Free House of the Red Slayer by Paul Doherty Page A

corner.
    ‘Is that all?’ Athelstan asked, passing the parchment back.
    The girl tensed. Her lower lip trembled, tears pricked her eyes.
    ‘There was something else,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Wasn’t there?’
    Philippa nodded. Geoffrey took her hand and held it, stroking it gently as if she was a child.
    ‘There was a sesame seed cake.’
    ‘What?’ Cranston barked.
    ‘A seed cake like a biscuit, a dirty yellow colour.’
    ‘What happened to it?’ Cranston asked.
    ‘I saw my father walk along the parapet. He seemed very agitated. He brought his arm back and threw the cake into the moat. After that he was a changed man, keeping everyone away from him and insisting on moving to the North Bastion Tower.’
    ‘Is that correct?’ Cranston asked the rest of the group.
    ‘Of course it is!’ the chaplain snapped. ‘Mistress Philippa is not a liar.’
    ‘Then, Father,’ Cranston asked silkily, ‘did Sir Ralph share his secrets with you?’ He held up a podgy hand. ‘I know about the seal of confession. All I’m asking is, did he confide in you?’
    ‘I think not,’ Colebrooke sniggered. ‘Sir Ralph had certain questions to ask the chaplain about stores and provisions which appear to have gone missing.’
    The priest turned on him, his lip curling like that of an angry dog.
    ‘Watch your tongue, Lieutenant!’ he rasped. ‘True, things have gone missing, but that does not mean that I am the thief. There are others,’ he added meaningfully, ‘with access to the Wardrobe Tower.’
    ‘Meaning?’ Colebrooke shouted
    ‘Oh, shut up!’ Cranston ordered. ‘We are not here about stores but about a man’s life. I ask all of you, on your allegiance to the King – for this could be a matter of treason – did Sir Ralph confide in one of you? Does this parchment mean anything to any of you?’
    A chorus of ‘No's’ greeted the coroner’s demands though Athelstan noticed that the hospitallers looked away as they mumbled their responses.
    ‘I hope you are telling the truth,’ Cranston tartly observed. ‘Sir Ralph may have been slain by peasant leaders plotting rebellion. Your father, Mistress Philippa, was a close friend and trusted ally of the court.’
    Athelstan intervened, trying to calm the situation. ‘Mistress Philippa, tell me about your father.’
    The girl laced her fingers together nervously and looked at the floor.
    ‘He was always a soldier,’ she began. ‘He served in Prussia against the Latvians, on the Caspian, and then travelled to Outremer, Egypt, Palestine and Cyprus.’ She blinked and nodded at the hospitallers. ‘They can tell you more about that than I.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Fifteen years ago,’ she continued, ‘he was in Egypt in the army of the Caliph and then he came home covered in glory, a rich man. I was three years old. My mother died a year later and we entered the household of John of Gaunt. My father became one of his principal retainers; four years ago he was appointed Constable of the Tower.’
    Athelstan smiled understandingly. He knew Sir Ralph’s type: a professional soldier, a mercenary who would crusade for the faith but was not averse to serving in the armies of the infidel. Athelstan stared round the group. How quiet and calm they appeared, though he sensed something was wrong. They were hiding mutual dislikes and rivalries in their over-eagerness to answer his questions.
    ‘I suppose,’ he remarked drily, ‘you have already been through Sir Ralph’s papers?’
    Athelstan looked at Sir Fulke who nodded.
    ‘Of course I have been through my brother’s documents, household accounts, memoranda and letters. I found nothing untoward. I am, after all,’ he added, glaring round the room as if expecting a challenge, ‘the executor of Sir Ralph’s will.’
    ‘Of course, of course,’ Cranston assured him.
    Athelstan groaned to himself. Yes, he thought, and if there was anything damaging it will have been removed. He stared at the young man next to