‘My apologies, Sir John,’ he murmured. ‘You must be worried – I did not intend that.’ He unlocked the outside door and was virtually pushed aside as Thibault rushed in, shouting at his men to search Master Samuel’s chamber and cut down the corpse.
‘Well,’ the Master of Secrets turned on Athelstan, ‘you took your time!’ Athelstan glanced swiftly at Sir John, who knew exactly what he’d been doing.
‘I had to look for the key,’ Athelstan shrugged, ‘but now you are in. Master Samuel is dead, probably suicide: the door of his chamber was locked and bolted from within. I would like his corpse laid out on the bed – I must examine it.’ Thibault nodded and, pushing through the throng, tried the door to the bottom chamber.
‘It’s locked,’ Athelstan declared, ‘and there is no sign of any key.’
‘Force the shutters,’ Thibault shouted over his shoulder, ‘and where is Rosselyn, my captain of archers? He should be here!’ Thibault, followed by Athelstan and Cranston, walked up the steps. Samuel’s frozen corpse had been hauled back through the unshuttered window and laid on the bed. Cornelius, who had been trailing behind them, bustled through to administer Extreme Unction. Athelstan and the rest waited until he had finished, then the friar swiftly inspected the corpse. He established that there were no wounds to the back of the head, no scars or cuts to the hands or wrists. He pulled up the ice-sodden jerkin and scrutinized the dirty white torso marked with old scars but displaying no fresh wound or injury.
‘So,’ Athelstan declared, straightening up, ‘according to the evidence, late last night or very early this morning, Master Samuel, for whatever reason,’ Athelstan pointed to the great iron clasp fastened into the wall beneath the window, ‘took the rope intended for escape should a fire break out. He secured one end to that clasp; the other he tied around his neck and threw himself out of that window.’ Athelstan picked up the sawn-off noose and examined the slipknot.
‘Samuel would be skilled in that,’ Cranston declared, ‘constantly packing, lashing up coffers, baskets and chests.’ Athelstan agreed and returned to the corpse to examine the deep weal around Samuel’s throat. The wound was a dull red where the coarse rope had tightened and dug deep into the flesh. Turning the head, Athelstan examined the contusion caused by the bulky knot behind the right ear. The friar knew enough about hangings, be it execution or suicide, to realize all was in order. ‘God forgive me,’ he whispered, ‘if I can call it that.’
‘Pardon, Brother?’ Thibault tentatively approached the bed, pausing at the crashing which broke out below as the thick shutters on the lower chamber eventually shattered and crashed to the ground. This was followed by a sharp wail and keening.
‘The Straw Men,’ Cranston declared. ‘They must have heard the news.’
‘Master Thibault! Master Thibault!’ An archer came bounding up the steps, bursting into the chamber. ‘Master Thibault!’ He paused for breath. ‘Domine – you must come, you must see this! Rosselyn is dead, foully murdered.’
Thibault swept from the chamber, Cranston and Athelstan hastening behind. A crowd had assembled, blocking the entrance to the lower chamber. Thibault screamed at them to stand aside then, followed by Cranston and Athelstan, entered the dark, foul-smelling room. Grey light poured through the now-open window. Two archers stood, torches held high; their juddering glow only made the sight they were guarding even more hideous. Rosselyn, dressed in his leather jacket and leggings, sat on a high stool with his back against the wall. The hood of his jerkin had been pushed back, his face all twisted, his right eye half open. Blood crusted the mouth and nose. The look frozen on his face by death was one of agony at the long rapier dagger which had been thrust deep into his left eye socket.
‘Lord and all his angels,’ Athelstan breathed, wrinkling his nose at the rank stench. He peered closer: the corpse’s face was stained with filth, the slimy dirt on the dead archer’s clothing glimmering in the torch light.
‘The bucket.’ One of the archers leaned down, picked up the leather pail and handed it to Athelstan. He sniffed at the fetid smell then did the same to the corpse.
‘The bucket was probably left here,’ the archer observed. ‘Used to clean up some mess then never emptied. Well,’ he shrugged, ‘not until now. The assassin must have poured it over Rossleyn – he reeks like a midden heap. Why should someone do that?’
‘Sharp of eye and keen of wit,’ Athelstan congratulated the archer. ‘I wish I could answer your question.’ He took the cresset torch from the man’s hand and paused at the cries and wails coming from outside. Athelstan pointed at the door. ‘Master Thibault, please ensure that no one goes up to Samuel’s chamber. I would be grateful if the door to this room was closed over.’ Thibault, now clearly frightened, fingers to his lips like a fearful child, could only nod in agreement. He went to it, shouted his orders and came back, slamming it behind him.