Field of Blood

'Nice dog! Nice dog!' he said. 'Now go and eat someone else!'

'What are we waiting for, Sir John?'

Athelstan saw Colebrooke, dressed in a brown leather jerkin, green leggings and battered boots, come out on to the steps of the half-timbered great hall, thumbs stuck into his war belt. Sir John crouched down on the grass and indicated with his head.

'Old Merry Eyes over there,' he declared sardonically, 'will take us up into the chamber where Bartholomew Menster worked and kept his possessions. Thank God the place has not been cleared. They are still looking for a replacement. When I called this morning, I told Master Hengan to meet us here around noon. Look, Brother.' The coroner made himself comfortable. 'You really believe that precious pair we've just visited are guilty of murder? But how could it be done? Sholter was definitely seen leaving the city, crossing the bridge and arriving at the Silken Thomas.'

'I don't know, Sir John, but, as you often say, I feel it in my water.' Athelstan plucked at a piece of grass and chewed on it.

'Are you hungry, priest?' Sir John unstoppered the wineskin. 'Old Merry Eyes over there filled it.' He took a swig, pulled a face and spat it out. 'Satan's futtocks! It's vinegar!'

'It will clean the wineskin,' Athelstan replied, his mind going back to Mistress Sholter and Master

Eccleshall. Two killers, posturing in mock innocence. She, the grieving widow, he the understanding friend. You played the two-backed beast together, he thought. You've committed adultery and, in some subtle way, you killed that poor man. My parishioners will now pay for your wickedness. Time will pass and, by Easter, you will be married, adding blasphemy and sacrilege to your sins.

'Be of good cheer, Brother. Here comes Master Hengan.'

They got to their feet as the lawyer strode across the grass towards them. He clasped their hands; despite the smile, Hengan looked worried.

'I've been to see Mistress Kathryn at Newgate.' He scratched his thinning hair. 'She's in good spirits, but she just sits and keeps her own counsel.'

'Master Colebrooke!' Sir John bawled.

The lieutenant came down the steps and walked as slowly as possible across the grass.

'Look at that sour face,' Sir John whispered. 'It would turn piss sour.'

'Sir John.' The lieutenant forced a smile, his eyes watchful.

Athelstan had done business before with Colebrooke. A red-haired, testy-tempered young man full of his own importance, constantly bemoaning the fact that he was always lieutenant and never constable.

'Ah, Master Colebrooke, if you could show us to Bartholomew Menster's chamber?'

Colebrooke sighed, jingled the keys on a ring on his belt, and led them across the green into the Wakefield Tower. They tramped up the spiral stone staircase passing different chambers, their doors open. Some were empty, others housed clerks poring over rolls of vellum. Near the top Colebrooke stopped outside a nail-studded door, unlocked it and threw it open. The chamber was large and circular. It smelt musty and stale. Colebrooke hastened to open the shutters, allowing in bursts of sunlight and fresh air. The bed had been stripped; only a straw-filled mattress remained and two dark-stained bolsters. A cloak hung from a peg on the wall, other garments from hooks on the inside of the door. There were tables and stools, a tray of pewter cups and a cracked flagon. A wooden lavarium, bearing a bowl and jug, stood in the corner. Some saddlebags lay piled next to coffers and chests beneath a crucifix.

'He never took anything with him,' Athelstan remarked. 'I mean, at first it was thought Bartholomew had eloped with the young tavern wench.'

Colebrooke rubbed his nose on the back of his hand.

'I never believed that: Bartholomew was a quiet, studious man. He loved working in the Tower, constantly chattering about its history, searching among the records and old manuscripts.'

Athelstan walked over to the table and touched the rolls of vellum, the well-thumbed ledgers sewn together with black twine.

'God have mercy on him,' Colebrooke continued. 'Fancy a man like Bartholomew being killed by a woman, eh?'

'When was his last day of work?' Athelstan asked.

'We had the midsummer fair on the Feast of St John, the twenty-fourth of June, that was a Thursday. I remember seeing him the following day.'

'That would be the twenty-fifth?' 'Yes, then he disappeared.'

'Did he say or do anything untoward?' Sir John asked.

He had taken off his wineskin and ostentatiously poured the wine into a chamber pot he had pulled from underneath the bed. Colebrooke smirked.

'You don't like our wine, Sir John?'

'No, I don't. But answer my question!'

'When he went missing, I made careful search.' Colebrooke shook his head. 'I could discover nothing. A close, secretive man, Bartholomew. All we knew was that he was sweet on a tavern wench.'

'Did he have friends?' Athelstan asked.

'No family to talk of. Bartholomew lived and slept here, until he took up with the wench.' Colebrooke walked to the door. 'If you want, I shall have refreshments sent up.' With another smirk he left.

Sir John went and kicked the door shut with his boot.

'Right, gentlemen.' The coroner rubbed his hands. 'I'm hungry, but nothing that a pot of ale and a meat pie wouldn't cure. So, let's begin.'

They soon listed Miles's paltry possessions: some robes, clothing, belts, a sword and rusty dagger; two skullcaps, a felt hat, wallets and empty purses.

'I wager any money he had soon disappeared,' Sir John said. 'Colebrooke's got the eyes of a jackdaw.'

Athelstan, seated at the desk, was piling all the manuscripts together. These he divided out and asked his companions to go through them.

The day wore on; now and again broken by the sound of a bell or the blowing of a horn as the hunters returned to the Tower from the moorlands to the north. Most of the manuscripts were old accounts and ledger books which provoked nothing of interest. Two or three were letters written by Bartholomew to different people in the city. Athelstan was determined to find something and, after a while, he pushed these aside, going quickly through the pile until he brought out a yellowing piece of parchment sewn together with twine. As he thumbed through this, the pages crackling, the ink slightly faded, he noticed a fresh piece of parchment had been inserted. He studied the entry most carefully.

'This is an extract from a chronicle,' he exclaimed. 'An account of the building of the Tower.' Athelstan sifted quickly among the manuscripts. 'And here's a map, crudely drawn.'

The parchment was stiff, blackened at the edges. Athelstan studied the map, aware of the other two standing behind him. He pulled the small candle closer.

'It's a mason's drawing, done in black ink, though this is faded. Look, there's the keep. Here are the Tower walls.' Athelstan moved his finger to the left. 'And there's Petty Wales, beneath it the river. And look at this.' He pointed to the faded words ecclesia Romana, 'the Roman Church.' 'This chronicle was written two hundred years ago by a very old man who was one of Bishop Gundulf's scribes. He describes how the Tower was constructed. He also comments on the Roman ruins. Apparently, the Paradise Tree is built on the ruins of an old Roman church.' He turned over the pages and noticed the fresh marks in the margin. 'That's Bartholomew's writing. The chronicler is telling of Gundulf's treasure. Apparently the old bishop had it melted down and fashioned into a great ingot. A foot in diameter and, listen to this, nine inches thick!'