The Field of Blood (25 page)

‘If you find it,’ Sir John replied, lowering the blackjack, ‘I’ll seek an immediate audience with my Lord of Gaunt. I’ll do that anyway. A stay of execution, a pardon? Who knows, they may even agree to Kathryn being hanged by the purse and leave it at that.’

‘But you don’t think so, do you?’ Athelstan asked.

Sir John shook his head. ‘The murder was malice aforethought. Mistress Vestler refused to plead guilty, while Bartholomew was a royal clerk. The Crown will not listen to pleas of mitigation.’

‘How did Whittock know all that?’ Athelstan asked.

Hengan was staring into his tankard.

‘Ralph?’

‘I’m sorry. I was thinking how the Crown must be pleased that Brokestreet is dead. After all, she was a condemned felon who killed a man with a firkin opener. Rumour will now place her death at Mistress Vestler’s door. The gossips will argue that it was in her interests for Mistress Brokestreet to be killed; Kathryn had relationships with outlaws or smugglers and they did the bloody deed. I am sorry, Brother, I am confused. What I am really saying is any real plea for pardon will be turned down; Mistress Vestler will be regarded as a murderess on many counts. I must find that treasure.’ He paused.
Thesaurus in ecclesia prope turrem:
I wonder what that means?’ He smiled at Athelstan. ‘I’m sorry, Brother, you asked a question?’

‘How did Master Whittock know to call all those witnesses?’

‘Oh quite easy,’ Sir John said ‘I’ve been thinking of that myself. The accounts books, eh Master Ralph?’

The lawyer nodded. ‘The accounts books, Sir Jack, have a great deal to answer for. They’ll show all the monies spent by Kathryn Vestler on Margot Haden, including pennies given to chapmen to deliver messages to her sister. The same will be true of the tree pruner and Master Biddlecombe. Whittock’s clerks searched all these out.’ He finished his tankard and got to his feet. ‘Sir Jack, Brother Athelstan, today is Thursday: in three day’s time Mistress Vestler hangs. I will see what I can do.’

Athelstan watched him go then became distracted by a beggarman who brought in a weasel for sale. Sir John threw the fellow a coin and told him to go away.

‘There’s little we can do, is there Brother?’

‘Sir Jack.’ Athelstan got to his feet. ‘You can pray and we can think.’

And, giving the most absentminded of farewells, Athelstan left. Sir John was so bemused, he had to call for a further blackjack of ale to clear his wits.

Meanwhile the little friar trudged down Cheapside. As he went he pulled his cowl over his head, pushing his hands up his sleeves.

‘Isn’t it strange?’ He asked himself. ‘Sir Jack and I.’ He paused. Yes, that’s why he was confused! He and the coroner hunted murders down, sent assassins to their just deserts. Now he was desperately trying to free one.

Athelstan crossed London Bridge. He stopped halfway and went into the chapel of St Thomas à Becket where he sat in the cool darkness staring up at the sanctuary lamp. He found it hard to pray. His mind was all a-jumble: scenes from the court, the witnesses being called, raising their hands; Whittock’s persistent questions; Brabazon’s smile; the lowering looks of the jury men; Mistress Vestler standing poised but defiant. Athelstan crossed himself and left.

When he reached St Erconwald’s the churchyard was empty but the door was open so Athelstan slipped inside. Huddle the painter was sitting dreamily on a stool. This self-appointed artist of the parish was determined, given Brother Athelstan’s patronage, to cover every bare expanse of wall in the church.

‘What’s on your mind, Huddle?’

‘The marriage feast at Cana. I have Eleanor and Oswald. Joscelyn can be the wine-taster. Benedicta can be Our Lady, Sir Jack would be one of the guests. Just think of it, Brother.’

‘And what will Pike the ditcher’s wife be?’

‘Why, she will be Herod’s wife.’

‘Herod’s wife didn’t attend the marriage feast at Cana.’

‘How do we know, Brother?’

Athelstan patted him on the shoulder.

‘You have the key to the church?’

‘Benedicta left it with me. She gave me a pot of the rabbit stew she made for you. It’s in the Kitchen. I also took some of the ale.’

‘We are a truly sharing community,’ Athelstan remarked.

He went and checked on Philomel. The horse lay so silently Athelstan wondered if it had died but it was only sleeping. In the cemetery Godbless was lying on one of the tombstones sunning himself, Thaddeus quietly cropping the grass beside him.

Athelstan tiptoed back. He found the house in order. Bonaventure was out and Athelstan sat in his chair next to the empty grate. Something troubled him. Something he had seen and heard this morning, but he kept it to one side. He recalled Master Whittock’s questions, the line of witnesses he had summoned. Athelstan searched out the old accounts book. He sat at the table and leafed through the pages. Yes, it all made sense. Mistress Vestler was a good householder. She and her husband had kept meticulous accounts. Items purchased; guests who had called; alms given to beggars. He noticed the name of Biddlecombe the chapman, a regular visitor, often given a fresh bed of straw in the outhouse. Athelstan’s eyes grew heavy and he was about to turn the page when one entry, a purchase by Kathryn’s husband, caught his eye.

Athelstan went through the ledger very carefully, noting that there were other entries beside the two he had already discovered. He secretly admired their detail. No wonder the serjeant at law had been able to present such a compelling case. The suspicions which had nagged his mind now grew and took shape. Athelstan sadly reflected on the power of love: the damage, as well as the good, it could do. Time and again he went through the journal, only wishing he had the others to inspect. As the evening drew on Bonaventure came back and pestered him for food and milk.

‘You are a riffler. Do you know that?’ Athelstan lectured him. ‘You prowl the alleyways and you come back in a bad temper,’ He got to his feet. ‘Bad-tempered cats, Bonaventure, will never enter the kingdom of heaven. If you are not a Jesus cat what hope is there for you?’

Bonaventure just rubbed himself against the friar’s legs, arching his back, persisting in his demands until Athalstan him a dish of milk. Huddle brought the key across and Athelstan went out to check that all was well. He was too tried to study the stars but retried early and fell asleep thinking about Kathryn Vestler manacled in the condemned cell and said a quick prayer for her.

The next morning Athelstan surprised Crim by taking out the special red vestments reserved for the feast of Pentecost: a beautiful chasuble with gold and silver crosses sewn on the back and front.

‘We need God’s help,’ he told the heavy-eyed altar boy. ‘I doubt if many of my parishioners are here this morning. It will take some time for the effects of all that revelry to wear off.’

Athelstan celebrated his Mass, praying that God would make him as innocent as a dove and as cunning as a serpent.

‘Because, Lord,’ he concluded, ‘today justice must be done.’

Athelstan finished his Mass, hastily broke his fast then locked up the house and church. He hurried through the streets down to the riverside. Although he passed the occasional parishioner he kept his eyes lowered, unwilling to be distracted or drawn into conversation. The river mist still hung across the other side. The fish market was preparing to open as Athelstan landed on the quayside and hastened up through Petty Wales to the Paradise Tree.

The ale-master came out to meet him; he looked rather sheepish and rubbed his hands.

‘I am sorry, brother,’ he mumbled as he led the friar into the taproom still not yet cleaned from the previous evening. ‘But I had no choice. Master Whittock was most insistent.’

Athelstan took a seat near the window and looked out across the garden, savouring the early morning freshness. Sparrows squabbled in the trees, house martins dived and swooped over the flower beds, still covered with a crystal-white morning frost. Then he turned to the ale-master.

‘Please bring me a cup of watered wine and some bread and cheese.’

The man hurried away. Now and again servants popped this heads round become so immersed in their mistress’s affairs. Athelstan hoped Sir John would not be late. Before he had celebrated mass, he’d dispatched Godbless with an urgent message for the coroner to meet him here.

‘The tavern will be closed on Monday,’ the alemaster mournfully informed him. ‘And what will happen then eh, Brother?’

‘I don’t know. Was master Hengan here yesterday?’

‘Oh yes, sir, conducting the most scrupulous of searches.’

Athelstan thanked him and turned away. He heard a dog bark and Sir John’s bell-like voice.

‘For the love of God, Henry, Keep that bloody dog away from me!’

Sir John, followed by Flaxwith and the ever slavering Samson, walked into the taproom. The coroner clapped his hands and beamed around, but Athelstan could see he was pretending: he looked heavy-eyed, haggard-faced. He had not even bothered to change his shirt or doublet. He slumped down on the stool opposite Athelstan and threw his beaver hat on to the table.

‘I don’t know about you, Brother, but I will not be in London on Monday. Flaxwith!’ He turned to his ever-patient chief bailiff. ‘Join the rest and take Samson with you!’

‘No, Henry.’ Athelstan beckoned him over. ‘I want you to do more than that. Take your lovely dog for a walk through Black Meadow. Tell the Four Gospels, those strange creatures who dwell in the cottage down near the river, that the lord coroner and Brother Athelstan wish words with them beneath the oak tree.’

Flaxwith went out. Sir John looked narrow-eyed at his companion.

‘What’s this, Brother?’

‘Just drink your ale,’ Athelstan replied.

The coroner obeyed but his impatience was apparent.

‘Right!’ Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Come on, Sir John! I’ve got a few surprises for you.’

The garden was beautiful. Athelstan passed the sundial and noticed how its bronze face glittered in the early morning sunlight.

‘First things first,’ he whispered.

Cranston stopped at the Lych gate leading to Black Meadow.

‘What’s this all about, Brother?’

‘Walter Trumpington.’

Cranston furrowed his brow.

‘Walter Trumpington,’ Athelstan repeated.

‘Doesn’t the name ring a bell?’

‘Well, yes, it does, that rouge, the First Gospel.’

‘And Kathryn Vestler?’

‘What about her, Brother?’

‘What’s her maiden name?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. She came from a village outside Cambridge. She and Stephen were married years . . .’ Sir John’s jaw sagged. It’s not Trumpington, is it?

‘Yes, Sir John, it is. Our First Gospel, I suspect, is Kathryn’s younger brother.’

‘But she never said!’

‘No one ever asked her. He’s no more waiting the return of St Michael and his angles than Flaxwith’s dog. Come on, Sir John. Let me prove it!’

The Four Gospels were gathered beneath the out-stretched branches of the oak tree. There were the usual greeting and mumbling of apology.

‘We had no choice,’ First Gospel Wailed. ‘Master Whittock was most insistent.’

‘Let me see one of those medals,’ Athelstan demanded.’ You offered me one when I first met you.’

The fellow took one from his wallet.

‘It’s specially blessed . . .’

‘Oh, shut up!’ Athelstan went up stared into the man’s face. ‘Do you know something, Walter Trumpington? I’ve yet to meet one of your kind who’s got a spark of religion in him.’

First Gospel looked both hurt and puzzled.

‘Are you going to act for me now? Why didn’t you tell the court? Why didn’t you tell me or Master Whittock that you are Kathryn Vestler’s Younger brother? I found an entry in the accounts book from years ago. You’ve tried everything, haven’t you, Walter? Chapman, tinker, mountebank, soldier? But, when times are hard, it’s always back to sister Kathryn for help. She’s soft-hearted, isn’t she? Now, you can stand here with your three sisters and act the innocent. So I’ll tell you the truth. You are a pimp, Walter, and these three ladies are whores.’

‘How dare you!’ one of them screeched.

‘Shut up!’ Sir John growled. He was as surprised as any of them but was enjoying Athelstan’s fiery temper. ‘If any of you make another sound,’ the coroner continued, pointing across to where Flaxwith was walking up and down, Samson trotting behind him, ‘I’ll order my bailiff across here: he’ll put you across his knee and whip your buttocks! Now, sir.’ He poked First Gospel in the chest. ‘Either you answer my secretarius’ questions or I’ll have you driven from the city!’

‘Now, I don’t know how you did it, how you persuaded her,’ Athelstan continued, ‘but Walter Trumpington decided to return to the Paradise Tree when he learned that Stephen Vestler was dead. When he was alive, the taverner kept some control over his wife’s generosity to her wayward brother but, once he was gone, back you came. She’s a lovely woman, isn’t she, Walter?’

Athelstan paused and looked up at the tree where a blackbird had begun to sing.

‘She loves you completely, doesn’t she? You are the family rascal. I wager you could act the prodigal son or, in this case, the prodigal brother. In truth you are a cunning man. Anyway, Kathryn gives you a cottage on the edge of Black Meadow. You pretend to be one of our latter-day prophets. However, you are involved in quite a lucrative business: buying smuggled wine from ships, then selling it on to the likes of Kathryn, who can refuse you nothing. I wonder how much gold and silver you have hidden beneath the floor of that cottage?’

‘May I sit down?’ Walter’s face became pleading. ‘I don’t feel very well, Brother.’

‘Of course!’

First Gospel and his three sisters slumped to their knees. Athelstan crouched down to face them.

‘In fact it was a subtle, clever ploy,’ he went on. ‘On one side of your cottage snakes a river where roguery thrives a deserted meadow and a prosperous tavern owned by a loving sister. No wonder you lit a fire every night-smugglers must have a beacon light to draw them in.’

‘I told you about those,’ First Gospel mumbled.