XLII

 

 

INSIDE, THE HOUSE reeked of damp and smoke. It was a neat house, well-cared-for. But for the track of muddy footprints going in and out of the front door, one would hardly know anything had happened.

As they followed the muddy trail to the stairs, that impression began to change. At the foot of them, Isaac stopped. He turned, his face suddenly very pale. “Forgive me,” he said. “I do not wish to go up there...”

Gisburne patted the man’s shoulder, and sent him on his way. Then knight and squire turned to climb the steps into darkness.

 

 

THE WHOLE INTERIOR of the room was blackened. A choking haze hung in the air, thick with the smell of burnt meat. Water dripped from the ceiling and formed dark pools on the floor, mixing with some other greasy substance, now beginning to solidify in grey lumps. Fat from the body. Nothing remained of the mattress or the hangings about the walls and bed. The fire had been fierce – but the charred beams and posts had not fully caught before the neighbours had got to them. Gisburne supposed it was at least one reason to be thankful for days of English damp and rain.

On the bed – or rather, collapsed within it, huddled on the floor inside what was left of the frame – was a body. Its head was smashed, the rest burned almost beyond recognition. The right hand had been taken, the arm now a smoking stump. The left hand was drawn into a claw, but in horrid contrast to the rest, the gold rings on its fingers shone as bright as ever.

“This is what comes of playing with fire,” said Galfrid.

But as he stared at the body, Gisburne wondered at the words. Like Galfrid, he had at first assumed that the fire was accidental – or, at least, a consequence of the Red Hand’s attack. Now, he was not so sure.

“Why was Ranulph burned after he was dead?” he said. Galfrid looked again. “His head was smashed, he fell upon the bed, then he was burned. Why?”

Galfrid looked around for further clues, and shrugged. “Perhaps the bed was afire before the Red Hand struck the fatal blow.”

“Perhaps,” said Gisburne. He moved around the bed. It was built into the fabric of the room, its head part of the wall, the corners at its foot formed by stout posts between floor and ceiling. About one of these, he now saw, was wrapped a thick chain, which in turn was attached to a low wooden chest bound around with iron. The lock had been hammered – no, not merely hammered, but beaten out of shape. Yet it had not yielded. As if out of frustration, one end of the casket had also been battered. The iron bands were scored and warped, the wood split and flattened. Still it had refused to give up its secrets. Gisburne was in no doubt that this was also the work of the Red Hand’s hammer.

“He tried to break this open,” said Gisburne. “Tried and failed.”

“Robbery?” said Galfrid, casting his eyes over the chest. “That’s something new. Perhaps he has something in common with Hood after all.”

“Clearly it contains something of value to him.” Gisburne poked the chain with his toe. “Or he believed it did.”

“Gold? Silver?”

“Something he sorely wanted... How many blows do you think he delivered before giving up? Twenty? Thirty?”

“Thirty at least,” said Galfrid.

Gisburne turned and looked at his squire. “Would you stand there and deliver thirty blows to a chest in a room that was on fire? Less than a yard from the blaze?”

Galfrid looked at the destroyed bed, at the blackened chest, then back at Gisburne.

“This was no accident,” said Gisburne. “I think when he failed to get what he wanted from this chest he deliberately set the place afire – perhaps to destroy this box and what it contained.”

“Why destroy something of value?” said Galfrid. “To stop someone else having it?”

“Or seeing it,” said Gisburne. “You remember Ranulph was the record keeper on the Irish expedition?” He lifted the corner of the chest with his foot and let it fall back on the boards. “It’s not silver or gold in here...”

Gisburne and Galfrid looked at each other, both knowing what the other was thinking. “Get back down there,” Gisburne said. “Tell Isaac we’ll need this chest. And tell him to light a fire in the back yard. A big one, that will make as much smoke as possible – enough to keep the Red Hand convinced that this house is burning to the ground.” Galfrid nodded and hurried back down the stairs.

Gisburne turned back to the body with a grim sense of victory. The Red Hand had eluded him today – but now they had the chest and whatever secret it contained, and the Red Hand did not know it. He allowed himself a smile as his eyes roved over the blackened corpse.

Then he saw it – the thing that had been staring him in the face from the moment they had entered the room – and his jaw dropped.

 

 

GALFRID FOUND ISAAC sitting on the step outside. He had vomited, and his limbs were shaking – the shock starting to bite. But at least some of his colour had returned.

A large crowd had now gathered before the house – some of them concerned neighbours, but many simply curious. Of Elazar, there was now no sign. Galfrid ignored them all, and, squatting beside Isaac, explained what had to be done in slow and measured tones: the need to remove the chest, the importance of securing the house until they could do so, the building of the fire. Isaac nodded steadily as he spoke. Galfrid sensed he would feel better for having something to do.

Eventually Isaac stood, smoothed his tunic and, with renewed vigour, looked about for friends and neighbours to help him put the plan into action. As he did so, something within the crowd caught his eye. Galfrid saw his expression change again – to shock, and then deep despair. He gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, then, with clenched fists, turned and moved swiftly away.

Galfrid followed the direction of his gaze. At first he saw nothing out of the ordinary. But then, within the throng, he noted a hooded man clutching a bag of newly bought provisions to his chest. What marked him out was his expression. It mirrored Isaac’s precisely – as if he, too, had just lost someone in the fire. But instead of pushing forward to find out more, he turned and hurried away. Galfrid watched until he had disappeared completely into the crowd.

“Let’s go.” Gisburne’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. His master had emerged from the house, and was now looking about with a new sense of purpose. He noted Isaac talking animatedly with three men by the gate, then turned again, scanning the crowd.

“Hamon?”

As if by magic, Hamon appeared with their horses

“Sire?”

As Galfrid took the horses from the boy, Gisburne spoke to him in urgent, hushed tones. “The man who we entered the house with,” he said. “You see him? Don’t let him see you’re looking. His name is Isaac. Put a lad on him. I want to know everywhere he goes.”

Hamon nodded, and was off.

“You’re having Isaac followed,” said Galfrid. “Why?”

“All in good time,” said Gisburne. “We must find a blacksmith.” He thought for a moment. “Two blacksmiths... I want that chest brought to our lodgings and opened before the killer realises his attempt failed.”

“Failed?” Galfrid was bemused by Gisburne’s choice of words. “Ranulph Le Fort lies dead up there!” He tried to put aside thoughts of Dickon, of how Gisburne’s obsession had made him neglect the search for the man who was now murdered. Neither he nor his raging indigestion could face that.

“But he’s not dead,” said Gisburne.

“What?” Galfrid gaped at him. “You saw that roasted lump. It’s as dead as my lunch.”

“Yes,” said Gisburne. “But that is not Ranulph Le Fort.”