Field of Blood

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.'