‘Well, Brother. I now recognise you. You are Athelstan, aren’t you, from St Erconwald’s in Southwark? Watkin the dung-collector sometimes comes here!’
‘I am sure he does,’ Athelstan replied dryly. ‘He’s well known in many of the taverns in the city.’
‘As I am,’ Sir John added warningly. ‘But what’s the matter, fellow?’
‘She’s a suicide,’ the taverner blurted out. ‘She should be buried at midnight at a crossroads outside the city!’
‘She’s a poor girl,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Who probably killed herself while her wits were fuddled.’ He picked up the corpse’s hand and looked at the fingernails carefully. ‘And we don’t know whether it’s suicide or not, do we?’
‘The coroner has pronounced his verdict.’
‘The coroner has pronounced his verdict on what is obvious. However, the more I stand here, the greater a niggling doubt grows.’
He moved to the bed and began to study the young woman’s hair most carefully, parting it, letting the strands run through his fingers. He reminded Sir John of Lady Maude examining the two poppets’ heads for lice.
‘Can I go?’ the taverner asked.
‘Yes, but stay downstairs until the Harrower of the Dead arrives and we are finished.’
Cranston leaned against the wall, mopping his brow while Sir Maurice stood, arms folded. Athelstan continued his examination of the woman’s corpse: the hair, the nails, then he lifted the skirt and began to examine her torso.
‘Should you do that?’ Sir Maurice asked.
‘A corpse is a corpse. The soul has gone, all beauty of the body is dead.’
He examined the woman’s belly carefully. The skin of the thighs was covered in pimples and blotches. He shifted the corpse to look along the back.
‘What are you searching for, Athelstan?’
The Dominican made the body decent.
‘Are you going to say she was hanged?’
‘Here we have a young woman,’ Athelstan said. He clicked his tongue against his lower lip. ‘She calls herself Anna Triveter and travels from Dover to London. Her one desire is to see her beloved Sir Maurice Maltravers. Young man! You can lean against that wall and sulk or you can co-operate with us.’
‘I am not sulking,’ Maltravers retorted. ‘Brother, I am furious! I did not know this woman. And until Sir John here sent a message to the Savoy Palace, I didn’t know…’
‘Of course you didn’t,’ Athelstan interrupted cheerfully.
‘What’s that?’ Sir John lowered the half-raised wineskin.
‘It’s a matter of logic,’ said Athelstan. ‘Anna here arrives at the Golden Cresset.’ He pointed to her boots which lay just within the doorway. ‘Pick those up, Sir John.’
Cranston did so; they were small, rather fashionable, made of leather with silver buckles.
‘Look at the heels and soles.’
The coroner did so.
‘They are clean, aren’t they?’
‘She could have done that herself.’
‘Oh, she did.’
Athelstan walked over to the wooden lavarium which bore a bowl, a jug and, on the floor beneath, a pile of rags. He picked one up. It was dirty and wet.
‘Brother.’ Sir John glowered at the Dominican. ‘Don’t let’s dance round the mulberry bush. It stands to reason the woman was tired and exhausted after her journey. She cleaned her boots as many a traveller would. She changed her garb and sent it to the wash-house.’
‘And then she’d just commit suicide.’ Athelstan pointed to the rope. ‘Where did she get that from?’
‘There’s a coil left in every room.’ Sir Maurice spoke up. ‘In case of fire.’ He pointed to what was left of the rope still lying in a corner. He went over and picked up the knife still lying there. ‘She cut some of this, put one end round the beam, formed a noose and put that round her neck.’
‘But,’ Athelstan objected, ‘why should a young woman who is desirous of seeing you, Sir Maurice, come into this chamber, change her clothing, wash her boots, bolt and lock the door and then hang herself? Above all, where did she get the writing material?’ Athelstan asked. ‘For that last lovelorn letter?’
‘I see what you mean,’ Sir John breathed.
‘I don’t think she committed suicide. I doubt if her name’s Anna Triveter and I don’t think she came from Dover.’ Athelstan smiled apologetically at Cranston. I am sorry to upset your verdict so soon, but it’s best if these matters are kept secret!’
‘Continue!’ the coroner barked.
‘Anna Triveter is probably a whore. If you examine her finger-nails, Sir John, down near the rim around the skin, you’ll see the traces of paint. If you examine her hair it is beautiful, lustrous and red, but among the roots you will find the traces of dye. Her body is marked, small cuts on her back. Welts which healed some time ago. I suspect she has been whipped or received the end of a birch, whether in punishment or pleasure,’ Athelstan continued dryly, ‘I do not know. Suffice to say, Sir John, Sir Maurice, this is not some young gentlewoman.’
‘But why?’ Sir John asked. ‘What did happen?’
‘She’s a whore. And brought here to act the part. She’s given a change of clothing, a set of saddlebags and some silver. She arrived at the Golden Cresset and, following instructions, has her clothes taken down to the wash-house while she wipes her boots.’
‘But why?’ Sir John again asked.
‘Oh, Sir John, you’ve travelled many a day between Dover and Canterbury.’
‘Of course. In summer the Pilgrims’ Way is white chalk. It clings to your cloak. I’ve seen the travellers look so dusty you’d think they were covered in snow.’
‘Precisely, Sir John. She has her clothes washed and her boots cleaned.’
He glanced at Sir Maurice. The young knight was just staring, open-mouthed; now and again his gaze would shift to the corpse stiffening on the bed.
‘Now this is a busy tavern,’ Athelstan continued. ‘People coming and going, particularly on a Saturday. Poor Anna, who thinks she’s never earned so much money so easily, lies down on the bed. She has done what she has been ordered to and waits for further instructions. The assassin enters. He locks and bolts the door behind him and crosses to the bed. Poor Anna is asleep, she struggles awake but the assassin’s hand or probably a garrotte string is round her throat. She is dead before she can really gather her wits. The assassin’s clever. He doesn’t steal any of the silver but takes the knife she carried and cuts some of the rope. One part goes round the rafters, the other round the poor dead girl’s neck. She’s left hanging there. The rope is thick, harsh: the bruising and discoloration of death hides the real cause of death, strangulation by the garrotte string.’
‘And the assassin?’ Sir Maurice asked.
‘Oh, he’d be cowled in some disguise. He’d wait for the tavern yard below to be empty. He then went to the window.’
‘But the shutters were closed!’
Athelstan walked over. ‘I know from Sir John that this is one of the easiest tricks of the guild of housebreakers. The assassin closed one side of the shutter, climbed out on to the sill, pulling the other behind him, then dropped to the ground.’
‘But he could have been seen, even seized?’
‘Sir John, it would only take a few seconds to flee and be lost in some city side street. Anyway, who’d be brave enough to challenge him?’
‘And the letter?’
‘Oh, before the murderer left, the love note was placed near the corpse. One final thing. Sir Maurice, you know a great deal about horses. Go down to the stables, carefully check the palfrey this young woman is supposed to have ridden all the way from Dover, then come back and tell us what you have found.’
The knight hurried off.
‘It’s the first time I’ve seen any life in him,’ Sir John remarked, closing the door. ‘Do you really believe, Athelstan, this poor woman was murdered?’
‘See for yourself, Sir John. Look at the hair, the nails, the neck.’
‘Yes, I see it,’ he said, holding the fingers. ‘Just near the quick of the thumb, traces of paint.’