by Paul Doherty
‘I follow your reasoning, Sir John. If Vestler was a robber, as well as a murderess, she killed for gain. What would happen to the goods she stole?’
‘Precisely. Now Vestler couldn’t very well go into the markets with baskets full of plunder. People would become suspicious. It’s my feeling that she would sell them to someone else who would take them to a different part of the city, even to another market beyond the walls, and sell them there.’ Sir John’s light-blue eyes caught Athelstan’s change of expression. ‘What is it, Brother?’
The friar told him how the Four Gospels had described dark shapes coming off a barge and slipping, either through Black Meadow or beyond.
‘There’s only one place they could be going,’ Athelstan concluded. ‘The Paradise Tree.’
‘Oh, Lord save us!’ Sir John put a hand to his mouth. ‘I can see how this will go, Vestler was hand-in-glove with a band of robbers. She’d kill a traveller and sell the goods to others.’ He sighed. ‘In which case she’s lying. I asked Kathryn if there was anything she knew. Had she been involved in anything against the law? Even when she replied, I suspected she was lying.’
‘And there’s more!’ Athelstan told Sir John about the Wizard Gundulf and the treasure ‘which lay under the sun’. ‘It’s a riddle,’ he concluded. ‘But what can it mean?’
‘Bartholomew was a clerk in the Tower,’ Sir John replied. ‘Let us say, for sake of argument, and remember Brother, I am writing a treatise on the governance of the city, that Bartholomew was a historian. Now, there are supposed to be treasures buried all over London. Every year the Crown lays claim to treasure trove, either from the river or dug up in some field or cemetery. Bartholomew may have stumbled on such a story. Is it possible he was murdered for that?’
Athelstan closed the small cupboard fixed to the wall which contained the sacred species. He absentmindedly took the key out and put it into his purse.
‘And what if,’ he continued Sir John’s theory, ‘Bartholomew believed the treasure was buried somewhere under the Paradise Tree? He goes to Mistress Vestler and shares the secret with her?’
‘So she decides to kill him? I have a friend,’ Sir John continued. ‘Richard Philibert. He’s an old clerk who once worked in the royal treasury. He sat at the Exchequer and audited the sheriff’s accounts when they were presented at Westminster.’
‘What has he got to do with this?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Well, Brother, yesterday as I sat sunning myself in the garden, I had a close look at the Paradise Tree. The garden is beautiful: the eaves, the roof, the furnishings within, everything is in a pristine state.’
‘But Mistress Vestler does a good trade?’
‘Aye, but Hengan said something interesting: how Kathryn had gold and silver salted away with the bankers.’ Cranston got to his feet and patted his stomach. ‘My friend Philibert will look at the accounts of the Paradise Tree. I’d wager a wineskin against a firkin of ale that Kathryn’s income is excessive and Brabazon will swoop on that like a hawk. I’ve seen him before in court. A man for minutiae is Chief Justice Brabazon. He can pick at a prisoner like a raven does a corpse; he’ll wonder whether she and Bartholomew found this treasure.’
‘Will Hengan defend her?’
‘Oh yes, but he’s troubled. I called at his house this morning on my way here. He looked as if he hadn’t slept. So, what shall we do, Brother?’
‘First things first.’ The friar rubbed his hands. ‘Sir John, we face an army of troubles, but it’s not for the first time. If Mistress Vestler is a killer then there is little we can do to save her from the scaffold. What we must ask is, if she didn’t kill Bartholomew or Margot, then who did?’
Sir John stared bleakly back.
‘Think of it as a tapestry, Sir John,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘which tells a story. We have Mistress Vestler. We have the victims. Who else could have killed those people? Be responsible for the grisly remains in Black Meadow? Come on, Sir John, think! Because if you don’t answer that question, Chief Justice Brabazon will make sure he hangs your friend on it!’
‘We have Alice Brokestreet,’ the coroner replied slowly. ‘It’s possible she could have killed them.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I asked the gaoler at Newgate,’ Sir John continued, ‘if Alice Brokestreet had any visitors. He claimed a friar had visited to give her solace and shrive her. Now the priests come from many of the houses in London. There are more friars in London than there are flies upon . . .!’
‘Thank you, Sir John! Your opinion of friars is well known!’
‘Well, Newgate is near Greyfriars House so I went in to see Father Prior. They’re Franciscans aren’t they, not one of your coven?’
‘Thank you, Sir John.’
‘According to his records, the friars are responsible for the prisoners in Newgate. They provide comfort and consolation. However, not one of his brothers seemed to have any knowledge of Alice Brokestreet.’
Athelstan smiled. ‘So, Brokestreet has an accomplice?’
‘It’s possible.’
Athelstan was going to reply but paused as the bell began to toll for mid-morning prayer. He sighed and hid his exasperation. Sometimes Mugwort remembered his duty, other times he was too drunk to forget. Now, the way the bell was tolling it seemed as if Mugwort were summoning everyone in the city to prayer. He waited until the clanging had stopped.
‘Who could this accomplice be?’
‘I don’t know, Brother but I’ve got old Flaxwith and that damnable dog sniffing away. Remember Brokestreet worked in a brothel.’
‘Who are you looking for, Sir Jack?’
‘An old acquaintance of ours, the vicar of hell.’
‘Oh no!’ Athelstan groaned. ‘I remember that rapscallion!’
‘He may be able to help. Flaxwith will track him down. So, where to now, Brother? Hengan will meet us at the Tower . . .’
‘Sir Jack.’ Athelstan clapped him on the arm. ‘You have problems, so have I. Let me tell you a story about our murderers here in Southwark. But first . . .’
Athelstan led him back into the church and out through the main door. Members of the council were still standing around. Athelstan walked over and thrust the scroll into Bladdersniff’s hands.
‘You are the parish bailiff aren’t you, Luke? Nail that up and make sure it stays there.’
And, before anyone could ask questions, Athelstan walked round to the priest’s house. Benedicta was in the kitchen washing the goblets and traunchers from the night before. Bonaventure was helping her. He’d jumped on to a barrel and was busy trying to lick one of the platters. Athelstan handed her the keys of the church and the widow woman, once she had freed herself from Sir John’s bear-like embrace, agreed to look after the parish until he returned.
‘You are welcome to them all,’ Athelstan told her. ‘At this moment in time, I feel like running into the countryside and hiding beneath a tree.’
‘Strange,’ Sir John mused, winking at Benedicta. ‘I used to do the same when I was a little boy. And, if the truth be known,’ he added in a mock whisper, ‘I still do it when the Lady Maude is in one of her rages.’
Athelstan collected his cloak and chancery bag, absentmindedly made his farewells and, followed by a mystified Sir John, strode out of his house, taking the trackway down into Southwark. His parishioners shouted farewell but Athelstan walked on, lost in his own thoughts.
‘What’s the matter, monk?’
‘Friar, Sir John, I’m a friar and a very angry one. We have the Vestler business in London, God knows what the truth behind that is; I have a young maid, daughter of Basil the blacksmith, who wants to marry a young man but there are rumours that they are related by blood. Now I have the mysterious death of Miles Sholter, not to mention a heavy fine!’
‘You are not thinking of leaving, are you?’ Sir John caught him by the shoulder. ‘Oh, don’t say that, Brother!’
Athelstan stared up at his sad-eyed friend and felt his temper coo
l.
‘No, Jack, I’m not leaving you. I am just angry. Do you know what I think about evil, about the devil? He’s not some great beast, some fallen angel shrouded in hideous majesty. Ah no! To me, Sir Jack, evil is like a malicious child who plays a trick and then hides in the shadows and giggles with glee at the damage done. You are the coroner, responsible for law and order. I am a friar, a priest, answerable to God for the care of souls. Now we’re lost in a maze because people want to thwart God’s will. So, I’ll tell you: we’re off to the Silken Thomas tavern and, as we go, my dear coroner, I’ll tell you what happened last night and the reason for our visit.’
Sir John linked his arm through that of the friar.
‘Then, Brother, let’s proceed. I’ll hear your confession.’
And the lord coroner and his secretarius walked on through the mean trackways and runnels of Southwark, totally unaware of the shadowy figure, trailing far behind, watching their every step.
Chapter 7
They crossed the brook and went up the hill to the derelict house.
‘What was his name?’ Sir John asked. ‘The old meanthrift who lived here?’
‘Simon the miser, but that wasn’t his real name. They say he was a priest, a Benedictine who escaped from his monastery and took some of its treasure with him. He died just after I arrived here. The house and this field were seized by the Crown. If I remember rightly, there’s some legal battle over whether it was common land or can be sold. Naturally the house has been stripped of lead, tiles, anything valuable.’
Sir John stopped, huffing and puffing, and mopped his brow. He looked up at the house; the walls were dingy, only battered gaps where there had once been windows. Of the roof only a few beams remained, sticking up like blackened fingers towards the sky.
‘It’s also haunted,’ Athelstan said. ‘They say by Simon’s ghost. A good place to hide a corpse. The assassin must have known few people came here.’
The two went through the ruined doorway and into the parlour where the corpses had been found. Athelstan described how he thought the murders had taken place. Sir John agreed.
‘But let’s look around.’
‘What for, Brother?’
‘You’ll know when you find it. Oh, be careful, the upper stories are not safe.’
Sir John looked up at the ceiling and noticed the rents.
‘Aye, it would be a fool who went up there.’
‘The stairs have long disappeared,’ Athelstan said. ‘Taken, no doubt, by some inhabitant of my parish for firewood.’
The lower rooms were the same. Anything of value had long disappeared. The floor was of stone but lintels, doors, window frames had all been plucked out. Athelstan came out of the scullery and noticed the steps leading down to what must have been a cellar. He went carefully down. The air was mildewed and smelt of coal and firewood.
‘Simon must have used this as a storeroom,’ he shouted, his voice sounding hollow. ‘It’s dark as . . .’
‘Satan’s armpit!’ Sir John bellowed.
Athelstan undid his wallet and took out a thick candle and a tinder. He struck but no flame came. He tried again and, at last, the wick was lit creating a small circle of light. Athelstan gazed around. Nothing but cobwebbed walls and ceilings. The cellar was no more than a stone box, a pile of black coal dust gleaming in the corner. Athelstan waited until his companion came gingerly down the steps.
‘Hush now!’ the friar warned.
‘What is it?’
Athelstan closed his eyes. He’d always been warned by Prior Anselm never to look for any spiritual experiences. ‘Resist such occurrences,’ the prior had urged. ‘God rarely moves through visions but the ordinary things of life. There are more miracles on a tree in spring than in many of our so-called visionaries’ dreams.’
Nevertheless, Athelstan felt tempted. He thought of the assassin cowled and hooded, face masked. Poor Miles had probably been killed on Saturday evening, just after he left the Silken Thomas. His corpse hidden here till Sunday when the other two had stumbled on the assassin.
‘Brother! Brother!’ Sir John urged him back to business.
‘Hush!’ Athelstan lifted a hand, eyes still closed. ‘The assassins, Sir John, killed someone on Saturday but came back on Sunday to dispose of the corpse. So, where would they keep it? This cellar has been used to store coal: yet I can’t remember any coal dust on the victim’s clothing. Ergo, either the corpse was never placed here or the coal dust was on the upper garment and his boots which, as we know, were later removed. The leggings were dark green. They would hide such stains and moving the corpse would also loosen the dust.’
‘Agreed!’
‘So, what we are looking for, Sir John, is any stain or mark which shouldn’t be here: that will be the deciding factor.’
Athelstan crouched down, holding the candle out, and moved slowly across the floor. He stopped at a clean patch against the wall and stared at the dark mark in the centre.
‘A piece of sacking has been laid here. Look, Sir John. This stain.’ He rubbed it with his fingers.
‘It could be anything,’ Sir John said. ‘Spilt wine . . .’
‘Or blood,’ Athelstan added. ‘Sholter’s corpse was probably hidden here before being taken to the room above where the assassin was disturbed. Right, Sir John, now for the Silken Thomas.’
The tavern lay at a crossroads just outside Southwark where the common scaffold and stocks stood. These were empty but in the tavern yard swarmed chapmen with their pack ponies, pedlars and tinkers. Some Moon People in their motley-coloured rags had wandered in, two men and a woman; they were offering to tell fortunes and read palms but all they received were dark looks and muttered curses. The woman came across and tried to grasp Athelstan’s hand.
‘Will ye not let me see?’ she asked in a harsh, strange accent. ‘All of us have a future, pretty ladies perhaps.’
‘I doubt it! But here, mistress.’ He pressed a penny into her callused hand. ‘That’s not to read fortunes but to leave us alone!’
The Moon woman scurried off. Athelstan looked about him. The Silken Thomas was a three-storied building, its plaster and black beams hidden by creeping ivy which climbed up around the windows, giving it a pleasant serene appearance. A prosperous enough place but nothing like the Paradise Tree: the wooden sills were chipped, only some of the windows had glass. Others were covered by oiled paper or were simply boarded up with wooden shutters. Inside, the taproom was a large, ill-lit, sprawling place with benches and stools in different corners; a huge trestle table down the centre served as the common board. At the far end, just near the door leading to the kitchens, ranged the great tuns and vats above which ranged shelf after shelf of blackjacks and tankards, pewter mugs and cups. A tinker sat at a table, displaying a white rat in a cage which would go round and round on a makeshift wheel like that of a water-mill. Others were laying bets as to how many times the rat would turn it before it wearied and climbed off. A pickpocket, recently released from the stocks outside, was loudly complaining about his stiff neck. A little boy stood on a table and tried to massage it for him. The tavern-keeper swept out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a bloody rag which he stuffed beneath his stained apron. He took one look at the coroner and bustled across.
‘Good day, sir. Can I help you? Our ales are the best you’ll find on the Canterbury Road. Indeed, anywhere in Southwark, if that’s your direction.’
‘Miles Sholter!’ Sir John barked, showing his wax seal of office. ‘And Philip Eccleshall. Two royal messengers, they arrived here last Saturday evening.’
‘What was it sir, two quarts of ale? A piece of chicken pie? Or we have eel pastries? I am a busy man, sir.’
‘And I am a King’s officer!’
‘Two quarts of ale and a chicken pie would do nicely.’ Athelstan pulled out a silver piece. ‘And we’ll sit over in the corner.’
The taverner’s oily face broke into a smile. Athelstan tried not to flinch at the blackened stumps and
his yellowing teeth, jagged and broken. He looked at the man’s dirty fingernails.
‘On second thoughts,’ he added, ‘just two quarts of ale.’ He pressed his sandalled foot on the toe of Sir John’s boot. ‘I do urge you, sir, to help us or Sir John Cranston here, who is coroner of the city, might come back with his merry boys.’
The taverner held his hands up as if in prayer.
‘Sir Jack Cranston. I’ve heard of you, sir.’ He hurried across and wiped two stools with his rag. ‘Make yourselves comfortable. The ale is free, my gift.’
‘No, it isn’t.’ Athelstan put the silver piece on the table. ‘We pay for what we drink and for what we learn.’
Despite his ponderous girth the taverner moved quickly. He roared out the order and a slattern hurried across. The blackjacks were large and looked clean, the ale frothing at the top and running down the sides.
‘Now, sir, how can I help you?’ The taverner pulled a stool across.
‘Miles Sholter and Philip Eccleshall,’ Sir John repeated. He sipped from the tankard and smacked his lips in appreciation. ‘Tell the truth and, bearing in mind the ale is fragrant, I’ll forget your earlier rudeness.’
‘They arrived here on Saturday evening. You know the way they are. They came bustling in, cloaks on, hoods up, spurs clinking, sword belts on. One, of medium height, had long dark hair, the other was taller.’
‘And what happened?’ Athelstan asked.
‘They gave their names, Sholter and Eccleshall, and their office. Sholter was rather quiet but Eccleshall was full of his own importance.’
‘Did they order food or drink?’
‘No, they immediately hired a chamber. I took them up to one on the first floor, the best we have: two beds, a chest, coffer, table and a . . .’
‘Thank you. Just tell us what happened.’
‘They stayed there. One of the maids took some food up, about an hour after they arrived. One was lying on the bed, the other was mending a spur. Their saddlebags were unpacked and they were talking about their journey. About seven or eight in the-evening, one of them came clattering downstairs all in a hurry, the other behind him. The taller one, Eccleshall, was arguing with his companion. “Why not leave it?” he cried. But the other said no and demanded his horse be saddled. They had already paid for their chamber so I didn’t object and off the other one went.’