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window was clasped shut. I cut back the horn, put my hand through and lifted the latch. The inner shutter was easier; the hooks came up but,’ he patted his stomach, ‘too much baggage. I came back down and sent Mooncalf up.’
    Athelstan glanced at the ostler.
    ‘Brother, you saw what I did. The upper chamber was warm as the shutters had been closed all night. The brazier still glowed, as well as the chafing dishes.’ Mooncalf screwed up his eyes. ‘All of the candles had burnt out – they were extinguished.’
    ‘And the trapdoors?’
    ‘I remember the one to the roof was locked – yes, both were. The trapdoor to the lower chamber was also bolted.’ Mooncalf paused at Cranston’s loud snoring. The fat coroner, warmed and fed, was now relaxing in the comfort. Mooncalf stared at him then back at Athelstan in open-mouthed wonderment.
    ‘Don’t worry,’ the friar reassured, ‘Sir John can sleep with his eyes open and see when they are closed.’
    ‘And the truth never escapes me.’ The coroner opened his eyes and smacked his lips. ‘The main door?’ he asked.
    ‘Bolted top and bottom, the key turned and still in the lock.’ The ostler’s reply created a profound stillness. Even the distant sounds of the tavern faded. Athelstan stared down at the table top. They were now approaching the true mystery of this murderous maze. Athelstan recalled his youth, working on his father’s farm in the West Country. He and the other children would be clearing the furrows following the massive hogged-maned drays which pulled the sharp-toothed plough. Warm, sun-bright days but out to the west he’d glimpse sombre clouds massing, the heralds of a coming storm. Athelstan closed his eyes as other memories surfaced. He recalled sitting on the brow of a snow-covered hill staring down at the dark line of forestry certain that shadows would creep out of the blackness across the hard-packed snow. So it was here as the mystery unfurled. Athelstan opened his eyes. What was the sinister truth behind this heinous massacre? Nine souls had been ruthlessly despatched along that mystical path stretching to God’s judgement and their eternal destiny. How did it, how
could
it happen? Two able-bodied archers, surprised and summarily executed, and then the real mystery: the same blood-seeking wraith had swirled into the Barbican. The well-armed guard on the ground floor were slaughtered before the demon moved up to murder four others in the upper chamber. Once done, he had apparently pillaged a three-locked coffer without using the keys. Afterwards this killer had left just as mysteriously with the windows still shuttered, the main entrance and the two inside trapdoors all firmly locked.
    ‘Brother?’
    ‘My apologies, Sir John.’ Athelstan sighed deeply. ‘I have said this before but I shall do so again. I want the corpses taken to the death house at the Guildhall. The chaplain should anoint them. Afterwards, hire the most able physician, strip and search each corpse, scrutinize them carefully. The tub of platters and cups must be scraped; all the dregs and scraps placed in one of the Guildhall dungeons.’ Athelstan blew his cheeks out. ‘Of course, there is also Hugh of Hornsey, holder of the third key and captain of archers. Where is he? Dead? Alive? Innocent or guilty? Sir John, this assassin, Beowulf? How long has he been waging his secret, bloody war?’
    ‘Oh, about two years.’
    ‘And does he confine himself to the city?’
    ‘The city and the shires around London, as far north as Colchester and as far south as Richmond.’
    ‘And, when he strikes, is he always successful?’
    ‘No, as with the attack on Marsen at Leveret Copse, sometimes he fails.’
    ‘And are his victims always crown officials?’ Athelstan held Cranston’s gaze as the friar hid his own fears. Does that include you, my fat, faithful friend? Athelstan thought. Are you also, incorruptible though you are, marked with the sign of the beast, an intended