by Paul Doherty
‘Which leads us to two conclusions,’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘They were either killed at the Paradise Tree and their bodies taken out in the dead of night . . . He stopped as he recalled that great oak tree with its overhanging branches, the shade it would provide on a hot summer’s evening. A good place to sit and take the cool breezes from the river.
‘Or what?’ Sir John asked crossly.
‘Maybe their bodies didn’t have to be taken out? Maybe they were sitting under the oak tree and the assassin, like a serpent, entered their Eden. Was there a third, or even fourth, person there? Or did the Four Gospels invite them down to their cottage? After all, Bartholomew had referred to treasure in their presence. Just because that precious group are waiting for the return of Michael and all his angels doesn’t mean they are averse to taking a little gold.’
‘I have another theory.’ Sir John spoke up. ‘What about those dark shapes? The shadow men who come up the Thames at the dead of night? They could have stumbled on our clerk and his sweetheart, or even been involved in this hunt for Gundulf’s treasure.’
‘I know what Whittock will say of all this,’ Hengan broke in mournfully. ‘Kathryn Vestler had the best opportunity for murdering Bartholomew and Margot.’ He pulled a face. ‘As well as the means. Kathryn does keep poison in the Paradise Tree, as all taverners do, to destroy rats and vermin.’
‘But what about the motive?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Master Hengan, was there any hint of a relationship between Mistress Vestler and Bartholomew?’
‘None that I knew of. Bartholomew was an amiable man. Kathryn was nice enough to him but nothing singular.’
‘I have another theory,’ Sir John proudly declared. ‘Let us say our clerk truly believed Gundulf’s treasure was buried somewhere in or around the Paradise Tree and shared this knowledge with Mistress Vestler. What happens if they’ve already discovered it?’
‘You mean thieves falling out?’ Athelstan asked.
‘Possibly. Whatever the case, as Master Hengan’s said, if all these matters come to light, Sir Henry Brabazon and Master Whittock will make great play of them. Indeed . . .’ He paused and spread out his fat fingers.
‘Indeed what?’ Hengan asked.
‘I don’t know how to say this, Master Hengan, but, as an officer of the Crown, I have the right to conduct a search.’
‘Into what?’ Hengan coloured.
‘I think you know already,’ Sir John said quietly. ‘The accounts for the Paradise Tree. It’s a very prosperous tavern. Perhaps too prosperous.’
Hengan put his face in his hands.
‘I’ve asked my bailiff Master Flaxwith to seize the accounts books and take them to an old acquaintance of mine.’
Hengan lowered his hands.
‘Kathryn is a shrewd businesswoman,’ he replied. ‘The Paradise Tree is very popular: clean, fragrant, well-swept while the food its kitchen serves is delicious. But, yes, Sir John, on a number of occasions I have questioned Kathryn about the large profits she makes.’
‘And what did she say?’
‘At the time she laughed.’
‘She won’t laugh now,’ Sir John observed. ‘All of London will be agog with this. Did Mistress Vestler make a profit out of the customers she killed? Or has she already found Gundulf’s treasure? The tavern owns a forge; gold can be smelted down. By the time Sir Henry Brabazon has finished with her, she’ll not only be accused of murder and robbery but stealing treasure trove from the Crown and that’s petty treason. A fine mess, master lawyer. Indeed, the more I find out about my old friend the less I like it.’
‘You can’t desert her!’ Hengan pleaded.
‘For the sake of Stephen I won’t! But I think we are finished here. Master Flaxwith will be waiting.’
‘And afterwards?’ Hengan asked.
‘I’m hungry and thirsty. I’m going to visit the Lamb of God in Cheapside. You, master lawyer, Brother Athelstan, are welcome to join me. We’ll take physical and spiritual comfort before we visit our friends in Newgate.’
Athelstan hurriedly took the manuscripts he had found and put them into his chancery bag, which now weighed heavy with the book the Venerable Veronica had given him. They went out on to the Tower green, thanked Colebrooke and walked down the narrow cobbled path which wound between the walls towards the Lion Gate.
The entrance to the Tower was busy with carts and sumpter ponies being taken in and out. Members of the garrison on patrol along the quayside were now returning. Chapmen, tinkers and traders had opened their booths to do a brisk trade. Cranston climbed on to a stone plinth and looked over the sea of heads and faces.
‘Flaxwith!’ he bellowed. ‘Henry Flaxwith!’
Athelstan’s attention was caught by a small crowd which had gathered round a Salamander King: one of those fire-eaters who went round the city performing their tricks. The man was assisted by a small boy who held the reins of a sumpter pony. A small booth had been set up for tankards of ale and the fire-eater was drawing onlookers to him. He was dressed in a mock scale armour with a red lion on the breast, brown leggings and thick leather boots. On his head he wore a tawdry coronet over a rather shabby wig with bright bracelets on each wrist. He’d lit a rush light and, as the crowd uttered gasps of wonder, lifted this and put it in his mouth chewing as one would a morsel of food. When he withdrew the rush light, the flame had gone. As the crowd clapped, he extended his clap-dish for contributions. Athelstan, intrigued, walked over. The Salamander King had suffered no ill-effect: his sunburned face broke into a smile as he glimpsed the friar.
‘A miracle eh, Brother?’
‘Everything’s a miracle.’ Athelstan grinned back. He offered the Salamander King a penny. ‘I must hire you for St Erconwald’s in Southwark, the children would love it.’
‘I am always about the city, Brother. Just ask for the Salamander King.’
Athelstan thanked him. He was about to turn away when he noticed something glinting against the pony’s neck.
‘Excuse me.’
He walked over and grasped the St Christopher medal hanging down from the saddle horn, which was almost identical to the one Bridget Sholter had shown him. It had the same thickness, but the chain was not so bright and the locket itself was dented and splattered with mud.
‘What’s the matter, Brother?’ The Salamander King drew closer.
‘I am intrigued, sir. This is a St Christopher medal. You don’t wear it because it interferes with your tricks?’
‘Of course not, Brother. This is a St Christopher locket, but you don’t wear it round your neck. Here, I’ll show you.’
He took the chain off the saddle horn and looped it over Athelstan’s head. The locket itself lay against his stomach. The chain, being so thick, was rather heavy. He could certainly feel its weight.
The Salamander King took it off and put it back over his saddle. ‘The locket is supposed to hang down so, as you get on and off your horse, you see it.’ He picked up the medal and kissed it. ‘That’s what I do during my journey. I also touch it whenever I have to cross a rickety-looking bridge or ford a river.’
Athelstan closed his eyes. ‘I should have known that,’ he murmured. ‘Oh friar, as Sir John would say, your wits are fuddled.’
‘Are you all right, Brother?’
Athelstan opened his eyes and slipped another coin into the Salamander King’s hands.
‘God works in wondrous ways, sir,’ he said. ‘Angels do come in many forms.’
And, leaving the bemused fire-eater, Athelstan returned to where Sir John had at last traced his chief bailiff.
Chapter 9
Sir John wouldn’t listen to what Flaxwith had to say but marched from the Tower as if he were leading a triumphant procession. He strode ahead up Eastchepe, Gracechurch Street, Lombard Street and into the Poultry. When they reached Cheapside it was thronged with crowds flocking round the stalls and markets. The pillories were full of miscreants trapped by their necks, fingers, arms or legs. Oth
ers had been herded into the great cage perched on top of the conduit which distributed water to the city. Sir John waved at all his ‘lovelies’ as he passed: night-walkers, rifflers, roaring-boys, pickpockets and drunks. He was met with sullen stares or abusive ribaldry.
The coroner was well known in the area, and his towering figure and luxuriant moustache and beard only highlighted his rubicund face. Ladies of the night, ‘my little Magdalenas’ as Sir John described them, disappeared at his approach up dark alleyways and runnels. He stopped to throw a penny at a whistling man who could imitate the call of the birds and roared at the cheap johns, their trays slung around their necks, to keep their distance. Flaxwith and two other bailiffs, plodding behind Athelstan, quietly laughed at some of the names Sir John was called. Abruptly the coroner stopped as if transfixed, blue eyes protuberant, mouth gaping.
‘Oh Satan’s tits!’ he breathed.
Athelstan stood on tiptoe and saw heading for Sir John, Leif the one-legged beggarman.
‘That bugger can move quicker than a grasshopper!’
Leif, together with his constant friend and companion, Raw Bum, always had an eye for Sir John. For some strange reason Lady Maude was much taken by this beggar who pleaded for alms and food outside kitchen doors and entertained the whole of Cheapside with his new found role as chanteur or carol-singer. Athelstan suspected that Lady Maude used Leif as a spy on Sir John’s whereabouts, particularly his visits, fairly regular, to the Lamb of God.
‘Ah, Sir John.’
Leif rested on the shoulder of Raw Bum, a rogue who’d suffered the misfortune of sitting down on a scalding pan of oil.
‘Good morrow, Leif.’ Sir John was already fishing into his purse for two pennies.
‘The Lady Maude is well. She was much taken by my new carol: “I am a robin” . . .!’
‘You will be a dead robin if you don’t get out of my way!’ Sir John growled.
‘The Lady Maude is in good fettle,’ Leif prattled on. ‘But your two hounds Gog and Magog were in your carp pond and the two poppets . . .’
‘What’s wrong with the lovely lads?’
‘Oh nothing, Sir John, they are just soaked and wet.’
‘And?’
‘The Lady Maude asked me to keep an eye open to see if you returned to Cheapside . . .’ He took the pennies offered. ‘But, of course, Sir John, I haven’t seen you.’
And Leif, helped by Raw Bum, hobbled away.
Sir John, muttering curses under his breath, swept into the taproom of the Lamb of God. The taverner’s wife bustled up. Sir John was taken to his favourite seat by the window where he ordered tankards for Athelstan, Hengan, Flaxwith and his two bailiffs. Once these had been served, the coroner leaned back in his seat.
‘Well, Flaxwith?’
‘I’ve been across to the Merry Pig, sir.’
‘A well-known brothel house. Go on.’
‘Alice Brokestreet entered the service of the Merry Pig weeks ago. Not as a whore, though she may have granted her favours, but more as a chamber girl and wine maid. She killed a clerk in a quarrel and escaped but the hue and cry were raised.’
‘And?’ Sir John asked testily. ‘The vicar of hell?’
‘The tavern-keeper said he had no knowledge of such a man.’
‘I am sure he did.’
‘But, he said that if he came across him, he would present the compliments of my lord coroner and Brother Athelstan.’
‘Do you hear that, friar?’
Athelstan, lost in a reverie, started and looked at Sir John.
‘A brothel-keeper knows you.’
‘We are all God’s children, Sir John.’
‘What are you thinking about, Brother?’
Athelstan picked up his writing bag, took out a scrap of parchment, seal, inkpot and quill. He wrote a few lines.
‘I’m thinking about St Christopher medals, Sir John.’
Athelstan shook the piece of parchment to ensure the ink was dry. He took a penny out of his purse and handed the coin and scrap of parchment to Flaxwith.
‘When you’ve finished your ale, Henry, would you and your lads go back to Petty Wales. Seek out a young woman called Hilda Smallwode in Shoe Lane: she’s maid to Bridget Sholter.’
‘Oh, the widow of the murdered messenger?’
‘Ask her the question I’ve written out. Did she see her master’s medal hanging from his saddle horn or did she notice it in the house after he had left? You are to tell her you are from Sir John Cranston and she’s to keep the matter secret.’
Flaxwith, eager to be away, drained his tankard and got to his feet, gesturing at his companions to follow.
‘By the way,’ Athelstan asked, ‘where’s Samson?’
‘I’ve left him at a horse leech in Bodkin Lane.’
‘Ah!’ Sir John breathed. ‘Don’t say the darling boy’s ill?’
‘Something he ate, Sir John. He stole a string of sausages from a butcher’s stall last night and the little fellow hasn’t been the same since.’
Sir John raised his tankard and toasted him.
‘Do give Samson my love.’
Flaxwith stamped out, complaining under his breath about Sir John’s attitude to his beloved dog. The coroner ordered more tankards.
‘I’ve got some bad news. While you were away looking at that fire-eater, Athelstan, I asked Henry about the accounts of the Paradise Tree but they’ve already been taken. Odo Whittock has, in the name of the chief justice, seized them already.’ Sir John dug into the deep pocket in his cloak and drew out a tattered ledger. ‘That’s all he could find but it’s five years old, the last year Stephen Vestler was alive. I was going to . . .’
‘I’ll have it, Sir John.’
Athelstan took the greasy-covered ledger, bound by pieces of red twine, and put it in his writing bag. Hengan was staring down at the table lost in his own thoughts.
‘Master Ralph, you look sad.’
‘Brother, I am more frightened.’ Hengan sipped at the fresh tankard of ale. ‘It does not augur well for Mistress Vestler. We know that the two corpses are those of Bartholomew the clerk and his sweetheart but there’s also the question of the other skeletons.’ He paused. ‘Is it possible?’
‘What?’ Sir John demanded.
‘Well, all the flesh and cloth had rotted away. Now around the city are numerous burial pits, relics of the great pestilence which swept through London thirty years ago. People were buried in gardens, any available piece of land.’
‘And you think that’s what happened in Black Meadow?’ Athelstan asked.
‘It’s a possibility. I mean, if Mistress Vestler was a murderess, wouldn’t we find or discover more corpses in the same state as Bartholomew?’
‘There’s one place I can look,’ Athelstan added, ‘my mother house in Blackfriars. When the pestilence swept through London the Dominican order did very good work. The brothers tended to the dead but they also made a careful list of burial grounds and, when the pestilence subsided, went out and blessed these.’
Sir John beamed from ear to ear.
‘It’s possible,’ he whispered excitedly.
‘But it makes little difference,’ Hengan intervened. ‘What does it matter if you hang for one or a dozen? Sir John, I think we should be going.’
They left the Lamb of God and made their way up through the milling crowds and into the open area before the grim doorway of Newgate. To one side ranged the fleshers’ stalls and slaughterhouses. The cobbles ran with blood and ordure and the air was thick with the stench from the boiling cauldrons and vats.
Athelstan always hated the place. It stank of death, pain and punishment. The stocks in front of the prison were empty but a makeshift scaffold had been assembled. It was rarely used as an execution place but as a stark warning to the riff-raff who thronged about. In front of the massive gate swarmed beggars, grubby-faced clerks and scriveners eager to write messages for the unlettered. Turnkeys and gaolers moved about accepting bribes and gifts so people
could be allowed through the metal-studded postern door into the yard beyond. Two prisoners had been released to beg for alms for those housed in the common cells. They wore nothing but loin cloths. They were shackled together by long chains round their ankles and wrists, their emaciated, sore-covered bodies a pathetic reminder of the terrible conditions within. One of these pushed his clap-dish beneath Athelstan’s chin.
‘Some coins, Brother? Something for the poor within?’
Athelstan dropped a penny in but a sweaty-faced beadle was following the two prisoners so Athelstan wondered if the alms would go to those who needed them or the corrupt officials who regarded Newgate as their private fief. He followed Sir John up to the gate. The coroner had little time for the turnkeys. He simply showed his seal and thrust by them into the common yard. A gaoler took them across and up into the inner gatehouse.
Chambers stood on each floor. Athelstan glanced through an open door and recoiled in disgust: he was sure that a tray, lying within the doorway, held the severed ears of malefactors.
‘Sir Jack,’ he protested, ‘I hate this place!’
They reached the fourth floor and the gaoler stopped before a heavy door set into the recess. When he unlocked the door Athelstan expected to see Mistress Brokestreet but it was flung open by a tall, black-haired man, thin-faced with a receding chin and a sharp-beaked nose which scythed the air. He was dressed from head to toe in a velvet gown of dark murrey trimmed with fur. The gaoler stepped hastily aside, almost knocking into Sir John in the narrow stairwell.
‘Who are these people?’ The man came out, closing the door behind him.
‘Sir John Cranston, coroner of the city, and you, sir?’
‘Master Odo Whittock, serjeant-at-law. Special emissary of Sir Henry Brabazon the chief justice.’
He looked over Sir John’s shoulder, espied Hengan and his narrow eyes twinkled in amusement.
‘I wager you’ve come to see Mistress Brokestreet. But the answer is no. Mistress Brokestreet is now a prisoner of the Crown and whatever you want to know can be learned in court.’ He gestured with his finger. ‘Above us lies Mistress Kathryn Vestler. I will not question her.’ His lips parted in a smile. ‘At least not now.’