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 Philippa.
‘How long, sir, have you known your betrothed?’
Geoffrey’s wine-flushed face was wreathed in smiles as he gripped her hand more firmly. ‘Two years.’
Athelstan noticed the conspiratorial smiles the two lovers exchanged. Cranston leered at the girl whilst he considered the incongruous couple. Geoffrey was outstandingly handsome and probably quite wealthy, yet Philippa was almost plain. Moreover, Sir Ralph had been a soldier and Geoffrey was not, at first glance, the sort of man likely to be welcomed into such a family. Cranston then remembered Maude and his own passionate courting of her. Love was strange, as Athelstan kept reminding him, and opposites were often attracted to each other.
‘Tell me, Geoffrey, why did you stay in the Tower?’
The young man belched and blinked his eyes as if he was on the point of falling asleep. ‘Well,’ he mumbled, ‘the great frost has killed all trade in the city. Sir Ralph wished me to stay during the Yuletide season — even more so after he became distraught and upset.’
‘Did you know the reason for his anxiety?’
‘No,’ Geoffrey slurred. ‘Why should I?’
‘Did you like Sir Ralph?’
‘I loved him as a son does a father.’
Cranston switched his attention to Sir Fulke who was beginning openly to fidget.
‘Sir Fulke, you say you are the executor of Sir Ralph’s will?’
‘Yes, I am. And, before you ask, I am also a beneficiary, after the will is approved in the Court of Probate.’
‘What does the will provide?’
‘Well, Sir Ralph had property next to the Charterhouse in St Giles. This and all of the monies banked with the Lombards in Cornhill will go to Philippa.’
‘And to you?’
‘Meadows and pastures in the Manor of Holywell outside Oxford.’
‘A rich holding?’
‘Yes, Sir John, a rich holding, but not rich enough to murder for.’
‘I didn’t say that’
‘You implied it’
‘Sir Ralph,’ Alhelstan hurriedly interrupted, ‘was a wealthy man?’
‘He amassed wealth in his travels,’ Sir Fulke snapped back. ‘And he was careful with his monies.’ Athelstan noticed the sour smile on the chaplain’s face. Sir Ralph, he thought, was probably a miser. The friar looked sideways at Cranston and quietly groaned. The good coroner was taking one of his short naps, his great belly sagging, mouth half-open. Oh, Lord, Athelstan quietly prayed, please make sure he doesn’t snore!
‘Why do you live in the Tower, a bleak dwelling place for any man?’ Athelstan abruptly asked.
Sir Fulke shrugged. ‘My brother paid me to help him in an unofficial capacity.’
Both he and Athelstan chose to ignore the snorting laughter of Colebrooke. Cranston was now quietly nodding, belching softly and smacking his lips. Mistress Philippa tightened her mouth and Athelstan cursed; he did not wish his interrogation to end in mocking laughter.
‘Sir Gerard, Sir Brian,’ he almost shouted in an attempt to rouse Cranston, ‘how long have you been in the Tower?’
‘Two weeks,’ Fitzormonde replied. ‘We come every year.’
‘It’s a ritual,’ Mowbray added, ‘ever since we served with Sir Ralph in Egypt. We met to discuss old times.’
‘So you were close friends of Sir Ralph?’
‘In a sense. Colleagues, veterans from old wars.’ Mowbray stroked his evenly clipped beard. ‘But, I’ll be honest with you, Sir Ralph was a man more feared and respected than loved.’
Athelstan picked up the yellowing piece of parchment and thrust it at them.
‘Do you know what this drawing means or the significance of the seed cake?’
Both knights shook their heads but Athelstan was sure they were lying. He leaned forward. ‘Why?’ he whispered. ‘Why should Sir Ralph be so terrified of this?’ He stared slowly round the rest of the group.
‘A cup of sack!’ Cranston muttered thickly.
‘Who found this?’ Athelstan quickly asked.
Sir Fulke pointed to Rastani who sat with his dark face fearful and anxious. Athelstan leaned forward. ‘What does this mean, Rastani?’
The eyes stared blankly back.
‘Where did you find it?’
The fellow suddenly made strange gestures with his fingers.
‘He can hear but not speak,’ Philippa reminded the friar.
Fascinated Athelstan watched the strange hand signs which Philippa translated for him.
‘He found it on a table in my father’s chamber,’ she announced. ‘Four days ago. Early on the morning of the ninth of December — that and the hard-baked seed cake.’
Athelstan caught and held Rastani’s glance.
‘You were a faithful servant to Sir Ralph?’
The man nodded in response.
‘Why didn’t you move with your master to the North Bastion?’ Athelstan continued.
The fellow’s mouth opened and shut like a landed carp’s.
‘I can answer that,’ Philippa said. ‘When the message was received, my father distanced himself from Rastani, though God knows why.’ She gently stroked the man’s hand. ‘As I have said, Father became strange. Even I did not recognise him from his actions.’
Cranston smacked his lips and suddenly stirred.
‘Yes, yes, very good!’ he bawled. ‘But did any of you approach the North Bastion Tower the night Sir Ralph was killed?’
A series of firm denials greeted his question.
‘So you can all account for your movements?’
‘I can,’ the kinsman spoke up. ‘Rastani and I were out of the Tower. We were sent to buy stores from a merchant in Cripplegate. Or, at least, that’s where the warehouse is. You can ask Master Christopher Manley in Heyward Lane near All Hallows.’
‘That’s near the Tower?’
‘Yes, it is, Sir John.’
‘And when did you leave?’
‘Before dinner, and did not return until after Prime this morning when we heard of Sir Ralph’s death. Rastani and I can vouch for each other. If you doubt that, speak to Master Manley. He saw us take lodgings at a tavern in Muswell Street.’
Sir John rose and stretched.
‘Well, well! Now my clerk and I,’ he trumpeted, ‘would like to question each of you alone. Though,’ he smiled at the girl, ‘Mistress Philippa and Geoffrey had best stay together. Master Colebrooke, there’s a chamber below. Perhaps our guests could wait there?’
There were mumbled protests and groans but Cranston, refreshed after his nap, glared round beneath thick furrowed brows. Led by Colebrooke, all left except for Philippa and Geoffrey.
‘Your chamber, Master Geoffrey?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Where is it?’
‘Above the gatehouse.’
‘And you stayed there all night?’
The young man smiled weakly. ‘You’re a perceptive man, Sir John. That’s why you asked me to stay, I suppose? I spent the night with Philippa.’