The Field of Blood (8 page)

Mistress Vestler bowed her head and sobbed.

‘You will be taken to Newgate and lodged there to answer these charges before the King’s justices at the Guildhall.’

Hengan got to his feet.

‘Sir John, may I have a word?’

The two left the chamber. Athelstan looked across at the weeping woman. He did not know what to think. In his time he’d discovered that murder could have the sweetest face and the kindliest smile.

‘I shall pray for you, Mistress Vestler,’ he murmured.

The woman’s face came up, her eyes hard.

‘Pray, Brother? What use is prayer now? Alice Brokestreet has had her way. Will you pray for me when they turn me off the ladder at Smithfield?’

‘That has not yet happened. Put your trust in God and Sir John.’

Gathering up his chancery bag, Athelstan joined Sir John and Hengan out in the gallery. The lawyer was deeply agitated.

‘Sir Jack! Sir Jack! What can we do?’

‘Master Hengan, I’ve told you the evidence. What other explanation could there be?’

‘Is it possible that Alice Brokestreet and another murdered Bartholomew and Margot then buried their corpses in Black Meadow?’

‘What proof is there of that?’ Athelstan asked.

Hengan, anxious-eyed, stared back.

‘Master Hengan, you are a lawyer,’ Athelstan continued. ‘I merely ask what Chief Justice Brabazon will demand. Why should Alice Brokestreet and this mysterious accomplice kill these two people? Why should they take them out and bury them in Black Meadow where they could have been seen by anyone in the tavern or that motley crew, the Four Gospels, whom I’ve just met?’

Hengan’s face creased into a smile.

‘Mistress Vestler let them stay here out of the kindness of her heart,’ he countered. ‘Perhaps they can be of assistance? They must have seen something, surely? Corpses cannot be trundled out and buried in such a place without someone noticing!’

‘Precisely,’ Sir John confirmed, taking a swig from his wineskin. ‘And the justices will ask the same question.’ He looked up at the white plaster ceiling. ‘Master Ralph, you will defend Mistress Vestler?’

‘Of course!’

‘Then let me speak to you privately.

Sir John strode to the top of the stairs and bawled for Flaxwith, who came lumbering up. Sir John told him to guard Mistress Vestler then gestured at Hengan and Athelstan to follow him. They went down through the taproom and out into the garden. A small, flowery arbour built out of trellis wood stood at the far side, a cool, secretive place with a quilted bench round its curving sides. They took their seats, Sir John bawling for tankards of ale. While they waited till these were served, Athelstan studied the different plants and herbs: matted sea lavender, bog bean, pea flower, fairy flax; bees buzzed above them, butterflies, white and deep coloured, flitted from plant to plant. A mallard from the small stew pond at the other end of the garden strutted around. Swallows swooped across the grass and out over Black Meadow, somewhere a woodpecker rattled noisily against the bark of a tree. Athelstan could scarcely believe that this peaceful, pleasant place masked bloody murder and hasty burial.

‘You’ll represent Mistress Vestler?’ Sir John asked again.

The lawyer stroked the tip of his sharp nose, lower lip coming up.

‘I am not skilled in such legal matters, Sir John. I only advise Mistress Vestler on her business affairs. However, I will prove her innocence in this matter.’

‘She has no children?’ Athelstan asked.

‘None whatsoever, nor kith or kin.’

‘But she must have a will?’

Hengan sipped from the tankard and wiped the white foam from his lips.

‘She brews the best ale on this side of the Thames,’ he said. ‘She’s no murderess. Yes, she has drawn up a will and I am her executor. Mistress Vestler has laid down clear provision. On her death the tavern is to be sold for the best possible price and all proceeds are to be sent to the Knights Hospitallers at their Priory of St John’s in Clerkenwell.’

‘Of course,’ Sir John trumpeted, his good humour returning. ‘Stephen, her late husband, was a bit of a noddle-pate. He maintained that, if Kathryn died before him, he’d journey east and join the Hospitallers in their struggle against the Turks.’

‘The will is very short and terse,’ Hengan confirmed. ‘And cannot be denied. I even tease Mistress Vestler that she hasn’t left one penny to me.’

Athelstan looked at him sharply.

‘A jest, Brother. I have sufficient riches.’

‘She is a widow woman,’ Athelstan pointed out.

Comely and wealthy. Surely she had suitors? After all, Master Ralph, you are a lusty bachelor yourself.’

Hengan put his tankard down. ‘Oh, suitors came and went: adventurers, profiteers, Kathryn would have none of them. There’s a chamber in the tavern, Brother, used by her late husband, Stephen. She has turned it into a shrine to her husband’s memory with his writing-desk, his sword, his shield and armour, the pennant he carried at Poitiers. Mistress Vestler is a comfortable woman, happy in what she does. She has vowed never to remarry.’ He held the tankard up in a mock toast. ‘And, as for me, Brother.’ He sighed. ‘I speak in confidence?’

‘Of course, Master Ralph.’

‘I am a man, Brother, how can I put it? The company of women is pleasing enough.’ His kindly grey eyes held Athelstan’s. ‘But I have no desire to bed one.’

‘And what will happen now?’ Athelstan persisted. ‘If Mistress Vestler is found guilty and sentenced? Because, in this secret place, Master Ralph, I speak the truth, unpalatable though it be. If the jury find her guilty there’ll be no pardon for what she has done.’

‘Brother, I take your warning. Mistress Vestler stands in great danger of being hanged. If that happens . . .’

‘The tavern and all its moveables,’ Sir John interrupted, ‘are forfeit to the Crown.’

Athelstan cradled his tankard; his deep friendship with Sir John, whatever his troubles in Southwark, committed him to this matter. In conscience he must do all he could to prove Mistress Vestler’s innocence.

‘Has anything untoward occurred?’ he asked. ‘Is there anyone with a grievance against Mistress Vestler?’

The lawyer shook his head.

‘Does anyone desire the tavern? Or its properties?’

‘Mistress Vestler was very fortunate,’ Hengan replied, ‘She and Stephen bought this when prices throughout the city had fallen after the great pestilence. The tavern was not what it is now. These gardens, the carp pond, the chambers are all their doing. Mistress Vestler is a skilled cook. Her venison pies, baked in spices, are famous through the city. Now, to answer your question bluntly: about eighteen months ago a member of the Guild of Licensed Victuallers, Edmund Coddington, did offer a price for the tavern. Mistress Vestler refused.’

‘And where is this Coddington now?’ Sir John asked.

‘Oh, Sir Jack, he died of some ailment or other. Apart from him, no one else.’

Athelstan recalled the Four Gospels and repressed a shiver. They looked and acted fey-witted but what if their smiles concealed some secret purpose? They would not be the first so-called witnesses to truth who masked their nefarious practices under the guise of religion. He finished his ale and got to his feet.

‘Sir Jack!’

He gave the surprised coroner his empty tankard.

‘I shall be with you shortly.’

Athelstan strode into Black Meadow. He paused at the pit where the bailiffs were now sheeting the skeletons and two corpses.

‘Can I help you, Brother?’ One of the bailiffs leaned on his mattock. ‘Dark deeds, eh?’

‘Dark deeds certainly. Tell me, sir, where did you find the two corpses? The man and the woman?’

The bailiff scratched a cut on his unshaven chin.

‘Ah, that’s right.’ The fellow pointed. ‘Over there, Brother.’

Athelstan went to the spot indicated and looked back towards the lych gate. The bailiff came over, his mattock resting against his shoulder like a spear.

‘What’s the problem, Brother?’

‘Let’s pretend I’m a murderer.’ Athelstan smiled.

‘Or we are both murderers. We have corpses to dispose of. So, when do we bury them?’

‘Why, Brother,’ the surprised bailiff replied, ‘at the dead of night.’

‘Now we can’t be seen,’ Athelstan said, ‘from the bottom of the meadow.’

‘Ah, you mean where that strange group live? Yes, you’re right, Brother, the swell of the hill hides all view.’

‘And if we dig this side of the oak tree?’ Athelstan asked. ‘We are hidden from any view of people in the tavern. Correct?’

‘Agreed.’ The fellow, now enjoying himself, was preening at being patronised by this friend of the powerful lord coroner.

‘So, how would you bring the corpses here?’ Athelstan continued. ‘If they’re taken from the tavern, chambermaids, servants might see us.’

‘Ah yes, Brother, but, at the dead of night, everyone’s asleep. And look.’ He walked way, gesturing with his hand. ‘We can see the tavern, its roofs and gables but, have you noticed, the trees hide the view from most of the windows?’

‘Sharp-eyed.’ Athelstan smiled, dug into his purse and gave the man a coin. The bailiff almost danced with embarrassed pride.

‘So, it’s possible the corpses were brought from the tavern at night, loaded on to a handcart, or barrow, its axles newly oiled, the wheels covered in straw?’

‘Yes, that’s what we do in the city, when we take a cart out at the dead of night. Otherwise, it’s a complaint to the mayor.’

‘But let’s suppose that they didn’t come from the tavern. It’s too dangerous to bring them from the river because, as you say, those strange people are there, waiting for St Michael.’ The bailiff looked mystified. ‘Come on, Sharp Eyes,’ Athelstan joked. ‘Where else could the murderers have come from?’

‘From the east.’ The bailiff pointed to the hedge at the far end of the field. ‘That leads to common land and the great city ditch. While to the west, what is there now?’ He scratched his head. ‘Yes, there’s another field which stretches down to a hedgerow and, beyond that, Brother, lie the alleyways of Petty Wales.’

Athelstan dug with his sandalled foot at the earth beneath the oak tree.

‘Wouldn’t this be hard to dig?’ he asked.

‘Not really, Brother. My father was a peasant owning land in Woodford. As long as you avoid the roots the ground under the branches of a tree like this is always softer. The leaves shade it from being baked by the sun while, when it rains, the branches collect the water and drench the ground beneath.’

‘Of course.’ Athelstan recalled his father’s small farm. How he and his brother Francis would dig around the small pear trees in the orchard to strengthen the roots. ‘But wouldn’t someone notice?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Let’s say we brought two corpses here at the dead of night, sometime in midsummer, so it must be well after midnight.’

‘Don’t forget, Brother, it was a very wet summer. The ground was truly soaked and the sod easy to break.’

‘How deep was the pit in which they were found?’

‘The two corpses?’ The bailiff lowered his mattock and dug it into the ground. ‘No more than half a yard.’

‘And the two were thrown together?’

‘Yes, lovers in life, lovers in death, if the gossips are to be believed.’

‘So, we put the corpses in,’ Athelstan continued.

‘But, surely, next morning someone is going to notice.’

‘Not really, Brother. First, if we were burying . . .’ The bailiff grinned. ‘My lord coroner, God forbid!’

‘God forbid!’ Athelstan echoed.

‘I’d remove the top layer followed by the rest of the soil, put his magnificent corpse in, cover it up, place the sods on top and stamp down. Then I’d go into the field.’ He pointed to the long grass. ‘I’d cut some of that and sprinkle it over the grave.’

‘True, true,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘And this is a lonely place. Unless you made careful scrutiny.’

‘While in full summer, Brother, the grass soon grows again . . .’

‘And the secret’s kept,’ Athelstan finished the sentence for him.

He thanked the bailiff and walked across the field. The sheep scattered at his approach, bleating at this further disturbance to their grazing. Athelstan examined the thick privet hedge which divided the field from the common land which stretched down to the city ditch. In most places it was thick and prickly, in others there were gaps, probably forced over the years by travellers, lovers or people seeking a short cut between Petty Wales and the fortress. The same was true of the hedge on the other side. Athelstan heard shouts and turned; the bailiffs were finishing, the corpses sheeted. They were now taking them up to the tavern and the waiting cart. Athelstan waved farewell and walked down towards the Four Gospels. This time they were not so friendly; they were sitting by the fire eating cheese and sliced vegetables piled on makeshift platters.

‘We lost our rabbit,’ First Gospel moaned. ‘That bloody dog has the mark of Cain upon it!’

Athelstan apologised, dug into his purse and handed over a coin. Their mood changed at the sight of the twinkling piece of silver.

‘Thank you very much, Brother. Remember that!’ First Gospel lifted a hand, fingers extended. ‘When St Michael comes along the Thames, let Brother Athelstan’s name be inscribed in the Book of Life. May he be taken by the angels into their camp.’

‘Quite, quite,’ the friar broke in. ‘But I’ve come to ask you some more questions.’

‘About the corpses found beneath the great oak tree?’ First Gospel asked, his long face solemn. ‘Oh yes, we’ve heard of bloody murder and hideous crime.’

He was about to launch into another paean of praise about what would happen when St Michael came but Athelstan cut him short.

‘Have you seen anything untoward?’

‘In Black Meadow?’ First Gospel asked; he shook his head. ‘We keep to ourselves, Brother. The doings of the world and the flesh are not our concern. Sometimes we hear lovers, poachers, men of the night.’ He pointed to the open cottage door. ‘But, until the angels come, we are well armed. I have a bill hook, a sword, a bow and six arrows.’

‘Did you see anything?’ Athelstan insisted. ‘Someone brought two corpses into this field, dug a grave and buried them.’

‘We saw nothing, Brother.’ One of the women spoke up. ‘Eye does not see.’ She broke into a chant. ‘Nor does the ear hear while the heart is silent to the tribulations of this world.’