‘If I make no progress,’ he whispered, ‘perhaps I am following the wrong path, but where is the right one?’ Athelstan felt himself slacking. He was hungry but also tired and did not want to brave the cold outside. He prepared himself for sleep, wrapped a heavy military coat around him and lay down on the cot bed, murmuring the opening words of the sequence from the Mass of the Holy Spirit. He fell into a deep sleep, disturbed slightly by Sir John returning, but then slipped back into his dreams even as the good coroner wished him goodnight. Both were awakened, just as a greying dawn broke, by the bell booming out the tocsin. He and Cranston hurriedly dressed, stumbling out into the eye-watering, limb-numbing freezing air. Mercifully it had not snowed but what lay on the ground had hardened into a sheet of slippery ice. The sky was crystal clear, the stars beginning to disappear. Somewhere a night bird shrieked, answered by the bell-like howling of a dog. The tocsin continued. The tower buildings emerged out of the mist like brooding monsters. Torches flared. Shouts and cries trailed. An archer, stumbling on the ice, hurried up pointing to his right.
‘Bowyer Tower!’ he exclaimed, though the rest of his words were muffled and lost. Cranston and Athelstan, clinging on to each other, staggered and stumbled until they reached the circle of cressets clustered near the soaring Bowyer Tower. Cornelius, Lascelles and Thibault were already there. A man-at-arms was pointing up the side of the tower while another was pounding on its locked door. Cranston and Athelstan joined them, staring up through the gloom at Master Samuel, dressed in his robe and cloak, dangling by his neck from a thick rope lashed to some clasp in the chamber window, its shutters wide open, through which Samuel had either been flung or thrown himself. Samuel’s corpse exuded its own singular horror, just swaying slightly, the toes of his boots pointed down, hands by his side, fingers slightly curled, his frosted face almost hidden by his hair. The creak of the rope and the clattering of one of the shutters provided a sombre, funereal sound.
‘The morning watch found him.’ Thibault, shrouded in his cowled cloak, edged his way out of his circle of henchmen. He pointed back to where the man-at-arms still pounded at the door. ‘We cannot gain entry. Apparently no one else is within.’ He paused as an enterprising archer brought along a close-runged ladder which could reach the window.
‘Why not go through the one below?’ Cranston pointed to the shuttered window of the ground chamber just beneath the swaying feet of the corpse.
‘If we have to,’ Thibault rasped. ‘But this is swifter. Right.’ He gestured at the archer to go up the ladder.
‘No,’ Athelstan intervened, ‘I will go.’ And before Cranston could stop him, Athelstan, begging the archer to hold the ladder steady, climbed up. As he passed the corpse he noticed its clothes were stiff with cold, the hands and face deeply frosted; the open shutters were also covered in a white dustiness which showed they’d been open for most of the freezing night. He reached the chamber and clambered in. The braziers had sunk low in the chilly air. Athelstan, murmuring the requiem, found a taper and hastened around the room. He lit the large lantern horn on the table. As he did so he noticed the rumpled bed, the one goblet and food platter on top of a trunk. The lights of the lantern and freshly lit candles strengthened, making the shadows shift. Athelstan scrutinized the goblet and platter but could smell nothing tainted. He swiftly surveyed the rest of the chamber.
‘Thibault will sweep through this like the wind,’ Athelstan whispered to himself, ‘so I must be just as quick.’ He examined the clothes hanging from pegs as well as a few lying on the floor. The small treasury casket crammed with coins seemed untouched. The other coffers and chests simply held clothes, belts and hoods. Eventually Athelstan discovered what he was looking for, a small iron-bound chancery coffer. He hastily sifted through its contents: bills of purveyance, indentures, memoranda and a few personal letters, as well as strange jottings on scraps of parchment made against the names of villages, towns and hamlets. ‘The fruits of your spying,’ Athelstan murmured. He studied these carefully but put them back. At the bottom of the coffer he found a book; it looked like a leather-bound book of hours, but when he undid the clasp he realized it was a master book of plays, masques and dramas. Samuel must have copied these from other manuscripts. He ignored the calls and shouts from below as he continued his search. He realized this was not Samuel’s personal chamber, just temporary lodgings in the Tower, so there would be no secret hiding place. Satisfied that he had done what he could, Athelstan crossed to the door and studied the eyelet high in the wood. He pulled this back and peered out – it was very similar to the one in the door of Eli’s chamber. Athelstan pushed and pulled back the shutter, noting how smoothly it moved. Athelstan stood staring at it wondering about the possibilities but the continued shouts from below shook him from his reverie. He drew back the bolts and turned the great key in the lock. The stairwell outside was empty and cold, its corners coated with mouldy cobwebs. He returned, took a candle and went down the stone spiral staircase. The door at the bottom was bolted and locked but the key was missing. Athelstan crouched down, holding the candle close to the ground. He caught the glint of metal then looked back at the gap under the outside door, wide enough for a constant draught of icy air. Athelstan ignored the hammering and shouts from outside. He picked up the key and studied the door to the ground floor chamber slightly set back in a narrow recess to his left. He tried the key in its lock but it didn’t work. He grasped the iron ring and pushed hard; the door still held firm. From outside Cranston shouted his name.