 across and set out his writing tray, ink stand and pen on the table before him. Colebrooke, breathing heavily, pushed open the door.
    ‘All is ready, Sir John.’ The lieutenant went over to Athelstan. ‘Here, Brother!’
    Athelstan clasped his hand and hid up his voluminous sleeve what the lieutenant had given him. The friar stared round the silent chamber. It is here, he thought, we shall trap the murderer.

CHAPTER 14

    Cranston twiddled his thumbs and beamed around. Athelstan noticed with quiet amusement that beneath his cloak Sir John was wearing doublet and hose of a deep bottle-green, with silver fringes and buttons to match. One of the coroner’s best set of robes, a sure sign Cranston was in good fettle. The rest of the group, however, remained subdued: Hammond staring at the floor, Rastani gazing into the fire. Sir Fulke bit his lip and tapped his foot impatiently. Colebrooke fidgeted whilst Philippa stabbed furiously at a piece of embroidery. Footsteps sounded outside, the door swung open and Parchmeiner entered. Athelstan glimpsed the guards outside and was glad Colebrooke had the sense to have armed soldiers nearby. The young man was red-cheeked and breathless. He smiled at Philippa, crossed the room and kissed her gently on the lips before gazing round expectantly. ‘Sir John! Brother Athelstan! Why the sudden affray?’ The friar rose. ‘Shalom, Geoffrey!’
    ‘Peace to you, Brother.’ The young man’s face was suddenly tinged a deep red.
    Athelstan smiled. ‘How do you know the Arabic word for peace?’
    The young man shrugged. ‘I buy and sell. I know more than one language.
    ‘Pull back your cuffs, Master Parchmeiner!‘
    The young man looked flustered. ‘Why?’
    ‘Pull them back!‘
    ‘I can’t see...’
    ‘Pull them back!’ Cranston ordered. ‘Now!’
    Parchmeiner undid the embroidered cuffs and Athelstan gazed down at the white rings which broke the dark flesh of the man’s wrists.
    ‘How did you come by the marks of slave manacles?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Trading?’ He moved quickly and suddenly pulled the man’s knife from his belt and tossed it across to Cranston. ‘And how are your relatives in Bristol? Have you heard from them?’
    The young man’s eyes narrowed and Athelstan noticed his determined mouth and chin. The veil was slipping. In future, Athelstan promised himself quietly, he would study faces more closely.
    ‘Don’t lie, Geoffrey. You have