‘You have no proof,’ Mistress Cheyne taunted. ‘No real evidence.’
‘Oh, I will find it here and I have this.’ Athelstan leaned down, opened his chancery satchel and delicately took out the linen parcel, specially prepared by a cook at the Guildhall. He opened the folds and held up a portion of simnel cake. ‘Admittedly,’ he moved the piece of food from hand to hand, ‘it is now slightly hard, stale.’ He half smiled. ‘More like stone than food. But,’ he sniffed at it, ‘still full of poison. When we throw you in a dungeon, Mistress Cheyne, I will put this in the cell next to it and wait for the rats to eat it and die in swift agony. I will have that witnessed and sworn to. I will also arrange for the Golden Oliphant to be scoured. We will eventually find Whitfield’s gold and the possessions of both Lebarge and Hawisa.’ Athelstan held up the piece of simnel cake. ‘Strange that Lebarge, in his excitement, put this down on the floor and forgot it.’
‘No, he didn’t!’ Mistress Cheyne closed her eyes in desperation at her mistake.
‘Why not eat some?’ Athelstan offered. ‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘You have nothing to fear, surely?’
‘You said Lebarge died after eating it. He was poisoned. Hawisa could have done that.’
‘So you admit that Hawisa did take a simnel cake to Lebarge at the sanctuary?’ Athelstan was determined that the sheer logic of his argument would break this killer. He had trapped the murderer – now he would show her there was no escape. He went and stood over the accused, using his fingers as he emphasized the evidence against her. ‘Item, Mistress Cheyne: through Joycelina you knew about the money belt and Whitfield’s determination to flee, whatever convoluted plot he was weaving to cover it. Item: on the night before Whitfield died, he was deep in his cups. After all, he had come here to celebrate the Festival of Cokayne. Joycelina, by everyone’s admission, cared for him. He would allow her and you into his chamber. Everyone else was sleeping, sottish with drink. The Cokayne Festival was over. The guests were tired and sated whilst you acted the busy hostess, hurrying here and there. Nothing untoward. You are so skilled at that, Mistress Cheyne, using everyday routines to mask murderous intent. Whitfield would let you both stay. After all, drunk as he was, he was only biding his time until he slipped out in the early hours to meet someone, though that does not concern us now.
‘Once in that chamber, you had nothing to fear from anyone else, least of all Lebarge, deep in his cups and smitten with Hawisa. Item: by use of wine, potions or the prospect of some sexual game, you persuaded poor, drunken Whitfield to stand on that stool with a noose around his neck and watched him die. You undid his clothing, took the money belt and made ready to leave. Item: soft-footed, you slipped from that chamber taking the key. No one would notice. Who else, belly full of ale and wine, would climb these steep steps to the top gallery? The only person would be a drunken Lebarge, but he had sunk into a deep sleep in his own chamber. You both fled unobserved. Anyone who later approached and knocked on Whitfield’s door would receive no answer and conclude the clerk had fallen into a drunken stupor.
‘Item: you assumed Lebarge would wake all mawmsy after his drinking bout, eager for his simnel cakes. He and the rest assembled in the refectory. Item: under your direction, Joycelina raised the alarm and you took over. Who would gainsay you as mistress of this house? You have the authority to tell guests and servants what to do. Item: Joycelina, now armed with a key, was secretly despatched to Whitfield’s chamber under the guise of some errand. Item: You again, as mistress of the house, take Foxley and the labourers to the top gallery. You make sure Foxley, still befuddled from the previous night’s heavy drinking, confirms the door is barred and locked. The ram is used as you shout for Joycelina to join you. Of course, she is hiding inside having ensured that both the eyelet and lock are blocked and the bolts pulled across.
‘Item: the door is eventually forced back, bolt and locks snapping; the door built slightly into the wall is pushed open; hanging off its leather hinges, it actually conceals Joycelina. Even if it had snapped off completely, your accomplice stands hidden to the left in a chamber which is pitch black with no light. Item: the top gallery is gloomy at the best of times. Foxley, the only one who now remains with you, has eyes solely for the grim spectacle of Whitfield’s dangling corpse as well as opening that shuttered window. Terrified, he stumbles across, his boots creaking the floorboards. All this disguises Joycelina who, in her soft buskins, slips around the door to stand by you. Let us say Foxley turned, and why should he? He’d glimpse nothing amiss except the shadowy outlines of Mistress Cheyne following him into the chamber with Joycelina beside her. This was logical; after all, hadn’t she been calling for her? That Joycelina had been in the chamber all the time would never occur to him and, even if such a remote possibility did, it would be his word against that of his mistress, not to mention Joycelina.’
Athelstan paused and pushed the piece of simnel cake closer to her face. ‘Of course, this was not enough. You and Joycelina were determined to silence both Lebarge and Hawisa lest they come to suspect. Item: you have virtually admitted that Hawisa went to St Erconwald’s with simnel cake. You knew Lebarge had to eat it and leave no evidence that anyone had come to assist him lest he forfeit the right to sanctuary. Hawisa would also be aware of that. She and Lebarge would be most careful and prudent: their meeting in my darkened church would be brief enough for the two lovers to reassure each other. After which Lebarge slipped back to the mercy enclave to die as the poison took effect whilst Hawisa left the chapel with you, slipping into eternal night. Poor Lebarge! Poor Hawisa! They truly trusted you. How long that would have lasted is a matter of speculation. The same is true of Joycelina. It’s only a matter of time before thieves fall out, assassins even more so. You control this house, Mistress, that is more than obvious. People come and go when you tell them to. Joycelina, all agitated, is sent to clean that chamber. You set up your snare. Everyone else is where they should be. You brought about Joycelina’s extraordinary death by very ordinary, mundane means: burning bread, the strident summons of a maid, Joycelina’s haste and a simple piece of twine. Well, Mistress?’ Athelstan leaned down. ‘That’s what the lawyers will argue. What do you say?’
‘I will say no more,’ she shouted.
‘You will,’ Cranston intervened, ‘when you are taken to the press yard in Newgate and forced to lie under a huge door. Great iron weights will be placed on top, one after the other, until you confess the truth. Flaxwith, take her out to one of the outhouses, keep her safe until we leave. For the rest,’ Cranston drew himself up, hands extended, ‘everyone stays here until the Golden Oliphant is searched and the stolen money found. And that,’ Cranston gestured at Stretton, ‘includes you. If anyone does try to leave they will be arrested or, if they flee, put to the horn as outlaws.’
Athelstan bent down to pick up his chancery satchel. When he felt himself being pushed, he glanced up. Mistress Cheyne, despite being held by two burly bailiffs, had flung herself against him. Now she pulled back, eyes hot with hatred, lips bared in a snarl.
‘I have secrets,’ she hissed. ‘I will proclaim such secrets before the King’s Bench, I will …’
‘Take her away.’ Athelstan turned his back on the prisoner. He walked over to Foxley, deep in conversation with one of the ostlers, Mistress Cheyne’s curses echoing behind him. The friar plucked at the Master of Horse’s sleeve and apologised to the ostler. ‘Master Foxley, a word.’ Athelstan took him away from the rest, opened his chancery satchel and thrust a small, red-ribboned scroll into Foxley’s hand.
‘I owe you my life, certainly my health,’ the friar murmured. ‘You protected a Domini canis – a Hound of the Lord,’ he explained the Latin pun on the name of his order, ‘from other, more dangerous hounds. Now,’ Athelstan continued briskly, ‘take this, Master Foxley. The day of tribulation will soon be upon us and, whatever you believe, the Lords of the Soil will crush you. No,’ Athelstan stepped closer, ‘just take the scroll. You saved my life and this will save yours when the Retribution comes and your comrades are fleeing for their lives only to find churches locked and sanctuaries closely guarded. Take this to Blackfriars, my brothers will shelter you. Now …’ Athelstan turned as Cranston gripped his arm.