Field of Blood

Athelstan smiled. 'So, Brokestreet has an accomplice?'

'It's possible.'

Athelstan was going to reply but paused as the bell began to toll for mid-morning prayer. He sighed and hid his exasperation. Sometimes Mugwort remembered his duty, other times he was too drunk to forget. Now, the way the bell was tolling it seemed as if Mugwort were summoning everyone in the city to prayer. He waited until the clanging had stopped.

'Who could this accomplice be?'

'I don't know, Brother but I've got old Flaxwith and that damnable dog sniffing away. Remember Brokestreet worked in a brothel.'

'Who are you looking for, Sir Jack?'

'An old acquaintance of ours, the vicar of hell.'

'Oh no!' Athelstan groaned. 'I remember that rapscallion!'

'He may be able to help. Flaxwith will track him down. So, where to now, Brother? Hengan will meet us at the Tower …'

'Sir Jack.' Athelstan clapped him on the arm. 'You have problems, so have I. Let me tell you a story about our murderers here in Southwark. But first…'

Athelstan led him back into the church and out through the main door. Members of the council were still standing around. Athelstan walked over and thrust the scroll into Bladdersniff's hands.

'You are the parish bailiff aren't you, Luke? Nail that up and make sure it stays there.'

And, before anyone could ask questions, Athelstan walked round to the priest's house. Benedicta was in the kitchen washing the goblets and traunchers from the night before. Bonaventure was helping her. He'd jumped on to a barrel and was busy trying to lick one of the platters. Athelstan handed her the keys of the church and the widow woman, once she had freed herself from Sir John's bear-like embrace, agreed to look after the parish until he returned.

'You are welcome to them all,' Athelstan told her. 'At this moment in time, I feel like running into the countryside and hiding beneath a tree.'

'Strange,' Sir John mused, winking at Benedicta. 'I used to do the same when I was a little boy. And, if the truth be known,' he added in a mock whisper, 'I still do it when the Lady Maude is in one of her rages.'

Athelstan collected his cloak and chancery bag, absentmindedly made his farewells and, followed by a mystified Sir John, strode out of his house, taking the trackway down into Southwark. His parishioners shouted farewell but Athelstan walked on, lost in his own thoughts.

'What's the matter, monk?'

'Friar, Sir John, I'm a friar and a very angry one. We have the Vestler business in London, God knows what the truth behind that is; I have a young maid, daughter of Basil the blacksmith, who wants to marry a young man but there are rumours that they are related by blood. Now I have the mysterious death of Miles Sholter, not to mention a heavy fine!'

'You are not thinking of leaving, are you?' Sir John caught him by the shoulder. 'Oh, don't say that, Brother!'

Athelstan stared up at his sad-eyed friend and felt his temper cool.

'No, Jack, I'm not leaving you. I am just angry. Do you know what I think about evil, about the devil? He's not some great beast, some fallen angel shrouded in hideous majesty. Ah no! To me, Sir Jack, evil is like a malicious child who plays a trick and then hides in the shadows and giggles with glee at the damage done. You are the coroner, responsible for law and order. I am a friar, a priest, answerable to God for the care of souls. Now we're lost in a maze because people want to thwart God's will. So, I'll tell you: we're off to the Silken Thomas tavern and, as we go, my dear coroner, I'll tell you what happened last night and the reason for our visit.'

Sir John linked his arm through that of the friar.

'Then, Brother, let's proceed. I'll hear your confession.'

And the lord coroner and his secretarius walked on through the mean trackways and runnels of Southwark, totally unaware of the shadowy figure, trailing far behind, watching their every step.

Chapter 7

They crossed the brook and went up the hill to the derelict house.

'What was his name?' Sir John asked. 'The old meanthrift who lived here?'

'Simon the miser, but that wasn't his real name. They say he was a priest, a Benedictine who escaped from his monastery and took some of its treasure with him. He died just after I arrived here. The house and this field were seized by the Crown. If I remember rightly, there's some legal battle over whether it was common land or can be sold. Naturally the house has been stripped of lead, tiles, anything valuable.'

Sir John stopped, huffing and puffing, and mopped his brow. He looked up at the house; the walls were dingy, only battered gaps where there had once been windows. Of the roof only a few beams remained, sticking up like blackened fingers towards the sky.

'It's also haunted,' Athelstan said. 'They say by Simon's ghost. A good place to hide a corpse. The assassin must have known few people came here.'

The two went through the ruined doorway and into the parlour where the corpses had been found. Athelstan described how he thought the murders had taken place. Sir John agreed.

'But let's look around.'

'What for, Brother?'

'You'll know when you find it. Oh, be careful, the upper stories are not safe.'

Sir John looked up at the ceiling and noticed the rents.

'Aye, it would be a fool who went up there.'

'The stairs have long disappeared,' Athelstan said. 'Taken, no doubt, by some inhabitant of my parish for firewood.'

The lower rooms were the same. Anything of value had long disappeared. The floor was of stone but lintels, doors, window frames had all been plucked out. Athelstan came out of the scullery and noticed the steps leading down to what must have been a cellar. He went carefully down. The air was mildewed and smelt of coal and firewood.

'Simon must have used this as a storeroom,' he shouted, his voice sounding hollow. 'It's dark as …'

'Satan's armpit!' Sir John bellowed.

Athelstan undid his wallet and took out a thick candle and a tinder. He struck but no flame came. He tried again and, at last, the wick was lit creating a small circle of light. Athelstan gazed around. Nothing but cobwebbed walls and ceilings. The cellar was no more than a stone box, a pile of black coal dust gleaming in the corner. Athelstan waited until his companion came gingerly down the steps. 'Hush now!' the friar warned. 'What is it?'

Athelstan closed his eyes. He'd always been warned by Prior Anselm never to look for any spiritual experiences. 'Resist such occurrences,' the prior had urged. 'God rarely moves through visions but the ordinary things of life. There are more miracles on a tree in spring than in many of our so-called visionaries' dreams.'

Nevertheless, Athelstan felt tempted. He thought of the assassin cowled and hooded, face masked. Poor Miles had probably been killed on Saturday evening, just after he left the Silken Thomas. His corpse hidden here till Sunday when the other two had stumbled on the assassin.

'Brother! Brother!' Sir John urged him back to business.

'Hush!' Athelstan lifted a hand, eyes still closed. 'The assassins, Sir John, killed someone on Saturday but came back on Sunday to dispose of the corpse. So, where would they keep it? This cellar has been used to store coaclass="underline" yet I can't remember any coal dust on the victim's clothing. Ergo, either the corpse was never placed here or the coal dust was on the upper garment and his boots which, as we know, were later removed. The leggings were dark green. They would hide such stains and moving the corpse would also loosen the dust.'