Field of Blood

'I have heard the same.' One of the maids spoke up.

'Who were these people?' Sir John asked.

'Oh strangers, chapmen, pedlars, tinkers, people coming in and out of the city.'

'Aye and enquiries were made about Bartholomew and Margot,' another offered.

'There's more.' The potboy came forward, his little thin arms hanging by his side like sticks. 'I have seen Mistress Vestler burn possessions.'

Athelstan glanced at the coroner, who usually maintained his bonhomie, his fiery good humour, but his rubicund face had paled. He looked haggard, rather old.

'Oh, Sir John,' Athelstan sighed. 'What do we have here?'

'You'd best go about your duties,' Sir John told the tavern workers. 'Brother Athelstan, come with me.'

They went out up the wooden staircase. The Paradise Tree was well named. The floorboards were polished and cleaned. The windows on the stairwells were full of glass, some even painted with emblems. Bronze brackets for candles were fastened into the wooden panelling. Flowers and pots of herbs were tastefully arranged along shelves and sills. The first gallery even had woollen rugs to deaden the sound; small pictures in gilt frames decorated its walls. At the far end a door stood half-open. Inside Kathryn Vestler was sitting on a chair, Hengan beside her on a stool. The tavern-mistress's face had aged, pale, her eyes red-rimmed, her podgy cheeks soaked with tears. She had a piece of linen in her hands which she kept twisting round and round, staring at a point above their heads, lips moving wordlessly. Beside her on the floor was a half-filled goblet of wine. Hengan looked pitifully at them.

'Sir John, we have heard the rumours.'

'I am innocent!' Mistress Vestler protested. 'Before God and His angels, Sir John, I am innocent of any crime!'

Athelstan moved over to a small desk and stool while Sir John took a chair just inside the door and sat in front of the widow woman. He leaned forward and clutched her hand.

'Kathryn, I must tell you we have discovered a horrid sight.'

He then informed her in pithy phrases everything they had seen and learned since their arrival. Mistress Vestler grew more composed; Athelstan wondered if Hengan had slipped an opiate in the drink.

'I know nothing of the corpses. Margot Haden disappeared about midsummer, Bartholomew with her. True, officers came from the Tower but I could not tell them anything.'

'Why did you burn Margot's possessions?' Sir John asked.

'They were paltry,' she stammered. 'Nothing much. I, I … didn't think it was right to sell or give them to someone else, so I burned them. Bartholomew was a clerk, a fairly wealthy man. I thought Margot had left them here as tawdry rubbish. Her swain, her lover would buy her more.'

'Did you like Bartholomew?' Athelstan asked.

'He was a good, kindly man. But, Brother, I have suitors enough. Bartholomew was of little interest to me.'

'And the others?' Sir John asked. 'What others?' the woman snapped. 'Your own servants. Enquiries have been made here of people who visited the Paradise Tree.' 'That is nonsense!' Hengan spoke up heatedly. 'In what way, sir?'

'The Paradise Tree is a busy tavern. It stands near the Tower and the river. People often visit here. It is logical that enquiries were made. Did so and so come? Where have they gone?'

'But they also said you burned the possessions of people who stayed here?'

'Sir Jack,' Mistress Vestler replied. 'There are at least twenty chambers in this tavern. Guests come, they leave scraps of clothing, items of saddlery which are broken or disused. I keep a clean and tidy house. What crime is there in burning such paltry things?'

Sir John got to his feet and, in the time-honoured fashion, touched her shoulder.

'Mistress Kathryn Vestler, by the power granted to me by the King and his city council, I arrest you for the murder of Bartholomew Menster, Margot Haden and other unnamed victims!'

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 Fve 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.'