The Straw Men (11 page)

‘You asked us to investigate.' Cranston stirred himself. The coroner was becoming fidgety, his usual bonhomie fast draining away.

‘I would like to inspect those heads when we want,' Athelstan insisted. The friar rose to his feet. ‘And it's best if we begin now. Master Thibault,' Athelstan bowed towards Gaunt, ‘Your Grace, is there anything,' Athelstan fought to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, ‘that we should know? Master Oudernarde?' Athelstan turned towards the Fleming, ‘I noticed poor Lettenhove seemed very agitated before the assault.'

‘So he was,' Cornelius replied quickly. ‘Brother Athelstan, you must have heard about the heinous attack on us as we journeyed to the Tower? We remained anxious, as did poor Lettenhove.'

‘I understand that nothing has been disturbed and taken away from this chapel?'

‘Nothing,' Thibault replied.

‘In which case,' Athelstan bowed, ‘I would like to begin. Your Grace, I need to examine this chapel.' Athelstan returned to his stool.

‘You are quiet, Sir John,' he leaned over and whispered.

‘Limoges, I shall explain,' Cranston murmured.

Gaunt rose to his feet. He nodded at Cranston and Athelstan then gestured at Thibault and the Flemings to follow him as he swept out of the chapel. Lascelles covered their retreat; the archers followed until only Rosselyn remained close to the doorway. Cranston glanced at Athelstan sitting so composedly on his stool; the friar just grinned and made a swift, soothing movement with his hand, a sign to wait. They both sat listening to Gaunt and his party clattering down the spiral staircase; only then did Athelstan move his stool closer to Cranston.

‘Limoges, Sir John?'

‘I shall tell you later,' the coroner hissed. ‘But remember this, my little friar, Sir John is not frightened. He is tired, weary after drinking claret but not frightened.' The coroner tapped his boots against the floor. ‘Oh, no, I am not frightened, but I am as wary as I would be if there was a rabid wolf in the room.' He rose to his feet. ‘Let us begin.'

Athelstan did likewise. He slowly looked around that gorgeously decorated chapel. ‘
Primo
,' he pointed to the braziers, now full of grey scented ash. ‘There were the explosions. As you said, Sir John, easy to fashion. Cannon powder or saltpetre in thick leather pouches, thrust into the hot coals – eventually they would break in the heat. The consequent explosion caused consternation; people would be looking at the braziers, nowhere else.
Secundo
.' Athelstan stifled a yawn, ignoring the wave of weariness. God knows he'd loved to be stretched out on his cot bed with Bonaventure sprawled at his feet. ‘
Secondo
,' he repeated, moving a stool, ‘Lettenhove's marked and struck a mortal wound; he falls to the ground.
Tertio
, Master Oudernarde is attacked next, but only wounded. I suspect the barb was loosed a little off the mark.'

‘And the severed heads?' Cranston asked.

‘Good, Sir John.
Quatro
. Before our assassin flees, he somehow leaves those two severed heads by the rood screen and that, Sir John, is where the mystery begins. Look at this chapel. Remember this afternoon, how busy it was, thronged with Gaunt and his guests, servants, musicians, men-at-arms and archers. So I ask you. How could our assassin prime a small crossbow, take aim, loose and repeat the same action, then open a sack,' Athelstan walked across and tapped the rood screen, ‘and place a severed head here.' He walked past Hell's mouth to the other side, ‘And another one here, yet not be noticed?'

‘Did he use Hell's mouth?' Cranston pointed to the great dragon's head tightly wedged in the doorway of the rood screen. ‘Look at those gaping jaws, Athelstan. Our assassin could have crawled in with his crossbow . . .' Athelstan and Cranston pulled back the curtain at one end of the rood screen and walked into the sanctuary. Athelstan stared around, peering through the poor light.

‘Dark,' he observed. ‘See, Sir John,' he pointed to the heavy curtains hanging either end of the rood screen, ‘these block out the light from the window of the transepts. There's the sanctuary lamp, but,' Athelstan sniffed at the candles on their five-branched spigot, ‘once these are extinguished, murder could easily wrap its dark cloak around this holy place. Now Hell's mouth.' Athelstan swiftly scrutinized the back of the dragon's head, at least two-and-a-half yards high. He marvelled at the artifice for it was simply fastened to a high-legged table; each leg had a wooden castor while a black canvas cloth clasped to the back of the dragon's head covered the table entirely. In the gloomy light this did look like the rippling skin of a dragon. ‘Very clever, Sir John. The dragon's head is simply a large mask with those splendid jaws fixed and wedged into the door of the rood screen. The rest of its body is quite simply a table and a canvas cloth. Now,' Athelstan pushed the canvas back and, going on his hands and knees, crawled beneath the table, the top of which was well above the gaping jaws. Athelstan peered through this; it provided a good view of the chapel nave as well as the stool marking the spot where Lettenhove had fallen. The elder Oudernarde, however, would have been much more difficult, if not impossible, to mark down. The assassin would have to move sharply to the right but, even then, his target would be blocked. Oudernarde had been standing that little bit closer to Hell's mouth. Moreover, there was the question of the two severed heads. Athelstan had wildly considered that both had been dropped through Hell's mouth, but surely that would have been noticed? They would have rolled, yet he'd seen them placed like ornaments either side of the dragon's head. Of course, Hell's mouth might have been moved? Was that possible? Athelstan scrambled out from beneath the table.

‘Well, little friar,' Cranston grinned down at him, ‘and what have you discovered?'

Athelstan dusted down his robe, got up and told him what he had concluded, before moving back into the chapel to examine the front of Hell's mouth. He pushed hard but the scenery was wedged between the edges of the screen and held tight by clasps. Cranston did the same from the other side. Hell's mouth was like a stopper in a wine skin. Athelstan reasoned it could be shoved loose but this would damage the clasps, the thick leather strips on either side, and there was no sign that this had happened.

‘The Straw Men must have made sure Hell's mouth was secure,' Athelstan sighed. ‘And yet, if it could be moved, the assassin might be able to place the heads, then push or pull it back in again. Of course,' he rubbed his face, ‘that would have been seen or even heard; the clasps would have been broken, very obvious to detect. So, Sir John, the severed heads must have been put down in another way. Then there's the vexed question of the assassin having a clear view of Oudernarde. The assassin would only gain this by moving Hell's mouth, yet there's not a shred of evidence to suggest that happened.' Athelstan stood, arms crossed, staring down at the floor.

‘I'm back in the schools, Sir John.' Athelstan scratched at a piece of wax on his wrist. ‘You can only get a logical conclusion, a truthful conclusion from a logical, truthful beginning, yet that escapes me. Look, Sir John.' He nodded towards the now-empty doorway, ‘Of your kindness, please ask Lascelles and Rosselyn to join us. Plead with them to bring two hand-held arbalests like the ones our assassin certainly used, as well as a quiver of bolts on a war belt.' He paused. ‘Oh, yes, and a small inflated pig's bladder, the type children use as a ball.' Cranston looked surprised but shrugged and strode away, shouting for the archer on guard.

Athelstan stayed for a while.

‘One assassin here,' he murmured, ‘or could it have been two? And Barak? Murder, suicide or a simple accident?'

Athelstan left the chapel and went down the spiral staircase into the cavernous murky crypt. For a while he stumbled about with a cresset torch he'd taken from the stairwell. Eventually he lit every sconce, candle and lantern box in that dark, gloomy chamber. Athelstan walked up and down. ‘This is a strange place,' he murmured. ‘Most crypts are beneath ground level but this is the first floor of the White Tower.' He held the torch up. The crypt reminded him of a tithing barn: its paved stone floor was scrubbed clean with no matting, while the whitewashed walls lacked any ornamentation – even a cross. Apparently used for storing furniture, the crypt was bleak and soulless. He noticed how all the windows were shuttered and barred before moving down to where the shutters on the furthest window had been thrown back. According to all the evidence, Barak had tried to escape through this but had, due to some mishap, fallen to his death. Athelstan stood listening to the different sounds from both the stairwell and elsewhere in the Tower. Again, he heard the roaring from the menagerie and promised himself a visit to examine both the lions as well as to see for himself that great snow bear swimming in the moat. ‘But that will have to wait,' he whispered. ‘Barak's ghost is more important.'

Athelstan crouched down to examine the thick, oiled hempen rope with its tarred, twisted strands, which Barak had used in his abortive escape. The rope was secured tightly to a great iron ring driven into the wall. The rope had been pulled back after Barak's fatal use and simply tossed on to the floor. Athelstan picked it up, scrutinizing the heavy knots placed every twelve inches. He could detect nothing out of the ordinary. Such ropes were common in both the Tower and other castles in case of fire or if the stairway to St John's Chapel somehow became blocked. He sifted the rope through his hands and tugged hard, but the rope was sound in itself and firmly secured. He opened the shutters and flinched at the strong gust of icy wind; nevertheless, he persisted. He took the rope and threaded it out; it was long enough to allow someone to safely descend then jump to the ground below, the well-placed heavy knots providing some sort of hold for foot and hand. Athelstan leaned over the sill and peered down.

‘What did happen to you, Barak?' he whispered to the darkness. ‘Did you slip from the rope? Were you nervous? Why take the arbalest with you? Were you on the rope when someone pushed you?' Athelstan recalled the horrid wound to the right side of the dead man's face, the broken neck, the way the body had crumpled. ‘I don't think you slipped.' Athelstan again peered over the window ledge: it was a dizzying drop to the cobbles beneath. ‘Do you know what I think, Barak, God rest your soul? You didn't fall from the rope, you fell from here. Or, even more logical – and this would explain your savage wounds – you were thrown from here.'

Athelstan pulled the rope back and clasped the heavy shutters close. He leaned his hands on them and tried to make sense of his own thoughts. Such an escape could be depicted as probable. Barak the assassin could have easily checked both rope and shutters earlier in the day. According to the evidence, Barak carried out those attacks, left the severed heads and, when everybody else was fleeing the chapel, he joined them. That would be feasible. The rest would only be too eager to escape the White Tower but Barak slipped into the crypt. He certainly reached this window. Such an escape, Athelstan reasoned, from the fastness of this Tower would not be the first. Years ago Athelstan, while studying at Blackfriars, had used the top of the White Tower with its four unique turrets as an observatory to study the stars. Athelstan smiled at the memories. He'd also learnt a great deal about the Tower's history. How a number of prisoners, including a Welsh prince, Ranulf Flambard, Bishop of Durham, and Roger Mortimer of Wigmore had all escaped by rope from this great Norman keep. Indeed, hadn't one of them, the Welsh prince, fallen to his death? And yet . . . Athelstan felt a deepening disquiet about the accepted story of Barak's death. The evidence didn't appear correct; there was a lack of logic to it. ‘Not only the details,' Athelstan murmured to the darkness, ‘but the motivation. According to his comrades, there was no change in Barak in the hours or days before he committed these dreadful crimes.' Athelstan rubbed his face. Would, he wondered, the Upright Men have entrusted those severed heads to Barak? Yet there was no evidence, apart from what was found on his corpse, of any link between him and the Upright Men. According to Thibault nothing incriminating was found among Barak's personal belongings. Athelstan stood with his back to now-closed shutters. He peered through the gloom then walked across to the recess built into the far wall. The paving stones here were the same light colour as those of the chapel while, despite the dust and cobwebs, the walls had been recently whitewashed, probably as late as the previous spring. Athelstan took another cresset from its holder and went into the recess. He crouched down. Using the pools of light from both torches, he scrupulously examined both floor and wall inch by inch.

‘May the Lord be thanked,' Athelstan prayed, ‘I have found it.' He stretched out and touched the wall, certain those dark stains were small splashes of fresh blood on the plaster of the enclave. Athelstan put one of the torches down and sat with his back to the wall, rubbing the plaster with the back of his head. He turned so he was on his hands and knees. Barak, if he remembered correctly, was slightly taller than him. Athelstan scrutinized the wall and murmured a prayer of thanks. The small bloodstains were just above where the friar had rested the back of his head.

‘Athelstan, Athelstan! Brother Athelstan!' The friar returned to the chapel, where Cranston, Lascelles and Rosselyn were waiting. The two soldiers were deeply intrigued by what Athelstan asked for but quickly agreed to help. First Rosselyn and then Lascelles acted as a would-be assassin.

‘I want you to go beneath the table, behind Hell's mouth and,' Athelstan pointed to the two stools each marking the place where Lettenhove and Oudernarde had fallen, ‘pretend to loose a bolt at the Fleming's henchman and then at Master Oudernarde. However, you are to do it twice. The first time you must pretend to have one arbalest, the next that you have two and the second is already primed. Now,' Athelstan insisted, ‘you must use the gaping jaws of Hell's mouth as your vantage point. I suspect that, like me, you will find Lettenhove an easy target to mark; Oudernarde not so. Once you are ready, shout out. Sir John here will start counting.' After some confusion and a few false starts, Lascelles declared he was ready. Cranston had almost reached twenty when Lascelles declared he had used the same arbalest twice, and twelve when he used a second one already primed. Rosselyn was not so swift on either occasion, declaring how the war bow was his weapon, but Athelstan was satisfied. He now had a clearer idea of how long an assassin would take if he had used Hell's mouth as his screen, while both had confessed that aiming at Oudernarde was difficult. The friar also noticed how the two soldiers, being right-handed, wore the box-like quiver of bolts on the left side of their war belt.