Thorne was now deeply agitated; sweat drops coursed down his face, his breathing was laboured and he found it difficult to sit still.
‘At the time,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you considered opening the Barbican as the most difficult problem you had to face. However, nothing in this vale of tears runs smoothly – certainly not murder.’ Athelstan pointed at the ceiling. ‘Physician Scrope had his own deep grievances against Marsen and, by mere coincidence, he was out on the Palisade that same night. We know that by the mud on his belongings. He certainly carried a lantern, so you must have glimpsed him. I cannot say whether he saw you, though he certainly entertained his own suspicions. He left us proof of that; anyway, only God knows what Scrope was trying to achieve but he certainly went out that night and for that alone he had to die.’ Athelstan rubbed his hands together. ‘What we see, hear and feel,’ the friar got to his feet, ‘is very strange. When it happens can be very different to what we later reflect upon. What we dismiss as ordinary or innocent can, in time, emerge as exceptional or even sinister. Scrope was a highly intelligent man. He went out that night full of hatred for Marsen and, as I have said, God knows what he came across. The dead archers? The sealed Barbican? Some dark shadow flitting through the night? In the end, he paid for it with his life and I will show you how.’ Athelstan walked to the door, opened it and ordered four of the royal crossbowmen to take Thorne under close guard up to the middle gallery. Once ready, they made their way to the stairs. Eleanor Thorne came out of the kitchen, face all stricken. She glimpsed what was happening and sank to her knees with the most heart-rending scream. The woman knelt, hands to her face, rocking backwards and forwards, refusing to be comforted by the slatterns and scullions around her. Thorne tried to break through the cordon of soldiers but was roughly pulled back and pushed up the stairs. Potboys and servants, all wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the grim spectacle unfolding before them, hastily scattered out of the way. They reached the chamber where Scrope had lodged. Athelstan ordered this to be unlocked as well as the one directly opposite. Once he had arranged things as he wished, Athelstan entered the empty chamber facing Scrope’s. He took the long pole from its two supports in the aumbry.
‘If I stand here within the doorway and lean forward,’ Athelstan did so using the pole to bang on the door of Scrope’s former chamber, ‘that was the knocking heard on the morning of Scrope’s murder, though no one was seen in the gallery. Master Thorne,’ Athelstan pointed at the taverner held securely by the crossbow men, ‘you did that. You unlocked this chamber and used it to lure Scrope to his death. You knocked on his door with this pole which you later left when you fled. Scrope first used the eyelet but saw no one. By then you’d swiftly closed the door to this chamber. Scrope walked away. Again the knocking. Scrope, already agitated and holding his vademecum, the pilgrim book on Glastonbury, hastens back. He opens the door and sees you standing here, hidden in the threshold of this chamber with an arbalest primed and ready. You are swifter than he. You loose and the quarrel strikes Scrope here.’ Athelstan tapped himself high in the chest. ‘Scrope staggers back. He is dying but the full shock of the attack has not yet had its effect. Scrope hastily closed the door, locking and bolting it. I later detected faint stains of dried blood on both lock and bolt. Scrope finally slumps to the floor. I cannot say if he meant this or it was just an act of chance, or perhaps divine providence, but Scrope died with the vademecum open on the page which lists the famous lists of Glastonbury. Amongst them, the Spina Sacra.’
‘The Holy Thorn,’ Cranston whispered. ‘A play on our taverner’s name.’
‘I think so but,’ Athelstan spread his hands, ‘the actual details I cannot say. Perhaps Scrope had enjoyed the pun before. I suspect he deliberately opened it on that page during those last few heartbeats of his life.’
‘Impossible!’ Thorne protested. Nonetheless, Athelstan could see the sheer desperation in the taverner’s eyes only deepened by the shrill cries of his wife which rang chillingly through the tavern.
‘If Scrope was struck he would have died instantly …’
‘Come now, Master Thorne,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘You have served in France and so have I and Sir John. Men, mortally wounded, may continue to act as if nothing had happened. Sometimes this can last as long as it would take to recite ten Aves. Some mortal wounds are instant; others afford a brief respite.’
‘I’ve seen that,’ one of the crossbowmen interjected. ‘I’ve seen it on more than one occasion.’
‘Even men who have lost a hand or arm,’ another added.
‘And so have I,’ Athelstan declared, ‘very recently. Lascelles received a crossbow bolt here, high in the chest. He still continued to walk forward almost unaware of his wound. Only a second crossbow bolt which struck him deep in his head brought him down. Physician Scrope, clutching that document, certainly had enough time to turn a key, draw a bolt and fumble for a page before collapsing. The poor man didn’t realize he was dying, so intent was he on protecting himself against further attack and trying to leave some sign as to whom his assailant had been. Finally,’ Athelstan pointed to the chamber opposite Scrope’s, ‘on the morning in question you had to unlock that: you used it as your murder place then hastily locked it again and,’ he gestured at the nearby stairs, ‘hurried up those, along the gallery above then down to act all busy in the taproom. Only you, Master Taverner, had the means to do that, no one else.’ Athelstan breathed in deeply. ‘Sir John, we are finished here.’
Cranston closed the doors to both chambers and ordered Thorne to be taken back to the Dark Parlour. Once again they had to pass Mistress Eleanor, who could only stretch out her arms and cry pityingly. Thorne’s deepening agitation was so intense that when they entered the Dark Parlour, Sir John ordered the taverner to be bound, whilst two of the crossbow men, with weapons primed, were ordered to stay with them.
‘Ronseval was killed just as swiftly,’ Athelstan continued, retaking his seat, ‘once you had lured him to his death. Some of this I cannot prove; I admit it is only conjecture, though it’s logical. Ronseval and Hornsey trusted you. I have demonstrated why. Now, on the night of the murders, Hornsey saw something, or guessed something but then fled. No one knows what he told Ronseval but the very fact that Hornsey had been out on the Palisade meant that he had to die and so had his lover. Ronseval, the sensitive but terrified troubadour, was easy prey. He was searching for his lover. You – Thorne – promised to help. You told him to pack all his possessions, slip out of the tavern and meet you along that lonely stretch of the Thames. Ronseval did so, walking causally towards you, only to receive his death wound.’