‘The door will be forced but no one will enter before we do,’ Cranston agreed. ‘Rosselyn is acting all officious but this tower falls within my jurisdiction . . .’ Cranston broke off, grabbing Athelstan by the arm and leading him back as the sound of shouts and a dull thudding trailed from the Tower. Someone had piled rubbish into a makeshift brazier. Cranston and Athelstan stood with the gathering crowd warming their hands. The friar let his mind drift back to the very start of all this – that attack near Aldgate, or was it something before that? Athelstan suspected it did. The malignant root to all this still laid hidden, murky and tangled, richly nourished by treachery. Who was the traitor in Gaunt’s entourage who had informed the Upright Men about that cavalcade, the Flemings and their mysterious prisoner? In turn, who was the Judas among the Upright Men, the one who revealed to Thibault that fateful meeting at the Roundhoop? Were the Warde family really spies sent into the parish of St Erconwald’s to ferret out such mischief? A shout followed by a crack from the Tower startled Athelstan from his meditation. Rosselyn appeared in the doorway.
‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, the door is forced. You’d best come . . .’
Athelstan and Cranston squeezed by the broken door into the Tower chamber. The room was poorly lit. All torches and rush lights had long burnt out, while the braziers were simply mounds of dead grey ash. Athelstan walked carefully across the squelching rushes. Eli’s corpse lay almost in the centre of the chamber; the gore from the hideous wound to his face had congealed into a fearsome, dark red mask. Athelstan crouched, his stomach heaving. Eli’s face had been shattered by the crossbow bolt embedded deep between his eyes. The barb had ploughed a furiously bloody furrow; the face had almost collapsed, the bolt thrust so deep the small, stiffened feathers of its flight had merged with the ruptured skin. Eli was fully dressed, his dagger still in its belt scabbard, boots on his feet. A wine cup lay nearby where it had apparently rolled from his fingers. Athelstan picked this up and sniffed it but caught only the slightly bitter smell of dried claret. He murmured a prayer, blessed the corpse and stared round that bleak chamber. Others tried to come in but, at Athelstan’s hushed request, Cranston ordered them to stay outside in the stairwell. Both coroner and friar rigorously scrutinized that shabby room – its flaking walls, the mush of reeds on the floor, the untidy cot bed with its grey linen bolster. Eli’s saddlebag and purse contained paltry items: a paternoster ring, some coins, a Santiago medal and a greasy, tattered manuscript, its pages bound by twine containing extracts of some mystery play clumsily copied from an original. Athelstan picked up the small wine jug and platter; he sniffed at these but detected nothing untoward. Athelstan then joined Cranston by the door, now leaning against the wall to the left of the entrance. Ancient and sturdy, the door was at least five inches thick; its stiffened leather hinges had cracked, as had the bolts at both top and bottom. The lock, too, was wrenched, the heavy key, still inserted, twisted by the pounding when the door was forced.
‘Jesu Miserere,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘How could this happen?’ He studied the eyelet; the slit was about six inches wide and the same length. The moveable slat itself had a heavy stud screwed into one end so the person inside could pull it backwards and forwards. Athelstan grasped this. He pulled with all his might but he couldn’t move it; nor could Cranston.
‘Stiffened with age,’ Rossleyn stepped into the chamber, ‘the wood’s become wedged tight, a common problem in the Tower.’ He tapped the door. ‘The cold, the damp.’ His voice trailed off.
Athelstan, shaking his head, walked back and crouched by Eli’s corpse. From the stairwell he heard the moans and cries of Eli’s companions as the news of the murder spread. The shouting drew closer. The Straw Men gathered in the doorway. Rossleyn ordered them to stay back but Samuel and the rest spilled into the chamber. Rachael, her red hair all loose, knelt beside Athelstan, sharply rocking backwards and forwards. Judith staggered towards the bed and simply lay down, thumb to her mouth, staring at the corpse. Samuel took one look at the shattered face and turned away, one hand over his mouth as he stumbled to the jake’s pot to be sick. Samson and Gideon crouched by Rachael, comforting her, whispering that Judith needed her. Athelstan swiftly intoned the De Profundis and the requiem. He blessed the corpse and got up. ‘Sir John,’ he declared, ‘we are finished here.’ He helped Rachael to her feet, beckoning at the others to gather around.
‘Eli, last night did any of you visit him?’