‘All is set,’ Athelstan whispered to Cranston. ‘It is best if we do this in the presence of a host of witnesses whose memories are now being stirred. So …’ Athelstan walked into the centre of the hall.
‘What were you doing?’ Mistress Cheyne, who had been whispering to Foxley, sprang to her feet. ‘This is my house, my home.’
‘And your place of murder,’ Athelstan retorted, silencing her and the murmuring of the rest. ‘Master Foxley,’ Athelstan asked, ‘who was in the gallery when the door was forced, I mean just now?’
‘Why, you, me and the labourers; Master Tiptoft joined us later. You were calling for him.’
‘And the door we forced was both bolted and locked?’
‘Yes, of course, you could see that for yourself.’
‘And when the door was forced, the window?’
‘Firmly closed and shuttered until I opened it.’
‘Master Tiptoft,’ Athelstan put his hand on the messenger’s arm, ‘you heard me shouting. Where were you?’
‘In the chamber which was forced.’
‘Nonsense!’ Fear thrilled Elizabeth Cheyne’s face and voice.
‘Impossible!’ Foxley exclaimed.
‘I was in the chamber,’ Tiptoft insisted. ‘Brother Athelstan gave me the key. As soon as l left here, I went upstairs. I locked and bolted the door, closed the eyelet and made sure that the window was firmly shuttered. The room was as dark as night. I stood, as Brother Athelstan advised, to the left of the door as it opens. When it was forced and flung back, I stayed. Athelstan dismissed the labourers then Master Foxley entered, crossing the chamber to pull back the shutters. I simply stepped round the door and joined Brother Athelstan on the threshold, a matter of heartbeats. I did as Brother Athelstan asked. Remember the chamber was as black as a moonless night. I counted how long it took to step around the door, I barely reached four.’
Athelstan glanced around. ‘Remember that, because I was calling Tiptoft, Foxley thought, when he turned around after opening the windows, that Tiptoft had been with me all the time. When the chamber was being forced, Master Foxley, you were concentrating solely on the door and what might lie inside. True?’ The Master of Horse agreed. ‘I also noticed,’ Athelstan continued, ‘that on the day she was killed, Joycelina was wearing sandals. Did she always wear those?’
‘Yes,’ Anna the maid shouted.
‘So why, on the morning Whitfield was found dead, was Joycelina wearing red-capped, thick, soft-soled buskins?’
‘Nonsense!’ Mistress Cheyne exclaimed.
‘So how do I know she had a pair?’ Athelstan turned to the rest. ‘She did, didn’t she?’
‘Yes.’ One of the maids lifted her hand. ‘Mistress, after Joycelina died, you gave them to me.’
Cheyne’s head went down.
‘Joycelina,’ Athelstan explained, ‘wore those same buskins that morning to ensure that for a few heartbeats, in that pitch-black chamber with Foxley terrified and having eyes and mind only for that swinging corpse and opening the window, she could slip soundlessly forward and join you, Mistress Cheyne, her accomplice.’
The Mistress of the Moppets did not reply, though she turned slightly as members of her household murmured their agreement to Athelstan’s statement.
‘Sir John?’ Athelstan turned to the coroner. ‘You imitated Lebarge. You left here and went to the foot of the stairs leading to the top gallery. Did anyone pass you?’
‘Oh, of course not.’ The coroner grinned. ‘I heard you calling Tiptoft but he never came by. He never passed me. I stayed in that recess until the labourers returned and I followed them down.’
Athelstan went and crouched before Mistress Cheyne. ‘I have demonstrated,’ he held her cold, angry gaze, ‘how you and Joycelina murdered Amaury Whitfield.’ He rose, gesturing at Flaxwith to come forward and restrain the murderess, sitting on a high-backed chair, fingers firmly clutching its arms.
‘Search her,’ Athelstan ordered. Flaxwith did so, ignoring her protests, and drew the needle-like dagger, more of a bodkin than a knife, out of a secret sheath on the belt around her waist. He threw this on the table as Athelstan took a stool to sit opposite the accused. He stared around. He would have preferred to first question Mistress Cheyne in some secure, isolated chamber, but those present, although they did not fully realize it, were in fact witnesses to her crimes.
‘Amaury Whitfield,’ Athelstan began, ‘came here to join the Festival of Cokayne, to forget his terrors and, above all, to complete his plans to flee abroad. True, Master Gray?’ He turned to where the sea captain slouched on a bench.
‘Answer!’ Cranston roared.
‘Correct,’ Gray replied. He gestured with his hands. ‘Whitfield, Lebarge and Mistress Cheyne’s household. You must know that by now?’
‘Good.’ Athelstan smiled at him. ‘Whitfield’s mind and soul does not concern us now. He was a terrified man with an unfinished, ever-changing plot about masking his disappearance behind an accident or suicide.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘This does not matter any more. However, Whitfield was not only a frightened man but a very, very wealthy one with a heavy money belt crammed with good coins, strapped around his waist. He would have provoked your suspicions, Mistress Cheyne, by hiring a chamber on the top gallery: that was a way of protecting himself. Of course, during her ministrations to Whitfield, Joycelina must have learnt about this treasure trove. Somehow or other, you both discovered how wealthy Whitfield was and how accessible his riches were. You planned to kill him and seize that wealth. You probably plotted to do it once you reached foreign parts. However, that part of your plan you could not control. We all know Whitfield was disturbed, deeply agitated, fearful of his powerful master and,’ Athelstan glanced quickly at Stretton, ‘other equally sinister figures. No wonder Whitfield moved from plot to plot and plan to plan. We shall never know the truth of it, but in the end, I believe he was thinking of fleeing on his own, possibly with Lebarge, which is one of the reasons he went down to visit the Tavern of Lost Souls. However, Whitfield’s visit to Mephistopheles does not concern us. All I can say is that he went there panic-struck, considering all the choices he could make. Indeed, in the end I would say Whitfield’s wits were turned, he was not thinking clearly.’
‘I would agree.’ The usually taciturn Griffin spoke up. ‘Let’s admit it. We all saw him talking to himself and drinking deeply …’
‘You, Mistress Cheyne,’ Athelstan accused, ‘suspected Whitfield’s ultimate plan. He was going to disappear, escape your clutches, so you and Joycelina concocted your murderous design. On the night before he died, Whitfield and you others drank deeply, yes?’ Athelstan did not wait for agreement. ‘Afterwards Whitfield lurched upstairs, possibly planning to leave either during the night after he had met a certain stranger or immediately the following morning. You, Mistress Cheyne, together with Joycelina, slipped upstairs and inveigled yourself into his chamber. No one would notice. Lebarge, who occupied the only other chamber on the gallery, had also drunk deeply. For all I know, an opiate may have been slipped into his drink, I suspect it was. However, let’s move on.
‘In that chamber, locked and bolted, Whitfield would prove to be most malleable to you and Joycelina. Drunk and sottish, you enticed him into some sexual game to rouse his potency. I understand that strangulation can be used to excite a man like Whitfield. Whatever, the fire rope was taken and transformed into a hanging noose. Somehow or other you or Joycelina inveigled Whitfield to stand on that stool. Drunk and confused, he would not realize the trap until the noose around his neck swiftly tightened and the stool was kicked away. He struggled, you and Joycelina may have grabbed his legs and pulled him down to hasten death. In a very brief period, it was all over.’