Field of Blood

'Agreed!'

'So, what we are looking for, Sir John, is any stain or mark which shouldn't be here: that will be the deciding factor.'

Athelstan crouched down, holding the candle out, and moved slowly across the floor. He stopped at a clean patch against the wall and stared at the dark mark in the centre.

'A piece of sacking has been laid here. Look, Sir John. This stain.' He rubbed it with his fingers.

'It could be anything,' Sir John said. 'Spilt wine …'

'Or blood,' Athelstan added. 'Sholter's corpse was probably hidden here before being taken to the room above where the assassin was disturbed. Right, Sir John, now for the Silken Thomas.'

The tavern lay at a crossroads just outside Southwark where the common scaffold and stocks stood. These were empty but in the tavern yard swarmed chapmen with their pack ponies, pedlars and tinkers. Some Moon People in their motley-coloured rags had wandered in, two men and a woman; they were offering to tell fortunes and read palms but all they received were dark looks and muttered curses. The woman came across and tried to grasp Athelstan's hand.

'Will ye not let me see?' she asked in a harsh, strange accent. 'All of us have a future, pretty ladies perhaps.'

'I doubt it! But here, mistress.' He pressed a penny into her callused hand. 'That's not to read fortunes but to leave us alone!'

The Moon woman scurried off. Athelstan looked about him. The Silken Thomas was a three-storied building, its plaster and black beams hidden by creeping ivy which climbed up around the windows, giving it a pleasant serene appearance. A prosperous enough place but nothing like the Paradise Tree: the wooden sills were chipped, only some of the windows had glass. Others were covered by oiled paper or were simply boarded up with wooden shutters. Inside, the taproom was a large, ill-lit, sprawling place with benches and stools in different corners; a huge trestle table down the centre served as the common board. At the far end, just near the door leading to the kitchens, ranged the great tuns and vats above which ranged shelf after shelf of blackjacks and tankards, pewter mugs and cups. A tinker sat at a table, displaying a white rat in a cage which would go round and round on a makeshift wheel like that of a water-mill. Others were laying bets as to how many times the rat would turn it before it wearied and climbed off. A pickpocket, recently released from the stocks outside, was loudly complaining about his stiff neck. A little boy stood on a table and tried to massage it for him. The tavern-keeper swept out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a bloody rag which he stuffed beneath his stained apron. He took one look at the coroner and bustled across.

'Good day, sir. Can I help you? Our ales are the best you'll find on the Canterbury Road. Indeed, anywhere in Southwark, if that's your direction.'

'Miles Sholter!' Sir John barked, showing his wax seal of office. 'And Philip Eccleshall. Two royal messengers, they arrived here last Saturday evening.'

'What was it sir, two quarts of ale? A piece of chicken pie? Or we have eel pastries? I am a busy man, sir.'

'And I am a King's officer!'

'Two quarts of ale and a chicken pie would do nicely.' Athelstan pulled out a silver piece. 'And we'll sit over in the corner.'

The taverner's oily face broke into a smile. Athelstan tried not to flinch at the blackened stumps and his yellowing teeth, jagged and broken. He looked at the man's dirty fingernails.

'On second thoughts,' he added, 'just two quarts of ale.' He pressed his sandalled foot on the toe of Sir John's boot. 'I do urge you, sir, to help us or Sir John Cranston here, who is coroner of the city, might come back with his merry boys.'

The taverner held his hands up as if in prayer.

'Sir Jack Cranston. I've heard of you, sir.' He hurried across and wiped two stools with his rag. 'Make yourselves comfortable. The ale is free, my gift.'

'No, it isn't.' Athelstan put the silver piece on the table. 'We pay for what we drink and for what we learn.'

Despite his ponderous girth the taverner moved quickly. He roared out the order and a slattern hurried across. The blackjacks were large and looked clean, the ale frothing at the top and running down the sides.

'Now, sir, how can I help you?' The taverner pulled a stool across.

'Miles Sholter and Philip Eccleshall,' Sir John repeated. He sipped from the tankard and smacked his lips in appreciation. 'Tell the truth and, bearing in mind the ale is fragrant, I'll forget your earlier rudeness.'

'They arrived here on Saturday evening. You know the way they are. They came bustling in, cloaks on, hoods up, spurs clinking, sword belts on. One, of medium height, had long dark hair, the other was taller.'

'And what happened?' Athelstan asked.

'They gave their names, Sholter and Eccleshall, and their office. Sholter was rather quiet but Eccleshall was full of his own importance.'

'Did they order food or drink?'

'No, they immediately hired a chamber. I took them up to one on the first floor, the best we have: two beds, a chest, coffer, table and a …'

'Thank you. Just tell us what happened.'

'They stayed there. One of the maids took some food up, about an hour after they arrived. One was lying on the bed, the other was mending a spur. Their saddlebags were unpacked and they were talking about their journey. About seven or eight in the evening, one of them came clattering downstairs all in a hurry, the other behind him. The taller one, Eccleshall, was arguing with his companion. "Why not leave it?" he cried. But the other said no and demanded his horse be saddled. They had already paid for their chamber so I didn't object and off the other one went.'

'Did you know he was murdered?' Sir John asked.

The taverner shook his head and wiped his face with a rag.

'Who was murdered?'

'The one who left.'

'So, that's what happened.'

'What do you mean?' Sir John demanded, glaring across at the group of chapmen whose shouts and curses shattered the peace of the taproom. The pedlars, who'd overheard that Cranston was a King's officer, immediately fell silent.

'Well, the taller one, Eccleshall, after his companion left, he came down here.' He pointed to the inglenook. 'He just sat there looking into the flames.'

'And he never left?' Athelstan asked.

'Never.'

'You are sure of that?'

Athelstan felt a surge of disappointment.

'Well, you see, Brother …?'

'Athelstan. I am Sir John's secretarius. I am also parish priest of St Erconwald's.'

'Ah.' The taverner tapped the side of his fat nose. 'I've also heard of you. Look, I tell the truth. Eccleshall drank deeply that night. I could see he was worried. He had great difficulty climbing the stairs and that was long after closing. Now, like all taverners, I'm frightened of fire. I always go round and check that some drunken bugger has not left a candle alight. We deliberately do not put locks in our rooms because of that.' He grinned. 'If a man and his lady friend wish a little privacy, they can always put a stool against the door. Anyway, it must have been well after midnight. I opened the door to Eccleshall's chamber, the candle was out and he was snoring like a pig on the bed. We also have a groom guarding the stables. No one disturbed him.'

'And the next morning?' Athelstan asked.

'Eccleshall, rather heavy-eyed, came down to break his fast. He was very agitated, asking everyone had they seen his companion? Of course, we hadn't. He ordered his horse to be saddled and left. Oh, it must have been about nine in the morning.'

'And you are sure,' Athelstan insisted, 'that two came here?'

'Of course! Eccleshall and the other, Sholter, slightly shorter, dark-haired, fresh-faced.'