could climb out.’
‘So,’ Cranston mumbled, slumping down on to the stool and wiping his forehead, ‘you are saying someone, probably a soldier or paid assassin, used these footholds and climbed to the window.’ He turned and looked at the shutters. ‘According to you,’ the coroner continued, ‘the killer prized a dagger through the crack to lift the catch, got in, and slashed Sir Ralph’s throat.’
Colebrooke nodded slowly. ‘I suppose so, Sir John.’
‘And I suppose,’ Cranston added sarcastically, ‘Sir Ralph just allowed his assassin entry, didn’t even get out of his bed but lay back like a lamb and allowed his throat to be cut?’
Colebrooke went across to the shutters, and, pushing the wooden clasp back into place, locked them shut. He then took out his dagger, slid it into the crack between the shutters and gently levered the clasp open. He drew the shutters wide, turned and smiled at Cranston.
‘It can be done, my Lord Coroner,’ he observed daily.
‘The assassin, quiet-footed, crossed the chamber. It only takes seconds to cut a man’s throat, especially someone who has drunk deeply.’
Athelstan reflected on what the lieutenant had said. It did make sense. Both he and Cranston knew about the Nightshades, robbers who could enter a house under cover of darkness and plunder it beneath the sleeping noses of burgesses, wives, children, and even dogs. Why should this be any different? Athelstan studied the chamber carefully; the heavy granite walls, the stone-vaulted ceiling and cold rag stone floor beneath the rushes.
‘No, Brother!’ Colebrooke called out as if reading the friar’s thoughts. ‘No secret passageways exist. There are two ways to enter this chamber – by the window or by the door. However, there were guards in the lower chamber, we passed them as we came up, and the upper storey is blocked off by a fall of masonry.’
‘Were any traces of blood found?’ Athelstan asked. He saw the lieutenant smirk and glance sideways at the gory corpse sprawled on the bed. ‘No,’ Athelstan continued crossly, ‘I mean elsewhere. Near the window or the door. When the assassin walked away, his knife or sword must have been coated with blood.’
Colebrooke shook his head. ‘Look for yourself, Brother. I found no trace.’
Athelstan glanced despairingly at Cranston who now sat like a sagging sack on the stool, eyes half-closed after his morning’s heavy drinking and vigorous exertions in the cold. The friar conducted his search thoroughly: the bedclothes and corpse were soaked in dried blood but he found no traces near the window, in the rushes or around the door.
‘Did you find anything else disturbed?’
Colebrooke shook his head. Cranston suddenly stirred himself.
‘Why did Sir Ralph come here?’ he asked abruptly. ‘These were not his usual chambers.’
‘He thought he would be safe. The North Bastion is one of the most inaccessible in the fortress. The constable’s usual lodgings are in the royal apartments in the White Tower.’
‘And he was safe,’ Athelstan concluded, ‘until the moat froze over.’
‘Yes,’ Colebrooke replied. ‘Neither I nor anyone else thought of that.’
‘Wouldn’t an assassin be seen?’ Cranston interrupted.
‘I doubt it, Sir John. At the dead of night, the Tower is shrouded in darkness. There were no guards on the North Bastion, whilst those on the curtain wall would spend most of their time trying to keep warm.’
‘So,’ Cranston narrowed his eyes, ‘before we meet the others, let’s establish the sequence of events.’
‘Sir Ralph dined in the great hall and drank deeply. Geoffrey Parchmeiner and the two guards escorted him over here. The latter searched this chamber, the passageway and the room below. All was in good order.’
‘Then what?’
‘Sir Ralph secured the door behind him. The guards outside heard that. They escorted Geoffrey out of the passageway, locked the door at the far end and began their vigil.
‘So,’ Cranston mumbled, slumping down on to the stool and wiping his forehead, ‘you are saying someone, probably a soldier or paid assassin, used these footholds and climbed to the window.’ He turned and looked at the shutters. ‘According to you,’ the coroner continued, ‘the killer prized a dagger through the crack to lift the catch, got in, and slashed Sir Ralph’s throat.’
Colebrooke nodded slowly. ‘I suppose so, Sir John.’
‘And I suppose,’ Cranston added sarcastically, ‘Sir Ralph just allowed his assassin entry, didn’t even get out of his bed but lay back like a lamb and allowed his throat to be cut?’
Colebrooke went across to the shutters, and, pushing the wooden clasp back into place, locked them shut. He then took out his dagger, slid it into the crack between the shutters and gently levered the clasp open. He drew the shutters wide, turned and smiled at Cranston.
‘It can be done, my Lord Coroner,’ he observed daily.
‘The assassin, quiet-footed, crossed the chamber. It only takes seconds to cut a man’s throat, especially someone who has drunk deeply.’
Athelstan reflected on what the lieutenant had said. It did make sense. Both he and Cranston knew about the Nightshades, robbers who could enter a house under cover of darkness and plunder it beneath the sleeping noses of burgesses, wives, children, and even dogs. Why should this be any different? Athelstan studied the chamber carefully; the heavy granite walls, the stone-vaulted ceiling and cold rag stone floor beneath the rushes.
‘No, Brother!’ Colebrooke called out as if reading the friar’s thoughts. ‘No secret passageways exist. There are two ways to enter this chamber – by the window or by the door. However, there were guards in the lower chamber, we passed them as we came up, and the upper storey is blocked off by a fall of masonry.’
‘Were any traces of blood found?’ Athelstan asked. He saw the lieutenant smirk and glance sideways at the gory corpse sprawled on the bed. ‘No,’ Athelstan continued crossly, ‘I mean elsewhere. Near the window or the door. When the assassin walked away, his knife or sword must have been coated with blood.’
Colebrooke shook his head. ‘Look for yourself, Brother. I found no trace.’
Athelstan glanced despairingly at Cranston who now sat like a sagging sack on the stool, eyes half-closed after his morning’s heavy drinking and vigorous exertions in the cold. The friar conducted his search thoroughly: the bedclothes and corpse were soaked in dried blood but he found no traces near the window, in the rushes or around the door.
‘Did you find anything else disturbed?’
Colebrooke shook his head. Cranston suddenly stirred himself.
‘Why did Sir Ralph come here?’ he asked abruptly. ‘These were not his usual chambers.’
‘He thought he would be safe. The North Bastion is one of the most inaccessible in the fortress. The constable’s usual lodgings are in the royal apartments in the White Tower.’
‘And he was safe,’ Athelstan concluded, ‘until the moat froze over.’
‘Yes,’ Colebrooke replied. ‘Neither I nor anyone else thought of that.’
‘Wouldn’t an assassin be seen?’ Cranston interrupted.
‘I doubt it, Sir John. At the dead of night, the Tower is shrouded in darkness. There were no guards on the North Bastion, whilst those on the curtain wall would spend most of their time trying to keep warm.’
‘So,’ Cranston narrowed his eyes, ‘before we meet the others, let’s establish the sequence of events.’
‘Sir Ralph dined in the great hall and drank deeply. Geoffrey Parchmeiner and the two guards escorted him over here. The latter searched this chamber, the passageway and the room below. All was in good order.’
‘Then what?’
‘Sir Ralph secured the door behind him. The guards outside heard that. They escorted Geoffrey out of the passageway, locked the door at the far end and began their vigil.
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