The House of the Red Slayer by Paul Doherty

Author:Paul Doherty
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery, Historical Fiction, Thrillers & Suspense, Thriller & Suspense, Historical, Crime Fiction, Crime, Genre Fiction, Literature & Fiction
ISBN: 0747238472
Publisher: Severn Select
Published: 2011-11-20T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER 8

Fitzormonde left, closing the door quietly behind him. Athelstan went to gaze out of the window, staring absentmindedly at the great tocsin bell which hung so silently on its icy rope above the snow-covered green. The sun, now beginning to set, made the bell shimmer like a piece of silver. Athelstan turned and glimpsed Fitzormonde talking quietly to Cranston. The coroner was nodding, listening intently to the hospitaller’s confession.

Athelstan wandered back to Philippa’s chamber but it was deserted. He stayed for a while reflecting on what Fitzormonde had told him; first, both Sir Ralph and Mowbray’s murders were connected to that terrible act of betrayal in Cyprus so many years earlier. Secondly, and Athelstan shivered, there would be other murders. He packed his writing tray away whilst speculating on other possibilities. First, Burghgesh could have survived and come back to wreak vengeance. Secondly, someone else, possibly Burghgesh’s son, had returned to make his father’s murderers atone for the death. But, if it had been either of these, how would they get into the Tower, mysteriously ring a tocsin bell and then arrange for Mowbray’s fall? Athelstan sighed. Sir Ralph Whitton’s murder was simple compared to the complexities surrounding Mowbray’s.

Athelstan rubbed his chin with the palm of his hand and remembered he’d promised Benedicta to meet her at the Fleet prison where Simon the carpenter would spend his last evening on earth. The thought of Benedicta made him smile. Their relationship had become calmer, more gentle, then he remembered Doctor Vincentius and hoped the physician would not ensnare her with his subtle charm. Athelstan’s smile broadened. Here he was, a friar, a priest, a man sworn to chastity, feeling twinges of jealousy about someone he could only claim as a friend.

He shook himself free from his reverie and looked around the chamber. The murders . . . What other possibilities existed? Was it one of the group? Not Fitzormonde, but perhaps Horne the merchant? Or could it be Colebrooke, who had discovered Sir Ralph’s murky past and was promoting his own ambitions under the guise of revenge for past misdeeds? Athelstan swung his cloak around him, picked up his writing tray and examined the beautiful embroidery of the dorsar draped over the back of one of the chairs. Of course, terrible though it might be to imagine, Mistress Philippa had the cool nerve and composure to be a murderess, and Parchmeiner might well be her accomplice. Hammond the chaplain had the spite, whilst Sir Fulke had everything to gain.

Athelstan heard Cranston bellowing his name so left the chamber and went downstairs where the coroner stood kicking absentmindedly at the snow.

‘You feel better, Sir John?’

Cranston grunted.

‘And Fitzormonde told you all?’

The coroner glanced up.

‘Yes, I believe he did, Athelstan. You think the same as I do?’

He nodded. ‘Our sins,’ he murmured, ‘always catch up with us. The Greeks call them the Furies. We Christians call it God’s anger.’

Cranston was about to reply when Colebrooke came striding across the green. The lieutenant looked white-faced and tense.

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