The Field of Blood (24 page)

‘My lord.’ Whittock walked back to the foot of the steps and glanced up at the justices. ‘There seems to be good evidence that Gundulf, Bishop of Rochester, who built the Tower, may have buried his treasure somewhere in the grounds of the Paradise Tree.’

‘And have you looked for this treasure?’ Sir Henry asked.

‘My lord, I have conducted a careful search of the gardens and cellars.’ Whittock smiled. ‘That’s how we found the casks of wine which had not passed through customs.’

‘My lord.’ Hengan sprang to his feet. ‘Is this relevant? Is Mistress Vestler being accused of seizing treasure trove and hiding it from the Crown? She is on trial for murder, not for petty treason!’

Sir Henry pursed his lips. ‘True, true, Master Hengan. Master Whittock, this questioning?’

‘My lord, my lord.’ Whittock spread his hands. ‘I simply wish to demonstrate to the court that Mistress Vestler may have had a number of grudges against Master Bartholomew. Not only young Margot but the possible whereabouts of this treasure.’ He bowed. ‘However, if it’s your wish, I shall let the matter rest.’ Whittock turned back to the witness. ‘Your sister, how long did she serve at the Paradise Tree?’

‘About three years.’

‘And she spent her money well on clothes, gowns, robes?’

‘Yes, she told me she kept careful accounts at the back of her Book of Hours.’

‘Ah yes, yes.’ Whittock rubbed his chin and tapped the end of his pointed nose. ‘Would you say that your sister was a sober young woman, industrious, of sharp wit?’

‘Of course!’

‘She was not the sort,’ Whittock said, then paused, ‘to elope in the dead of night, leaving all her possessions behind her?’

‘No, sir, she would not.’

‘But, that is the story Mistress Vestler gave you when you made enquiries at the Paradise Tree?’

‘It was.’

‘And then you went there yourself?’

‘At the end of July, I stayed three days.’

‘And you were shown Margot’s chamber?’

‘A garret, sir, at the top of the house. It was stripped bare.’

‘And your sister’s possessions?’

‘Mistress Vestler said that’s how it had been left. Nothing of what remained could be sold or kept so she had burned it.’

‘And what did you think of that?’

‘At the time I thought it strange but, perhaps, Margot had taken her possession with her. Now . . .’ Her voice faltered. ‘I cannot understand why Mistress Vestler burned everything.’

‘No, no,’ Whittock replied, ‘and, to tell you the truth, mistress, neither can I.’

Whittock finished with a flourish and Hengan went to the bar where he stared across at Isobel Haden.

‘You are on oath, Madam.’

‘I know I am.’

‘And have you told the truth?’

‘As God is my witness.’

‘But, at the time, you really did think your sister had eloped with Master Menster?’

‘Yes, sir, I did.’

‘And, when you went to the Paradise Tree, you believed Mistress Vestler?’

‘Of course. She seemed a kindly woman. Margot had talked highly of her.’

‘And now?’

The young woman became confused. ‘She said my sister has eloped but she hadn’t. All the time, her corpse lay beneath that oak tree.’ Her voice trembled.

‘Do you find it hard to accept that Mistress Vestler would do your sister such mortal injury?’

‘Yes . . .’

‘Remember, you are on oath!’

‘Yes, yes, sir, I do. But why should she burn my poor sister’s possessions?’

Hengan thanked the young woman. Her departure was followed by bushed conversation, both among the jury and the spectators.

‘I can’t understand this,’ Athelstan whispered. ‘Whittock’s had only a few days yet he’s ferreted out one thing after another.’

‘He is good,’ Sir John replied. ‘They intend Kathryn to hang and the Crown will put the Paradise Tree under the most careful scrutiny.’

Athelstan glanced up as the clerk called the next witness, a thin, spindle-shanked fellow, his greasy hair tied at the back by a red ribbon. He wore a soiled leather jacket, darned hose and scuffed boots. A chapman or tinker, Athelstan thought: he was proved correct when Matthew Biddlecombe, chap-man and trader, took the oath.

‘Now, sir,’ Whittock began. ‘On the twenty-fifth of June last I was traveling to Canterbury to pray before the shrine of blessed Thomas à Becket.’ He pointed to Hengan. ‘My learned colleague over there was also on pilgrimage. Sir Henry Brabazon, our noble judge, was holding Commissions of the Peace in Middlesex. Mistress Vestler was in the Paradise Tree. So, sir, where were you?’

The Chapman shuffled his feet.

‘She’s very kind,’ he muttered.

‘Where were you?’ Whittock almost shouted.

‘I travel the city, sir.’ Biddlecombe looked up at the chief justice. ‘From Clerkenwell down to Westminster. I sell ribbons and laces, needles, gew-gaws . . .’

‘And very good ones too, I’m sure,’ Sir Henry broke in sardonically. ‘Pray, Master Matthew, do continue.’

‘I do not earn enough to hire a chamber,’ the fellow declared ‘But Mistress Vestler lets me sleep in one of her outhouses. She gives me ale and cold pie . . .’

‘Yes, yes, quite,’ Whittock intervened. ‘Your belly, sir
,
does not concern us: your words do.’ He sniffed noisily. ‘I was talking about Midsummer’s Day earlier this year. You are on oath, sir; for perjury you can be pressed.’

‘I, I know,’ Biddlecombe stammered, refusing to glance at Mistress Vestler. ‘I arrived at the Paradise Tree on Midsummer’s Eve. I intended to stay three days. On the Holy Day itself I went to the fair held outside the Tower.’

‘And the day after?’

‘I went to London Bridge and returned late. I fell asleep in the outhouse. It was a beautiful night. I woke because I felt strange. The tavern was quite, then I heard a sound in the yard. When I opened the door and peered out, Mistress Vestler was there.’

‘And what was she doing?’ Whittock asked quietly.

‘She had a mattock, hoe and spade in a small barrow. I remember seeing her clearly; she had taken her shoes off and was wearing a pair of boots.’

‘And what time was that, sir?’

‘I don’t know. Darkness had fallen though the night sky was clear.’

‘So,’ Whittock insisted. ‘Was she going somewhere or coming back?’

‘Oh, coming back. She put the mattock and the other implements up against one of the doors, wheeled the barrow away and went into the scullery.’

‘You must have thought it was strange? I mean, why should a tavern-keeper, so prosperous and with so many servants, be gardening or digging at such a late hour? That’s what you thought, wasn’t it, Master Biddlecombe?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And what else?’ Whittock leaned back like a reproving schoolmaster.

‘Well, sir, she was quite, as if she didn’t want anyone to see or hear what she was doing.’

‘I am sure she did not.’ Master Whittock spread his hands and looked at Hengan.

Hengan didn’t bother to rise from his stool.

‘Master Biddlecombe, how did you know it was Mistress Vestler?’

‘She held a lantern horn.’

‘Thank You.’ Hengan rubbed his face in his hands, a despairing gesture.

Whittock, however, had not finished. A tree-feller was called; he took the oath glibly and loudly proclaimed that, on the morning of the 27th of June, Mistress Vestler had hired him to go out and lop the branches on the oak tree in Black Meadow.

‘That was early, wasn’t it?’ Whittock asked

‘Yes, sir. Pruning of trees is not usually done till autumn and, to be honest, I really couldn’t see why she wanted to cut such a great tree. I mean, it stands by itself in Black Meadow.’

‘What’s the relevance of this?’ Hengan rose, his face suffused with anger.

Sir Henry chose to overlook his discourtesy.

‘Master Whittock?’ he asked

‘Why, my lord, the relevance is quite clear. The corpses of the two victims were found beneath the oak tree. If you have a labourer moving around cutting branches, the grass and soil are distributed, branches and twigs fall down.’

‘In other words,’ Sir Henry observed, ‘Mistress Vestler didn’t want the oak tree pruned but rather the ground which covered the graves to be disguised.’

Whittock bowed. ‘My lord, you are, as ever, most perceptive.’

Whittock’s last witness caused a stir. Athelstan didn’t recognise the name, Walter Trumpington, until First Gospel came striding out of the chamber and across to take the oath. He had the sense not to play his games here, but took the oath, gave his name and claimed he belonged to an order called the Four Gospels who had the use of a small plot of land in Black Meadows.

‘You recall the morning of the twenty-sixth of June last?’ Whittock demanded.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Mistress Vestler came down to see us. She asked if, the previous day, we had seen anyone we knew in Black Meadows.’

‘And had you?’

‘No, sir, we had not.’

‘Did Mistress Vestler often make such a request of you?’

First Gospel, careful not to look at Mistress Vestler, shook his head.

‘She was good and kind to us but I thought it was strange at the time.’

Hengan rose to question but First Gospel would not be shaken: he and his community remembered the incident quite clearly.

Brabazon then called Kathryn Vestler to the stand.

Hengan made careful play of her pious works, her good reputation and character but he could elicit nothing to shake the testimony of so many witnesses. Whittock closed like a weasel would on a rabbit, biting and tearing. Once again Mistress Vestler refused to discuss Gundulf’s treasure or the allegation of smuggling. She confessed to burning Margot Haden’s clothing and property. She admitted to hiring the woodcutter and, when confronted with the chapman’s testimony, did not even bother to make an excuse.

‘What I do on my own property and when I do it,’ she declared defiantly, ‘is my own concern!’

Nor did she deny approaching First Gospel and asking the question.

Athelstan didn’t really listen to the interrogation. He studied Mistress Vestler closely. She stood resolute and pale-faced, drained of all bonhomie. Athelstan recognised that logic, every item of evidence, spoke against her yet there was something dreadfully wrong. He sensed she was lying, but why?

The clerks gathered to ask Chief Justice Brabazon whether there would be a recess but he waved his sprig of rosemary: he had scented blood, the hunt would continue until the quarry was brought down. Whittock summarised the evidence. Hengan followed with an impassioned and eloquent plea on behalf of his client but his desperation was apparent. At one time he even hinted that, if Mistress Vestler produced Gundulf’s treasure, the Crown might consider a pardon for all past offences. Sir Henry chose to ignore this. He conferred with his fellow justices then gave a pithy but damning summation of the case against Mistress Vestler. An hour candle was lit. The jury withdrew but the candle was scarcely burning before the foreman came back and announced that they had reached their verdict. The jury filed back into their pews. The clerk reread the indictment and tolled a hand bell.

‘Members of the jury!’ he intoned. ‘Look upon the prisoner. Do you find her guilty or not guilty as charged?’

‘Guilty with no recommendation for mercy!’ came the foreman’s stark reply.

Kathryn Vestler swayed a little. Hengan hid his face in his hands. Sir John was wiping at his eyes but Athelstan, hands clasped, watched the piece of black silk being placed over Chief Justice Brabazon’s skullcap.

‘Kathryn Vestler,’ he began. ‘You have been found guilty of the hideous crime alleged against you. A jury of your peers has decided that you, maliciously and heinously, murdered Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden. You claim you are a woman of good repute. The court does not believe this. We know of no reason why you should not suffer the full rigours of the law’. He paused. ‘Kathryn Vestler, it is the sentence of this court that you be taken to the place from whence you came and confined in chains. On Monday next, at the hour before noon, you shall be taken to the lawful place of execution at Smithfield and hanged by your neck until dead, your corpse interred in the common grave. May the Lord,’ Sir Henry concluded, ‘have mercy on your soul! Bailiffs, take her down! Members of the jury, you are thanked and discharged!’

Kathryn Vestler was immediately hustled away. Athelstan heard the cat-calls and cries from outside as she was led to the execution cart. Sir Henry and all the retinue of the court formally processed out. Sir John sat, legs apart, hands on his knees, staring down at the floor.

‘I am sorry, Stephen,’ he muttered as if his dead friend could hear him. ‘I am sorry but I could do no more.’

Hengan still sat on the lawyer’s stool, pale-faced and sweating.

‘Come on man!’ Sir John called over. ‘This is no time and place for tears!’

They left the Guildhall by a side entrance. A quack doctor came running up, offering a sure remedy for rotting of the gums.

‘It’s a distillation of sage water.’

But he saw the look on the coroner’s face and, grasping his tray, scuttled away.

Sir John marched up Cheapside, Athelstan walking beside Hengan. Now and again he glanced sideways; the lawyer looked truly stricken, lips moving wordlessly, dabbing at his sweaty face with a rag. He seemed unaware of the crowds, of the gentlemen and their ladies, the apprentices screaming for custom, the criers shouting for every household to keep a vat of water near the doorway in case of fire.

Sir John, also, was in no mood for distractions. Leif the beggarman came hopping over but Sir John raised a clenched fist and the beggarman hobbled away as if he, too, knew this was not the time for his importunate pleas.

Once inside the Holy Lamb of God Sir John sat down on the Window seat and crossly demanded a meat pie and three blackjacks of ale. Athelstan found his throat and mouth dry. He could not believe what had happened. He leaned over and grasped Hengan’s hand, which was cold as ice.

‘You did your best, Master Ralph.’

‘I wish I could do more,’ the lawyer grated. ‘I tell you this, Brother, I am Mistress Vestler’s executor. Once I have refreshed myself, I am going to the Paradise Tree to search it from top to bottom. I’ll find Gundulf’s gold for you, Sir Jack, for old friendship’s sake.’