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The girl’s face was white as snow, her eyes red-rimmed and circled with deep shadows, but she sensed Cranston’s insult had not been intended. She leaned over and kissed Sir John gently on the cheek. This only discomfited the coroner further, he stared down at the floor and shuffled his feet like some clumsy schoolboy. Philippa went across to a tray of goblets, filled two and brought them back. She gave one to Athelstan and pressed the other into Sir John’s great paw. The coroner smiled at the wine, lifted the cup and downed it in one gulp. He smacked his lips, winked at the girl and held out the goblet to be refilled. Philippa smilingly obliged and Athelstan groaned. He didn’t know what was worse, Cranston sulking or Cranston in his cups.
Sir John took the goblet and went over to the window, staring out at the sun dazzling the snow on Tower Green. Athelstan busied himself arranging his writing tray on the table. The rest of the group hardly moved as if absorbed in everything the coroner said or did. They watched him intently, like a group of schoolboys would a fearsome master. Cranston watched the sunlight shimmer on the great tocsin bell then turned round abruptly.
‘Mowbray,’ he a
Athelstan remembered how Cranston had slouched against the wall and hid his smile.
‘I have examined the parapet most carefully,’ Cranston continued, glaring at Athelstan. ‘Mowbray did not slip accidentally. The sand and gravel there are at least an inch thick. Someone pla
‘Did Mowbray drink?’ Athelstan asked.
Cranston turned and glanced at the other hospitaller. Sir Brian shook his head.
‘He was a seasoned warrior,’ the knight replied. ‘He could run along such a parapet in a blinding snow storm.’
‘Tell me,’ Cranston said, ‘what happened yesterday evening? I mean, before Mowbray fell?’
‘We were all here,’ Sir Fulke spoke up. He smiled. ‘Mistress Philippa had invited us for supper.’
‘I wasn’t!’ snapped Fitzormonde. ‘I was in my own chamber, awaiting poor Mowbray’s return.’
‘And, of course, Rastani,’ the chaplain stuttered, squirming on his stool.
‘Yes,’ Fitzormonde murmured. ‘The Morisco wasn’t here.’ Athelstan left his desk and squatted in front of Rastani. He stared into the silent, fear-filled face.
‘My Lady Philippa,’ Athelstan murmured over his shoulder, ‘I wish to talk to Rastani though I think he knows what I am going to ask.’
‘So do I!’ Sir Fulke shouted. ‘I will answer for him.’
‘No, sir, you won’t!’ Cranston barked.
Athelstan touched Rastani’s hand which was as cold as ice. The friar gazed into his liquid dark eyes. The man was terrified, but of what? Detection? Discovery?
‘Where were you, Rastani?’ Athelstan asked.
Beside him, Philippa made strange gestures with her fingers and Rastani replied in the same sign language.
‘He says he was freezing cold,’ Philippa explained. ‘And stayed in my father’s old chamber in the White Tower.’
‘He’s silent-footed as a cat,’ Cranston observed. ‘He could creep round this fortress and no one would notice.’
‘What are you implying, Sir John?’ Philippa snapped.
‘Rastani could have rung the bell.’
‘How on earth could he have done that when there were no footprints?’ Geoffrey mocked, moving to stand beside Philippa.
Cranston smiled. ‘A snowball?’
Colebrooke snorted with laughter. ‘I have told you, Sir John, the area around the bell could be seen by sentries. They saw no one approach.’
Cranston sniffed loudly and looked longingly at his now empty wine goblet
‘Before you continue, Sir John,’ Fitzormonde spoke up, ‘and you start speculating on where I was, all I can say is that I was in my own chamber but no one saw me there.’ He glared fiercely at Cranston. ‘However, I am a priest, a knight and a gentleman. I am not a liar!
‘Why did you stay there, Sir Brian?’ Athelstan tactfully interrupted.
Sir Brian shrugged. ‘I was frightened. I, too, have received a letter of death.’ He drew out a piece of parchment from beneath his cloak and Cranston almost snatched it from his hand.
The hospitaller was right. The same sketch Sir Ralph Whitton and Mowbray had received: a crudely drawn ship in full sail and, in each corner, a small black cross.
‘I also had the seed cake,’ Fitzormonde murmured. ‘But I threw it away.’
‘When Mowbray fell,’ Cranston suddenly asked, ‘did anyone else inspect the parapet?’
‘I, Fitzormonde and Colebrooke did,’ Fulke replied. ‘When the tocsin sounded we all left this room. The hospitaller was with us when Mowbray’s body was found. Our young gallant here,’ he waved his hand contemptuously at Geoffrey, ‘was asked to accompany us to the parapet but it’s well known he’s terrified of heights.’
Geoffrey flushed with embarrassment and looked away.
‘Uncle!’ Philippa murmured. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘What’s not fair,’ Cranston interrupted, ‘is that we know so little about last night Mistress Philippa, what time did your guests assemble?’
‘Oh, just after Vespers, about eight o’clock.’
‘And all except Rastani and the hospitaller came?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s correct.’
Cranston turned to the hospitaller. ‘And where did you say you were?’
‘In my chamber.’
‘And Mowbray?’
‘On the parapet walk.’
‘So,’ Cranston heaved a sigh, ‘as Mowbray brooded, the rest of you except Fitzormonde gathered here?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how long till the tocsin sounded?’
‘About two to three hours.’
‘And no one left?’
‘Only Colebrooke on his round and others to the privy, but that’s along the passageway.’ The girl smiled wanly.
‘We all drank deep.’
Athelstan raised a hand. ‘Never mind that.’ The friar, snatching the parchment from Cranston’s hand, went and stood over the hospitaller. Athelstan pushed the drawing under the knight’s face. ‘Sir Brian, what does this mean?’
The knight looked away.
‘Sir Brian Fitzormonde,’ Athelstan repeated, ‘soon you will appear before God’s tribunal. I ask you, on your oath as a knight, what does this parchment signify?’
The hospitaller glanced up with his red-rimmed eyes in a drawn, pale face. Athelstan felt he was looking at a man already under the shadow of Death’s soft, black wing. The friar leaned closer until he could see the small red veins in the knight’s eyes and the grey, dusty pallor of his cheeks. Fitzormonde was probably a brave man but Athelstan could almost taste the stench of fear which emanated from him.
‘On your oath to Christ,’ Athelstan whispered, ‘tell me the truth.’
Sir Brian suddenly lifted his face and whispered in Athelstan’s ear. The Dominican stood back in surprise but then nodded.
‘What did he say?’ Cranston barked.
‘Later, Sir John.’ Athelstan turned to the rest of the group. ‘What did happen here last night?’ he asked, trying to divert the conversation.
Sir Fulke, his face now suffused with his usual false bonhomie, leaned forward. ‘My niece,’ he said, ‘wished to thank us for our kindness following the death of Sir Ralph. We sat and dined like a group of friends. We talked of old times and what might happen in the future.’
‘And no one left?’
‘Not until the tocsin sounded.’
‘No, Sir Fulke,’ Geoffrey interrupted. ‘Remember, you drank deeply.’ He smiled falsely. ‘Perhaps too deeply to remember. The priest left.’ Geoffrey pointed to where the chaplain, William Hammond, dressed like a crow, sat perched on his stool near the fire. ‘Don’t you remember, Father, you left?’
‘I went back to my room,’ the chaplain a