by Paul Doherty
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he repeated.
‘Brother, I feel the way you look.’ She half-smiled.
‘Three corpses,’ Athelstan explained. ‘Found in the old miser’s house in the fields at the end of the parish.’ He pointed to the man with the crossbow bolt buried deep in his chest. ‘He looks like a sailor or some wandering minstrel. The young woman? Pike thinks she may be a whore but this young man troubles me.’
‘Why?’ Benedicta asked.
‘The other two appear to have been killed immediately: first the man by the crossbow bolt, then the young woman’s throat was probably slit soon afterwards. She’s light, rather thin. If the assassin was a man, she would pose no real problem. However, this other one.’
Athelstan got up and crouched beside the cart. He carefully examined the young man’s head and noticed how the hair was matted with blood, masking a blow to the back of the head.
‘Now, this victim was struck on the back of the head. He fell to the ground and his throat was cut: unlike the others, he’s had his belt, jerkin, cloak and boots removed.’
‘A thief?’
‘But if it was a thief,’ Athelstan continued, ‘why didn’t he steal the young woman’s bracelet, or empty their purses?’
‘So?’
‘It’s only a guess.’
Athelstan paused as Pike abruptly lurched back into the alleyway to be sick.
‘He never did have much of a stomach,’ Watkin growled. ‘When Widow Trimple’s cat was crushed under a cart and its belly split . . .’
‘Yes, yes,’ Athelstan interrupted, ‘there’s no need to continue, Watkin: Bonaventure might hear you.’
‘You were saying about the young man?’ Bladdersniff asked.
He looked longingly over his shoulder at the alleyway. The beadle wanted to head like an arrow direct to the Piebald and down as many blackjacks of ale as his belly could take.
‘I believe,’ Athelstan continued, ‘the assassin attacked this young man in that deserted house. He knocked him on the head, cut his throat and was busy stripping him of any identification when he was surprised by these two. The young woman was a whore, the other man was one of her customers. God forgive them, they both died in their sins.’ He got to his feet, fished in his purse and thrust a coin into Bladdersniff’s hands. ‘The labourer is worthy of his hire, master bailiff. The bodies will stay here for twenty-four hours, yes?’
Bladdersniff nodded.
‘Watkin! Pike!’
The ditcher wandered back.
‘You will take turns guarding the corpse. Hig the pigman, Mugwort the bell clerk, can all stand vigil!’ He thrust another silver piece into Bladdersniff’s hand. ‘Each man of the parish who stands guard will be bought two quarts of ale by our venerable bailiff.’
Bladdersniff’s red, chapped face glowed with pleasure. He blinked his bleary, water-filled eyes.
‘Why, Brother, that’s very generous of you.’
‘On one condition,’ Athelstan added sharply. ‘When you stand guard you are sober. Now, Bladdersniff, show me where the corpses were found.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Benedicta offered. She rose unsteadily to her feet.
‘I’d love your company.’ Athelstan smiled, grasping her fingers and rubbing them between his. ‘But, if you could clear the shriving pew, put my stole back, feed Bonaventure. Oh, and Philomel will need more oats,’ he added, referring to his old war horse who spent most of his life eating or sleeping.
‘Heaven forfend!’
Athelstan turned as Godbless the beggarman, with little Thaddeus the goat in tow, came out of the cemetery rubbing his eyes.
‘Benedicta, you deal with him! Bladdersniff.’ Athelstan grasped the beadle by the arm. ‘If we stay here much longer we’ll have the entire parish around us.’
He marched Bladdersniff across the open space and along the alleyway leading down to the main thoroughfare. Although he was of short stature, Athelstan moved briskly, keeping his eye on the water-filled sewer down the centre while trying to avoid the gaze of many of his parishioners.
‘God bless you Brother!’ a girlish voice shouted.
Cecily the courtesan was standing in the entrance to the Piebald tavern. Athelstan glared at her. She had her arm round Ronald, elder son of Ranulf the rat-catcher. On a bench beside her, Ursula the pig woman was sharing a tankard of ale with her big, fat sow. The pig snorted with pleasure. Athelstan bared his teeth at this great plunderer of his vegetable patch. Tab the tinker, Huddle the painter, Manger the hangman and Moleskin the boatman stood further down the thoroughfare grouped round Tab’s stall.
‘Is anything wrong?’ Huddle called, flicking his long hair back.
Athelstan stopped. ‘I need your help at the church,’ he said sweetly. ‘Go back there. Watkin will tell you everything. There’s a quart of ale for each of you.’ He held up a warning hand so Bladdersniff wouldn’t add any gory details. ‘For all who help.’
The whole group set off like greyhounds from the slips, eager to see what work would earn such a bountiful reward.
Athelstan pressed on. It was now early afternoon and the denizens of Southwark were out looking for mischief: pickpockets, foists, those shadowy inhabitants of the underworld eager for petty profit before darkness fell. Some avoided his eye; others raised their hands in salutation or shouted abuse about Bladdersniff and his fiery red nose.
At last they entered an alleyway which led down to the fields. They crossed the narrow wooden bridge which spanned the brook and went up the great meadow to the brow of the hill where the ruins of Simon the miser’s house stood gaunt and open to the sky. Some children played at the far end of the meadow. A woman sat there keeping them busy plaiting garlands of grass. Athelstan raised his hand in benediction.
‘Thank you!’ he shouted across. ‘Keep the children well away!’
Bladdersniff led him through the ruined front door, along a hollow passageway and into a dark, smelly parlour where the air reeked of animal urine and excrement. The walls were mildewed, the stone floor cracked and weeds now thrust themselves up through the gaps.
‘A terrible place to die,’ Athelstan noted. ‘At night this place must be dark as . . .’
‘Hell’s window,’ Bladdersniff offered hopefully.
‘Aye, hell’s window.’
At first Athelstan could see nothing untoward until he noticed the remains of a fire. He crouched down to examine it more carefully.
‘A few twigs. But the nights aren’t cold; this was lit to provide light rather than warmth.’
He crawled across the floor and noticed two pools of sticky blood.
‘These belong to the young whore and her customer.’ Athelstan pointed back to the doorway. ‘Only God knows what happened but I believe this dreadful room witnessed hideous murder. The young man was either lured here and killed, or murdered elsewhere, and his corpse brought here to be stripped of any mark of recognition. The assassin lights a fire to provide some light as he carries out his grisly task.’
Athelstan went over and stood by the door.
‘Suddenly,’ he explained to the gaping Bladdersniff, ‘the assassin hears voices: a young whore is bringing one of her customers in. He hurriedly stamps out the fire, takes an arbalest and allows his next victims into the room. He releases the catch, the man dies. The young woman stands terrified.’ Athelstan strode across the room. ‘She’s like a rabbit before a stoat. Before she can recover, he’s across, knife out, her throat is slashed and the assassin leaves.’
‘By all that’s holy!’ Bladdersniff coughed. ‘Brother, you must have the second sight.’
‘No, I had Father Anselm.’ Athelstan grinned. ‘He owned a very hard ferrule.’ He rubbed his fingers. ‘Father Anselm believed in teaching logic through the knuckles. It’s a marvellous way of concentrating the mind.’
‘Athelstan! Athelstan!’
The friar lifted his head.
‘All things conspire together,’ he said to himself. He wal
ked across to the doorway. ‘Sir Jack, I’m in here!’
Bladdersniff cringed against the wall as Sir John Cranston, the most august coroner of the city of London, red face beaming, white moustache and beard bristling, strode like an angel come to judgement into this gloomy room of murder.
‘Well! Well! Well!’ Sir John stood, legs apart, thumb tucked into the belt from which hung the miraculous wineskin. ‘Heaven bless my poppets! There’s murder all around, Athelstan, and I need you in the city!’
Chapter 2
Athelstan dolefully followed Sir John down the steps and into the waiting barge to take them across the Thames. The coroner had almost dragged him out of the ruins and back to St Erconwald’s to collect his cloak and chancery bag.
‘You’ve got to come,’ Sir John said heatedly.
He added how something evil was going to happen but, for the rest, he kept tight-lipped. Instead he rounded on the friar with a whole litany of questions.
‘Three murder victims in St Erconwald’s parish!’ he exclaimed as they settled in the barge and Moleskin pulled away.
Athelstan winked at his burly friend and glanced quickly at Moleskin. Whenever the boatman pulled his hood up and bent over his oars as if absorbed in his task, that was the sign Moleskin was intently listening to what was happening.
‘Old Moleskin won’t tell anyone!’ Sir John bawled for half the river to hear.’ I saw the three corpses and that good-for-nothing Pike. He told me where you had gone. Three victims!’ he repeated. ‘And you know, Athelstan, I took a good look at that young man, the one without the boots. I think I’ve seen him somewhere.’
Athelstan looked out across the river; the tide had not yet turned, the day was sunny and warm. Everyone who owned a wherry, barge or bum-boat seemed to be out on the Thames. Victuallers were now gathering around the great warships berthed at Queenshithe, trying to sell the crews their produce. A wherryful of prostitutes were busy displaying their charms to entice officers of the watch. Royal barges, flying blue, red and gold pennants, made their way up and down to the Tower or Westminster. Three gong barges, full of ordure stinking to high heaven, were now midstream, the masked dung-collectors tipping the waste they had collected into the fast flowing river.
‘You’ve seen all this before,’ Sir John barked.
He took a quick sip from his wineskin and offered it to Moleskin. The boatman, resting on his oars, took a generous swig; he was about to take a second when the coroner snatched it back.
‘Three victims,’ Athelstan said. ‘Killed, either last night, or the night before, I’m not too sure which. The girl and the dark-faced stranger were a whore and her customer. I think they surprised the assassin who killed that young man you seemed to recognise.’
‘And the law says,’ the coroner declared pompously, ‘that they must lie on the steps of your church for a day and a night so they can be recognised. I hope it wasn’t the work of any of your beloved parishioners. Someone will hang for such bloody deeds.’
‘And where are you taking me, Sir John?’
Sir John hypocritically put a finger to his lips.
They berthed at Dowgate near the Steelyard, went up a busy alleyway along Walbrook and into Cheapside. The streets were busy, thronged with crowds. Shops and stalls were open, taverns and alehouses doing a roaring trade. A group of soldiers swung by, going down to the Tower. Debtors from the Marshalsea, manacled together, begged for alms on street corners for themselves and other inmates. A group of acrobats, three young women and a man, were tumbling and turning much to the merriment of a group of sailors who were throwing coins into a clack dish for the young women to turn on their heads and let their skirts fall down.
Athelstan thought Sir John might be taking him to his house, or his second home, the spacious Lamb of God tavern. However, the coroner, shouting good-natured abuse at the riff-raff who recognised him, forced his way through the crowds into the courtyard of the great Guildhall. Archers wearing the royal livery stood on guard. Men-at-arms in steel helmets patrolled entrances and doorways, shields slung over their backs, spear and sword in hand. Gaudily coloured banners hung from the great balcony above the main doors. Five shields displaying gorgeous arms, black martens, silver gules, golden fess, ornate crowns and helmets, were tied to the wooden slats.
‘Of course,’ Athelstan said, ‘it’s the Assizes . . .!’
‘That’s right, Athelstan, the royal justices of Oyer and Terminer are now in session.’
‘Who are they?’ Athelstan asked.
‘The others don’t concern me,’ Sir John said briskly, ‘but the principal justice is the Chief Baron of the Exchequer, Sir Henry Brabazon. A man who has little compassion and knows nothing of mercy.’
Sir John showed his seals of office and the guards let them through into the antechamber. The coroner plucked at Athelstan’s sleeve and made him sit down on a bench just inside the doorway.
‘Now listen, Athelstan, and I have this from a good authority: very shortly Mistress Alice Brokestreet, a tavern wench, possibly a prostitute, is to go on trial for killing a customer.’
‘And is she guilty?’
‘As Satan himself.’
‘So, why are we here, Sir John?’
The coroner tapped his fleshy nose.
‘Have you ever heard of approving?’
Athelstan nodded. ‘It’s a legal term?’
‘Well, that’s what the clever lawyers call it! Let me explain: Jack Cranston is put on trial for strangling Pike the ditcher.’
‘That’s possible,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘And, if you did, I’d probably help you.’
‘No, listen. I’m found guilty. Now, I can throw myself on the King’s mercy, be hanged by the purse, be exiled beyond the seas, imprisoned for life or, more usually, hanged by the neck. However, if I can successfully accuse, let us say, Watkin the dung-collector, of six other murders, I receive a pardon and old Watkin goes on trial. It’s a rather clever and subtle method employed by the Crown’s lawyers to resolve a whole series of crimes. Now, Watkin, being a man, could challenge me to a duel to prove his innocence. Or, I could challenge him.’
‘Trial by combat?’
‘That’s right, my little monk.’
‘Friar, Sir John, and what would happen if Watkin lost?’
‘Oh, he’d hang.’
‘And what would happen if you didn’t accept the challenge?’
‘Well, Watkin would go on trial. If found guilty, he’d hang and I’d go free.’
‘And you think this will happen today with Alice Brokestreet? She will approve someone?’
‘Just a rumour. As you know, Athelstan, I often speak to the bailiffs and gaolers of Newgate. Alice Brokestreet is as guilty as Herodias. You know, the one who killed St Peter?’
‘No, Sir John, she killed John the Baptist.’
‘Same thing! Anyway, Alice was once in the employ of Kathryn Vestler, a truly good woman, Brother. She has no children, she’s a widow. Her husband, Stephen Vestler, was a squire at Poitiers. I’ve told you, haven’t I, how we fought like swooping falcons?’
‘Yes, yes, Sir John, you have.’
‘Now Vestler is the owner of the Paradise Tree, a spacious hostelry in Petty Wales. You can see the Tower from its chambers. It has a lovely garden and a meadow at the back which stretches down to the river.’
‘But surely, Sir John, you are not implying that this Brokestreet is going to accuse our good widow woman, an upright member of the parish, of being some secret, red-handed assassin?’
‘I don’t know, Brother. All I’ve been told, mere whispers and gossip, is that Alice Brokestreet exudes an arrogant confidence. She claims to have secrets to tell the justices: true, she may have done wrong, and this is where we come to the cutting edge; she says that she’s not the only woman in London to have committed murder.’
‘Oh come, Sir Jack.’ Athelstan felt exasperated at being dragged away. ‘Is that all?’
‘No, it is not, Brother. Brokestreet is hinting t
hat others she has worked for are guilty of more heinous crimes.’
‘And where is Mistress Vestler now?’
Sir John sighed and got to his feet. ‘In we go, Brother.’
They entered the Guildhall proper, down a spacious gallery. Its paving stones were covered in fresh straw, sprinkled with herbs. Soldiers stood on guard but Sir John, his seal wrapped round his hand, was allowed through. They went up a small flight of stairs and into a whitewashed vestibule. The doors at the far end were flung open and Athelstan glimpsed the court. At the far end of the hall, on a wooden dais draped in blood-red cloth, ranged the justices dressed in ermine-edged scarlet robes, black skullcaps on their heads. They sat on five throne-like chairs. Further down clerks sat grouped around a long table covered in a green baize cloth littered with rolls of parchment, inkpots and quills. To the judges’ right was the jury: twelve men drawn from the different wards of London and, to their left, in wooden stands, sat onlookers, visitors and friends. At the bottom of the dais a great wooden bar stretched across the hall from one end to the other. Chained to this were different malefactors guarded by tipstaffs, bailiffs and archers. The room was hushed, the clerks apparently taking down something which had been said. Athelstan stood in the doorway fascinated by this process of justice.
‘Brother, this is Kathryn Vestler.’
The friar turned. One glimpse of the widow woman’s face and he felt a deep sense of unease. She was comely enough, her silver-grey hair hidden beneath a nun-like veil of dark green. A dress of the same colour was gathered by a white collar round her podgy neck. She possessed kindly grey eyes, a snub nose, a wide, generous mouth, but it was the almost tangible look of fear which caught his attention. He took her hand, soft, small and icy-cold.
‘It was good of you to come, Brother and you, Sir Jack.’ Kathryn Vestler dabbed at her eyes with a delicate kerchief sewn on to the cuff of her dress. ‘I am so afeared! Alice Brokestreet had a nasty tongue and an evil mind.’
‘She was in your employ?’