Field of Blood

'Benedicta, God forgive me, I am in God's house but what I say is the truth between the two of us. Miles Sholter, the preacher, and that pathetic young woman were murdered. I don't think Sholter was attacked by rebels or robbers. An arrow wound to the back or one loosed deep into the heart: that's the mark of the night people.'

'So what?' Benedicta asked.

'I don't know.' Athelstan shook his head. 'I sit in confession and listen to people's sins.' He paced up and down. 'I was taught by Prior Anselm to use logic and reason yet, at other times, it's good to forget these and listen to the heart.'

'Are you saying that Eccleshall and Mistress Sholter are assassins?'

Athelstan sat next to her on the bench.

'Listen Benedicta,' he said quietly. 'Here we have a young man, a royal messenger, happy and content. He leaves London and reaches a tavern. He finds he has forgotten his St Christopher medal and comes rushing back. On his way home he is brutally attacked and murdered, that would be Saturday evening. On Sunday his corpse is discovered in a derelict house by two people who are killed for their intrusion. All three corpses lie there until Luke Bladdersniff, our most industrious bailiff, finds them. Now, what's wrong with the theory that all three were killed by night-walkers?'

'Well. We know robbers or rebels do not act like that!'

'Good, Benedicta! Now we enter the realm of logic and evidence. Why should their corpses be kept? This is where the assassin, or assassins, made a mistake. I am sure Sholter's corpse would either have been destroyed by fire or hidden so it was never discovered. Matters, however, were complicated by the two intruders, so the assassin had to be careful. Hiding one corpse is relatively simple but three? The assassin, or assassins, returned on Sunday evening to finish their work with Sholter but the killing of the other two foiled that plan. Fire was the best solution but to burn a house requires oil and kindling. It's out in the countryside and such grisly preparations might be observed.'

'So, he was planning to return?'

'Possibly. When people were looking elsewhere for Sholter, the assassin, or assassins, would return, probably Monday evening, burning the house to the ground and consuming the corpses hidden inside. However, there's something more interesting. Tell me, Benedicta, when you leave your house what do you do?' He grasped her hand. 'Close your eyes. Tell me precisely what you do!'

'I put my cloak on. I make sure I am carrying my wallet, purse and belt. I check that there are no candles or fires left burning.'

'Good, honest woman.'

'I close the windows, lock the door and put the key in my wallet.'

'Go on!' Athelstan encouraged her.

'I am walking down the street. I am thinking about what I am going to buy. I am also worried about a certain meddlesome priest …' Benedicta rubbed her eyes. 'Who doesn't eat properly.'

'Terrible man,' Athelstan answered. 'But what else, Benedicta? What do you check?'

'That my key and any monies I carry are safe.' She laughed deep in her throat. 'The St Christopher medal!'

'Oh mulier foitis et audax,brave and bold woman,' Athelstan replied, quoting from the scriptures. 'You have said it, Benedicta! Here is a messenger leaving his young wife. He will stop at a tavern on Saturday evening and continue his journey on Sunday. He's riding through open countryside. He's well armed and protected: however, he's a young man who has a deep devotion to St Christopher and knows such journeys can be dangerous. Isn't it strange, Benedicta, that he never feels his neck for the chain, never realises it's missing until he reaches the Silken Thomas?' Athelstan held a finger to his lips. 'What he does next is both reasonable and logical. He hurries back but, surely, he wouldn't have forgotten it in the first place? And, even if he had, he must have noticed it was missing long before he reached the tavern?'

'There's only one flaw in your logic'

'I am sure there is. And it would take a woman to find it.'

'What if Eccleshall is telling the truth? What happens if Sholter deliberately left the medal behind to provide a pretext for returning home?'

Athelstan raised his eyebrows. 'Prior Anselm would like you. It's possible! Sholter, for some reason unknown to us, distrusts his pretty young wife so he goes to the tavern and decides to return. He rides through the night, reaches Mincham Lane where his wife is entertaining someone else. A quarrel breaks out. Sholter is killed.' He glanced at Benedicta. 'And what next, mistress of logic?'

'The corpse is put into a cart, covered or hidden, and taken out to that derelict house.'

'Now, that is possible. But a cart would be seen, it would leave marks. It has to be trundled through busy streets and why go there? Why not take it out through Aldgate, hide it in the wild countryside north of the Tower?' He tapped Benedicta on the nose. 'But I accept your reasoning. Yet I am certain either one, or both, of that precious pair are implicated in Sholter's murder.' He fought back his anger. 'For which this parish is going to pay.'

'There are other difficulties,' Benedicta pointed out. 'What if we can prove that Mistress Sholter stayed in her house on Saturday evening and Master Eccleshall never left that tavern?'

Athelstan got to his feet and clapped his hands at Bonaventure.

'That, my dear Heloise, would pose a problem!'

'Who's she?'

'A beautiful woman who fell in love with a priest called Abelard.'

'I've never heard of him,' she replied tartly.

'Come.' Athelstan walked to the door, Bonaventure trotting behind him. 'Let's feed the inner man.'

They left the church. Outside the day was dying. Athelstan expected to see some of his parishioners but, apart from Ursula the pig woman disappearing down the alleyway, her great sow trotting after her, ears flapping, the church forecourt was empty. Philomel was leaning against his stall busily munching.

Athelstan found his small house swept and cleaned, a fire ready to be lit. On the scrubbed table stood two pies covered with linen cloths and an earthenware jug of ale. Bonaventure went and lay down in front of the empty grate. Athelstan brought traunchers and goblets from the kitchen, horn spoons from his small coffer. He was about to say grace when there was a knock on the door and Godbless, followed by his little goat, bustled into the house. The beggarman was small, his hair dishevelled, eyes gleaming in his whiskered weatherbeaten face. Athelstan noticed the horn spoon clutched in his hand. Thaddeus went across to sniff at Bonaventure but that great lord of the alleyways didn't even deign to life his head.

'I am hungry, Brother.'

'Godbless, you always are. When you die we'll say you were a saint.'

Godbless looked puzzled.

'You can read minds,' Athelstan explained.

'I've been in the death house.' Godbless rubbed his stomach and looked at the pies. 'I've had some cheese and bread but I knew about these pies, Brother.'

'It's not the death house,' Athelstan reminded him. 'Pike and Watkin have built a new one and, from now on, you are to call your little house the "porter's lodge". You are the guardian of God's acre. I don't want Pike and Watkin getting drunk there or Cecily the courtesan meeting her sweethearts in the long grass. If I've told that girl once, I've told her a thousand times: only the dead are supposed to lie there.'

Godbless solemnly nodded.

'And I'm going to offer you a reward.' Athelstan gestured at him to sit. 'I have this dream,' the friar continued, pushing a trauncher towards the little beggarman. 'To actually plant vegetables which I, not Ursula's sow, will eat.'

'I've driven that beast off before, Brother.'

'Beast is well named,' Athelstan quipped. 'That pig fears neither God nor man.'