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. They were at their posts all night and noticed nothing untoward. Neither did I on my usual nightly rounds.’
Athelstan held up his hand. ‘This business of the keys?’
‘Sir Ralph had a key to his own chamber, as did the guards, on a key ring below.’
‘And the door at the end of that passage?’
‘Again, both Sir Ralph and the guard had a key. You will see them when you go below, hanging from pegs driven into the wall.’
‘Go on, Lieutenant, what happened then?’
‘Just after Prime this morning, Geoffrey Parchmeiner…’
The lieutenant looked slyly at Athelstan. ‘You have met him? The beloved prospective son-in-law? Well, he came across to waken Sir Ralph.’
‘Why Geoffrey?’
‘Sir Ralph trusted him.’
‘Did he bring food or drink?’
‘No. He wanted to, but because of the cold weather Sir Ralph said he wished to be aroused with Geoffrey in attendance. They would plan the day, and breakfast with the rest of the company in the hall.’
‘Continue,’ Cranston blurted crossly, stamping his feet against the cold.
‘Well, the guards led Geoffrey up the stairs, let him through the passageway door and locked it behind him. They heard him go down the corridor, knock on the door and shout, but Sir Ralph could not be roused. After a while Geoffrey came back. “Sir Ralph cannot be woken,” he proclaimed.’ Colebrooke stopped, scratched his head and closed his eyes in an attempt to recall events. ‘Geoffrey took the key to Sir Ralph’s chamber from the peg but changed his mind and came for me. I was in the great hall. I hurried here, collected the keys and unlocked the door.’ The lieutenant gestured towards the bed. ‘We found Sir Ralph as you did.’
‘And the shutters were open?’ Cranston asked.
‘Yes.’
‘How long has the moat been frozen solid?’ Athelstan queried.
‘About three days.’ Colebrooke rubbed his hands together vigorously. ‘Surely, Sir John, we need not stay here?’ he pleaded. ‘There are warmer places to ask such questions.’
Cranston stood and stretched.
‘In a little while,’ he murmured. ‘How long had Sir Ralph been constable?’
‘Oh, about four years.’
‘Did you like him?’
‘No, I did not. He was a martinet, a stickler for discipline — except where his daughter or her lover were concerned.’
Cranston nodded and went back to look at the corpse. ‘I suppose,’ he muttered, ‘there’s no sign of any murder weapon? Perhaps, Athelstan, you could check again?’
The friar groaned, but with Colebrooke’s help carried out a quick survey of the room, raking back the rushes with their feet, sifting amongst the cold ash in the fireplace.
‘Nothing,’ Colebrooke declared. ‘It would be hard to hide a pin here.’
Athelstan went across and pulled the sword from Sir Ralph’s sword belt. ‘There are no blood stains here,’ he commented. ‘Not a jot, not a speck. Sir John, we should go.’
Outside, they stopped to examine a stain on the passage floor but it was only oil. They were halfway down the stairs when Athelstan suddenly pulled the lieutenant back. ‘The two guards?’ he whispered. ‘They are the same sentries as last night?’
‘Yes. Professional mercenaries who served Sir Ralph when he was in the household of His Grace the Regent.’
‘They would be loyal?’
Colebrooke made a face. ‘I should think so. They took a personal oath. More importantly, Sir Ralph had doubled their wages. They had nothing to gain from his death and a great deal to lose.’
‘Do you have anything to gain?’ Cranston asked thickly.
Colebrooke’s hand fell to his dagger hilt. ‘Sir John, I resent that though I confess I did not like Whitton, notwithstanding His Grace the Regent did.’
‘Did you want Whitton’s post?’
‘Of course. I believe I am the better man.’
‘But the Regent disagreed?’
‘John of Gaunt kept his own private counsel,’ Colebroke sourly observed. ‘Though I hope he will now appoint me as Whitton’s successor.’
‘Why?’ Athelstan asked softly.
Colebrooke looked surprised. ‘I am loyal, and if trouble comes, I shall hold the Tower to my dying breath!’
Cranston grinned and tapped him gently on the chest. ‘Now, my good lieutenant, you have it. We think the same on this. Sir Ralph’s death may be linked to the conspiracies which flourish like weeds in the villages and hamlets around London.’
Colebrooke nodded. ‘Whitton was a hard taskmaster,’ he replied, ‘and the Great Community’s paid assassin would have found such a task fairly easy to accomplish.’
Athelstan too smiled and patted Colebrooke on the shoulder. ‘You may be right, Master Colebrooke, but there is only one thing wrong with such a theory.’
The lieutenant gazed dumbly back.
‘Can’t you see?’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Someone in the Tower must have told such an assassin where, when and how Sir Ralph could be found!’
A now crestfallen lieutenant led them down the stairs. The two burly, thick-set guards still squatted with hands outstretched towards the fiery red brazier. They hardly moved as Colebrooke approached and Athelstan sensed their disdain for a junior officer suddenly thrust into authority.
‘You were on guard last night?’
The soldiers nodded.
‘You saw nothing untoward?’
Again the nods, accompanied by supercilious smiles as if they found Athelstan slightly amusing and rather boring.
‘Stand up!’ Cranston roared. ‘Stand up. You whore-begotten sons of bitches! By the sod, I’ve had better men tied to trees and whipped till their backs were red!’
The two soldiers jumped up at the steely menace in Cranston’s voice.
‘That’s better,’ the coroner purred. ‘Now, my buckos, answer my clerk’s questions properly and all will be well.’ He grasped one by the shoulder. ‘Otherwise, I may put it about that in the dead of night you killed your master.’
‘That’s not true!’ the fellow grated. ‘We were loyal to Sir Ralph. We saw nothing, knew nothing, until the popinjay — ’ the guard shrugged ‘- the constable’s prospective son-in-law, comes rushing down, exclaiming he can’t rouse Sir Ralph. He grabs the key and is about to return, but the coward thinks better of it and sends for the lieutenant here.’