The Field of Blood (17 page)

‘What?’ Sir John demanded.

‘Well, all the flesh and cloth had rotted away. Now around the city are numerous burial pits, relics of the great pestilence which swept through London thirty years ago. People were buried in gardens, any available piece of land.’

‘And you think that’s what happened in Black Meadow?’ Athelstan asked.

‘It’s a possibility. I mean, if Mistress Vestler was a murderess, wouldn’t we find or discover more corpses in the same state as Bartholomew?’

‘There’s one place I can look,’ Athelstan added, ‘my mother house in Blackfriars. When the pestilence swept through London the Dominican order did very good work. The brothers tended to the dead but they also made a careful list of burial grounds and, when the pestilence subsided, went out and blessed these.’

Sir John beamed from ear to ear.

‘It’s possible,’ he whispered excitedly.

‘But it makes little difference,’ Hengan intervened. ‘What does it matter if you hang for one or a dozen? Sir John, I think we should be going.’

They left the Lamb of God and made their way up through the milling crowds and into the open area before the grim doorway of Newgate. To one side ranged the fleshers’ stalls and slaughterhouses. The cobbles ran with blood and ordure and the air was thick with the stench from the boiling cauldrons and vats.

Athelstan always hated the place. It stank of death, pain and punishment. The stocks in front of the prison were empty but a makeshift scaffold had been assembled. It was rarely used as an execution place but as a stark warning to the riff-raff who thronged about. In front of the massive gate swarmed beggars, grubby-faced clerks and scriveners eager to write messages for the unlettered. Turnkeys and gaolers moved about accepting bribes and gifts so people could be allowed through the metal-studded postern door into the yard beyond. Two prisoners had been released to beg for alms for those housed in the common cells. They wore nothing but loin cloths. They were shackled together by long chains round their ankles and wrists, their emaciated, sore-covered bodies a pathetic reminder of the terrible conditions within. One of these pushed his clap-dish beneath Athelstan’s chin.

‘Some coins, Brother? Something for the poor within?’

Athelstan dropped a penny in but a sweaty-faced beadle was following the two prisoners so Athelstan wondered if the alms would go to those who needed them or the corrupt officials who regarded Newgate as their private fief. He followed Sir John up to the gate. The coroner had little time for the turnkeys. He simply showed his seal and thrust by them into the common yard. A gaoler took them across and up into the inner gatehouse.

Chambers stood on each floor. Athelstan glanced through an open door and recoiled in disgust: he was sure that a tray, lying within the doorway, held the severed ears of malefactors.

‘Sir Jack,’ he protested, ‘I hate this place!’

They reached the fourth floor and the gaoler stopped before a heavy door set into the recess. When he unlocked the door Athelstan expected to see Mistress Brokestreet but it was flung open by a tall, black-haired man, thin-faced with a receding chin and a sharp-beaked nose which scythed the air. He was dressed from head to toe in a velvet gown of dark murrey trimmed with fur. The gaoler stepped hastily aside, almost knocking into Sir John in the narrow stairwell.

‘Who are these people?’ The man came out, closing the door behind him.

‘Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city, and you, sir?’

‘Master Odo Whittock, serjeant-at-law. Special emissary of Sir Henry Brabazon the chief justice.’

He looked over Sir John’s shoulder, espied Hengan and his narrow eyes twinkled in amusement.

‘I wager you’ve come to see Mistress Brokestreet. But the answer is no. Mistress Brokestreet is now a prisoner of the Crown and whatever you want to know can be learned in court.’ He gestured with his finger. ‘Above us lies Mistress Kathryn Vestler. I will not question her.’ His lips parted in a smile. ‘At least not now.’

And, without further ado, Whittock went back in, slamming the door behind him. The gaoler turned, his unshaven face creased into a smile.

‘Sir John, I . . .’

‘Oh bugger him!’ Sir John growled. ‘Let’s see Mistress Vestler.’

The cell they were shown into was clean-swept, the shutters on the barred windows wide open; Mistress Vestler must have paid considerable amounts for a cell such as this. It contained a pallet bed, a bench, a table and two stools as well as a leather coffer with broken straps and buckles pushed against the wall. Clothes and blankets hung from pegs on the wall; on the table was an unfinished meal of bread, dried meat and some rather bruised apples. Mistress Vestler was staring out of the window and turned as they came in. If anything, Athelstan thought, she looked younger, more resolute than before. Her face was now hard set, no trace of any tears. She went and sat on the bed and watched as they came over. The gaoler locked the door behind them. She smiled up at Hengan.

‘Have you come to take me home, Ralph?’

The lawyer coughed and shuffled his feet.

‘Mistress, Sir John and I have questions for you.’

She sighed, more concerned with straightening the
dark-blue
veil which covered her greying hair.

‘I’m well looked after here,’ she said. ‘The place is clean. The gaoler says it’s too high for the vermin.’ She glanced at Athelstan who brought a stool across. ‘It’s good of you to come, Brother. I understand you have troubles of your own. A royal messenger killed in your parish?’ She shook her head. ‘It’s so sad. I knew both Eccleshall and Sholter. Oh yes.’ She saw the surprise in Athelstan’s face.’ They often travelled from Westminster to the Tower and came striding into the Paradise Tree shouting for custom.’

‘What were they like?’ Athelstan asked as Sir John and Hengan brought across a bench.

‘Oh, bully-boys both, especially Sholter; he would always swagger in roaring for a drink. Now he’s gone! Life is truly a valley of shadows isn’t it, Brother? But you have questions?’ She didn’t look at Sir John but at Athelstan. ‘I also know your reputation: small and gentle with eyes which never miss anything.’

Athelstan smiled at the compliment. ‘Mistress Kathryn, we are here to save you. I will be honest, that is going to be very hard.’

Mistress Vestler blinked, her lower lip quivered but she maintained her composure.

‘Did you kill Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden?’

‘I did not.’

‘Do you know how their corpses came to be buried in Black Meadow?’

‘I do not.’

‘Can you, Mistress Vestler,’ Athelstan persisted, aware of how quiet this cell had fallen, ‘remember the twenty-fifth June, the day after midsummer? That was the last day Bartholomew and Margot were seen alive.’

‘I don’t know, I can’t remember.’

‘What do you think happened?’

‘Bartholomew must have come into the tavern to eat, drink and meet Margot.’ She shook her head. ‘But, apart from that . . .’

‘Why did you burn Margot Haden’s property?’

‘I’ve told you that, it was tawdry, only cheap items. I thought she had eloped and wouldn’t need them any more.’

Athelstan’s heart sank: just a flicker of the eye but he was sure she was lying.

‘Did Bartholomew Menster ever offer to marry you?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Were you jealous of his affection for Margot?’

She shook her head, and Athelstan sensed she was telling the truth.

‘Did Bartholomew Menster ever discuss with you the legends of Bishop Gundulf’s treasure, about it being like the sun?’ He paused. ‘And hidden beneath the sun.’

Athelstan abruptly recalled that no reference to the latter half of this cryptic riddle had been found in the manuscripts he had taken from the Tower.

Kathryn was now agitated, rubbing her hands together.

‘The Tower is full of such legends,’ she replied. ‘Hidden gems, lost jewels, Gundulf’s treasure hoard, Roman silver.’

‘Did you and your late husband Stephen know about these lost treasures of the Tower?’

‘Of course. We lived within bowshot of the Tower. Stephen was always buying artefacts from the garrison: shields, disused weapons and other curiosities. You’ve seen most of them yourself! True, Bartholomew discussed the legends with me but I just laughed.’

‘Did he ever offer to buy the Paradise Tree?’ Sir John broke in.

Kathryn was about to deny that.

‘He did, didn’t he?’ Athelstan persisted.

‘On two occasions,’ she replied slowly, ‘he made an offer but I refused.’

‘And you never thought it strange,’ Athelstan asked, ‘that a clerk, a scribe from the Tower, was interested in the tavern? Didn’t you think his interest in the treasure was, perhaps, more than a passing mood?’

‘He made offers. I refused and that’s the end of the matter.’

‘Well, perhaps we have some good news,’ Athelstan said. ‘The other skeletons were probably victims of the plague: Black Meadow may have been a burial pit when the great pestilence raged.’

Kathryn smiled. ‘It’s possible. Perhaps that’s why it was called Black Meadow.’ She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. ‘Stephen always talked about ghosts being seen there.’

‘More than ghosts, mistress. The Four Gospels, that strange little company whom you so generously allowed to stay in Black Meadow, have reported barges coming in on the mud flats. Of dark shapes and shadows entering Black Meadow in the direction of the Paradise Tree.’

‘I know nothing of that,’ she retorted sharply. ‘The Thames is like any highway, both good and bad travel there.’

‘But where do they go to?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Petty Wales is a den of thieves.’

Athelstan fought to control his temper.

‘Mistress Vestler, in this gatehouse is a serjeant-at-law, Master Odo Whittock. He and Sir Henry Brabazon are, to use Sir John’s term, “two cheeks of the same face”. They will dig and dig deeply. They will not be satisfied by your answers in court.’

‘It’s the only response they will get, Brother.’

‘Mistress Vestler, I am trying to help. I have been to the Paradise Tree and it’s a fine, prosperous tavern. Questions will be asked about your profits.’

‘I am a good businesswoman,’ she insisted. ‘Brother, if I could have a cup of water?’

Athelstan rose, filled a cracked pewter cup and passed it over.

‘My profits are what they are.’ She sipped at the water. ‘I can say no more.’

Athelstan saw his despair mirrored in Sir John’s eyes.

‘In which case, Mistress Vestler, I will pray for you and do what I can.’

‘I will stay,’ Hengan said. ‘I need to talk about further matters.’

Sir John went across and hammered on the door.

The turnkey waiting on the other side opened it. They went down the steps and out into the cobbled yard. Athelstan plucked at the coroner’s sleeve.

‘It does not look well, Sir John.’

‘No, Brother, it doesn’t.’ He paused at a scream which came from a darkened doorway. ‘Hell’s kitchen! That’s what this place is: let’s be gone!’

Outside the main gate, Henry Flaxwith stood holding a slavering, smiling Samson in his arms

‘You see, Sir Jack, he’s well enough now.

The dog lunged at Sir John, teeth bared.

‘Samson is so pleased to see you, Sir John. You know he loves you.’

‘Master Flaxwith, I’ll take your word for it. Now, put the bloody thing down!’

Flaxwith lowered Samson gently down on to the cobbles and the ugly mastiff pounced on a scrap of meat from the fleshers’ yard.

‘And my errand?’ Athelstan asked. ‘To Hilda Smallwode?’

Flaxwith pulled a face. ‘I am not too sure whether you will like this. The maid, who is honest enough, said she did not see Master Sholter actually leave, she was in the house. Her mistress stayed for a while but she did send Hilda upstairs to the bedchamber. The maid remembers seeing the St Christopher on a stool but didn’t think anything of it. She certainly saw it again on Sunday morning when she called round to see if her mistress was well.’

Athelstan closed his eyes and quietly cursed.

‘Well, well, Brother.’ Sir John patted him on the shoulder. ‘It would seem your theory will not hold up. Master Sholter did forget his St Christopher’

Athelstan just rubbed the side of his face.

‘Sir John, I must think while you must see your poppets.’

And, hitching his chancery bag over his shoulder, Athelstan despondently walked away, leaving a bemused coroner behind him.

Athelstan trudged on, oblivious to the crowds around him, to the constant shouts of the apprentices: ‘What do you lack? What do you lack?’ Tradesmen plucking at his sleeve, trying to attract his attention; whores flouncing out of doorways. All the little friar could think of was Mistress Vestler sitting there, telling lies while, across the city, two assassins hugged themselves in glee at the terrible crimes they had committed.

Athelstan paused, breathed in and coughed; the friar was suddenly aware that he had gone through the old city gates. He was now near the great Fleet Ditch which stank to high heaven of the saltpetre which covered the mounds of rubbish. Two urchins ran up, saying they would sing him a song for a penny. Athelstan tossed them a coin and sketched a blessing in the air.

‘I’ll give you that for silence,’ he told them. ‘Blackfriars!’ he announced. ‘I’ll go to Blackfriars!’

‘And then to heaven?’ a chapman who had overheard him called out.

Athelstan smiled and walked on, lost in his thoughts and what he had learned.

At last he arrived at the mother house. A lay brother let him through the postern door. Athelstan seized him by the shoulders and stared into the man’s vacant eyes, the saliva drooling from slack jaws.

‘It’s Brother Eustace, isn’t it?’

‘Abbot Eustace to you,’ the lay brother replied.

Athelstan squeezed the old man’s shoulder.

‘And I am the Cardinal Bishop of Ostia,’ he hissed.

‘I’ve come to make a secret visitation, so don’t tell anyone I’m here.’

The lay brother chortled with glee. Athelstan moved on across the cloister garth and into the heavy oak scriptorium and library. The old librarian was not there. Athelstan quietly thanked God, otherwise it would have been at least an hour of gossip and chatter. The assistant, a young friar who introduced himself as Brother Sylvester, welcomed him with the kiss of peace.