Field of Blood

'My lord.' Hengan rose, grasping the bar. 'My client goes on oath and pleads not guilty to this and all other specified charges which may be levelled against her.'

'Of course. Of course.' Sir Henry smiled. 'Master clerk, read out the sworn statement of Alice Brokestreet.'

The statement produced nothing new. Master Whittock had been very careful not to introduce any other charge which could be challenged. It stated that Mistress Vestler had slain Bartholomew and Margot by an infusion of poison, that Brokestreet had helped take the corpses out in a handcart and bury them under the great oak tree in Black Meadow. How the felonious deed was Mistress Vestler's doing and she, Brokestreet, had no choice but to co-operate. The clerk sat down.

'My lord,' Hengan began. 'Mistress Vestler is a good woman, a respected member of the parish. She keeps a dole cupboard for the poor, gives alms generously and observes the King's peace.'

'Does she now? Does she now?' Whittock came down the steps. 'Mistress Vestler, you put yourself on oath in Newgate, when you denied these charges?' 'I did.'

'And you say you are a woman of good reputation?' 'I am,' came the calm reply. 'Even though you smuggle?'

Mistress Vestler, warned by Hengan about what Sir John had discovered, remained silent.

'We have found in the cellars of the Paradise Tree,' Whittock continued, 'small casks of Bordeaux, and even some from Alsace, which bear no customs mark.'

'My lord,' Hengan interrupted. 'My client has been charged with murder, not with smuggling. She need not incriminate herself on charges she has had little time to reflect on.'

'True, true,' Whittock replied in a mock whisper. 'I concede that, but you started this hare, Master Hengan, so I think my observation is relevant.'

'My lord.' Hengan desperately tried to move away from the matter. 'The indictment claims that Mistress Brokestreet knew that Kathryn Vestler poisoned her two alleged victims. However, we have it on good report that Margot Haden and Bartholomew Menster left the Paradise Tree on the evening of the twenty-fifth of June."

Yes, yes,' Whittock interrupted. 'But, my lord, Mistress Brokestreet has sworn that the crime was committed that night. In other words, Bartholomew and Margot may well have returned to the Paradise Tree and the crime been committed when the tavern was empty, no witnesses being around. I will also demonstrate that Mistress Vestler had a great deal to hide on that evening. It's best, my lord, if we listen to all the witnesses before we start proclaiming the truth.' Sir Henry agreed.

'In which case,' Whittock went on, 'I call Master Tapler, ale-taster at the Paradise Tree.'

The clerks of the court shouted the witness's name. From a small chamber at the other side of the hall, hidden in one of the transepts, Mistress Vestler's ale-taster shuffled out. The man was nervous and, as he took the oath, hand on the book of the gospels, the judge bellowed at him to speak up.

'Well, well, sir.' Whittock smiled across at him. 'We know who you are. We know where you work.'

Master Tapler looked decidedly agitated.

'I want you, sir,' Whittock's voice was almost a purr, 'to recall what happened on the twenty-fifth of June of this year. You had all returned to work after the Holy Day, hadn't you?'

'Yes, sir, we had.'

'And the tavern was busy?'

'No, sir.'

'Oh, so what time did you close?'

'Well, sir, because it was summer, the curfew didn't toll till about an hour before midnight.'

'What happened that evening? Anything extraordinary? Come, come, sir,' Whittock continued sharply. 'You know why you are here. Did Master Bartholomew come to the tavern?'

'Yes, sir, between the hours of nine and ten. It was a beautiful summer's day, the sun hadn't set.'

'And what happened?'

'He stayed for a stoup of ale; rather excited he was. Then he and Margot left.'

'Do you know where to?' 'No, sir.'

'And was Mistress Vestler around?' 'She always is, sir.'

'That particular night, what did Mistress Vestler do?'

'Sir, she was most insistent that the cooks and scullions, tapboys and slatterns, myself included, all had to leave early.'

'She was decidedly nervous, Master Tapler?'

'Yes, sir, she was.'

Athelstan glanced at Sir John.

'Oh, forgive me,' the friar whispered. 'Lost in my own troubles I should have questioned those people myself.'

Whittock, apparently distracted by the whisper, glanced across and smiled.

'And what happened then, Master Tapler?'

'Mistress Vestler urged us to leave, customers included.'

'Why?'

'I had the distinct impression,' Tapler's voice fell to a mumble, 'that she was expecting someone.' Whittock smiled from ear to ear. 'Master Tapler, I thank you.'

Chapter 13

Hengan did his best with the ale-taster but it was a losing battle. In fact, the more he questioned the more damaging it became.

'It was very rare for Mistress Vestler to urge us to leave the tavern early, so why that night?'

Hengan realised the harm he was doing, stopped his questioning and Tapler was dismissed.

'She'll hang,' Sir John murmured. 'God save us, Athelstan, but I think she's guilty myself.'

'The court calls Isobel Haden!' the clerk shouted.

Athelstan's head came up. A young woman came out of the adjoining chamber into the well of the court. The clerk escorted her to the witness stand and again the oath was taken. Whittock was now thoroughly enjoying himself.

'We have your name and occupation,' he began. 'You are a seamstress in the parish of St Mary Bethlehem near Holywell. And your sister Margot was a tavern wench at the Paradise Tree?'

'Yes, sir.'

Sir Henry was now leaning forward. 'Did your sister enjoy her work?' 'Yes, sir, she did.'

'How do you know that? Come on, girl, tell the court.'

'My sister wrote me letters.'

'My lord.' Whittock glanced at Sir Henry. 'If necessary, I can produce these letters.'

The chief justice looked at Hengan who shook his head despairingly.

'So, your sister, even though only a tavern wench, was lettered?' Whittock asked.

'Oh yes, sir, our father was a wool merchant. We attended the parish school and learned our horn books. He was very proud of Margot.' Her voice trembled. 'She could read and write.'

'So she was more than just a tavern wench?' Whittock insisted. 'A young woman who might well attract the likes of Bartholomew Menster?'

'Yes, sir. Margot only entered service because she wanted to leave the parish. A good lass, Margot,' Isobel continued defiantly, looking balefully down at Mistress Vestler. 'She would have made a fine marriage.'

'And your sister wrote to you about her work?'

'To be honest, sir, she liked the Paradise Tree. Miss Vestler was kind: she gave her money, clothes, as well as a Book of Hours.'

'Did she now?' Whittock purred. 'My lord, a matter we will return to in the very near future. Mistress Isobel, in those letters, your sister told you how she had met Bartholomew Menster, a clerk of the Tower, that he was sweet on her but Mistress Vestler did not like it?'

'Indeed, on one occasion, Master Bartholomew had sharp words with her.'

'Over what?' Whittock persisted.

'According to the letter, Mistress Vestler had snapped: "I wish you'd leave the matter alone. You have my thoughts on it." '

'And you think Mistress Vestler was talking about your sister?'