The Field of Blood

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Let us say,’ Athelstan ventured, ‘for sake of argument, that Mistress Brokestreet is a liar.’

  ‘Which she is.’

  ‘Then how, my dear coroner, did she know about those two corpses? That’s the nub of the case. The murder of two innocents is not something you proclaim for all the world to hear.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘There are a number of possibilities, Sir Jack, Firstly, Kathryn Vestler told her about the corpses, but that’s hardly likely. Secondly, somehow or other, Alice Brokestreet found out about the murders and kept the secret to herself.’

  ‘In which case,’ Sir John mused, ‘we must ask why the assassin should tell her?’

  ‘And that’s my third point, Sir Jack. If Alice Brokestreet is lying and Mistress Vestler is innocent, someone else murdered Bartholomew and Margot. He, or she, then gave the secret to Brokestreet so she could escape execution by approving Mistress Vestler.’

  ‘So Brokestreet will know the identity of the assassain?’

  ‘Not necessarily, Sir John. She could have been informed by letter, or by a mysterious visitor to Newgate or even before she committed her own murder. Brokestreet is not the problem. She is only the cat’s-paw. She was informed by the assassin who, I suspect, will take care of Mistress Brokestreet in his own way and at his own time. Now Vestler is a widow. If she’s found guilty of a felony and hanged, the Crown will seize the Paradise Tree and sell it to the highest bidder.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The real assassin could be the one who buys it in order to search for Gundulf’s treasure.’

  Sir John whistled under his breath

  ‘That’s going to be hard to prove, little friar. The Paradise Tree is a profitable, spacious tavern; there will be many bids for it.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Athelstan sighed. ‘So I suppose my conclusion is weak. However, it will not go well for us tomorrow. The profits of the Paradise Tree will have to be explained; as will those mysterious visitors at night and, above all, two corpses in Black Meadow. You went to Bapaume the goldsmith?’

  Sir John nodded. ‘He told me that Bartholomew Menster had intimated he was drawing all his gold and silver out to by something but he didn’t say what!’ He tapped Athelstan on to back of the hand. ‘But you did well, Brother. At least Mistress Vestler is cleared of the deaths of those other skeletons. I just hope Chief Justice Brabazon accepts your plea that Black Meadow was a cemetery during the great pestilence.’

  He started at a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in!’ Athelstan shouted.

  Joscelyn, the one armed tavern-keeper, staggered in, his face wreathed in smiles. Under his arm he carried a small run of wine which he lowered on to the table.

  ‘Sir Jack,’ he slurred. ‘This is the best cask of Bordeaux claret, held in the cellars of the Piebald for such an occasion. It’s only right that you and Brother Athelstan are the first to broach it.’

  Cranston scooped it up like a mother would a favourite child. He examined the markings on the side, drew his dagger and began to cut at the twine which held the lid securely on. Then he paused, put the dagger down and held the cask up, inspecting it carefully.

  Joscelyn’s smile faded. ‘What’s the matter, Sir John?’

  ‘You know full well, sir. I am the King’s officer.’

  Joscelyn licked his lips nervously and lowered himself on to a stool at the far end of the table.

  ‘Sir Jack?’ Athelstan asked. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Yes there is, Brother.’ Sir John tapped the top of the cask. ‘This is rich claret brought from Bordeaux.’ He pointed out the markings on the side. ‘This tells you the year and the vineyard. But, Joscelyn,’ he added sweetly, ‘would you like to tell your priest what is wrong?’

  ‘Why should I, my lord coroner? You are the King’s officer.’

  ‘The good tavern-master here,’ Sir John said, ‘has very generously brought a cask of wine to broach but one thing’s missing: all wine from Bordeaux brought into this realm must pay duty. Each cask is marked with a brand saying it has come through customs. It is then sealed showing the port of entry. Such marks are very hard to forge.’

  ‘Oh, Joscelyn, no!’ Athelstan groaned. ‘You haven’t been involved in smuggling along the river?’

  ‘Sir John, Brother, I brought it as a gift. Such casks are common among the victuallers and tavern master of London.’

  ‘True.’ Sir John smacked his lips. ‘I am only here to celebrate and I am not a customs official.’

  ‘Joscelyn, you should be careful,’ Athelstan warned. A memory stirred. ‘Where did you buy it from? Come on, Joscelyn. If you were involved in Smuggling, my precious parish council would be involved up to their necks: Moleskin, Watkin and Pike. Are they? I don’t want to see them dance on the end of a rope.’

  Joscelyn swallowed hard.

  ‘You bought this from someone else, didn’t you? Your son talked about the Paradise Tree and Mistress Vestler.’

  Sir John opened the cask with his dagger and groaned with pleasure.

  ‘Don’t lie to your priest!’ Athelstan stood over tavern-keeper.

  ‘Yes, Brother, I bought it from Mistress Vestler. There are a number of tavern-keepers in Southwark . . .’

  ‘Enough said.’ Athelstan patted him on the shoulder. ‘Go on, Joscelyn, thank you for the wine. Join the revelers, your Secret’s safe with us.’

  Joscelyn, all sobered up, sped out the door.

  Sir John had broached the cask and was now filling two cups.

  ‘Is it a sin to drink it, monk?’

  ‘Friar, Sir John. No, I don’t think it is. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Moreover, the mood I am in, I recall St Paul’s words: “Use a little Wine for thy stomach’s sake”, even if the customs duty has not been paid!’ Athelstan sat opposite his friend and sipped the wine.

  Sir John closed his eyes, smacked his lips and signed, ‘Oh this is truly a gift from heaven.’

  ‘Well, we’ve solved one mystery,’ Athelstan said. ‘We now know who Mistress Vestler’s midnight visitors are: river smugglers. They take their barges out to the wine ships before their cargo is unloaded, pay the captain a good price, then it’s along to the Paradise Tree and other riverside taverns. Mistress Vestler must have done a roaring trade.’ He thought of that lonely stretch along the mud flats and laughed. ‘It also explains her charity, Sir John.’

  The coroner, more interested in the wine, looked puzzled.

  ‘The Four Gospels,’ Athelstan explained. ‘That’s why she let them camp there. Do you remember what they told us? How they lit a fire on the mud flats in case St Michael came by night? The fisher of men referred to it as a beacon.’

  ‘Of course! And, on a moonless night with a river mist swirling in, there’s nothing like a fire to draw a smuggler in. I wager a cup of wine to a cup of wine that Master Whittock knows something of this. No wonder Kathryn wouldn’t tell us.’

  Athelstan turned as the door opened.

  ‘Yes, Benedicta?’

  ‘Brother, you have a visitor.’

  She stood aside and Hengan, cloak about him, swept into the house.

  ‘I will leave you,’ Benedicta called out and closed the door.

  The lawyer sat down, unhitched his cloak and tossed it on the floor. He put his face in his hands.

  ‘Master Ralph, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Alice Brokestreet’s been murdered!’

  ‘What!’ Sir John exclaimed.

  ‘Someone took a flask of poisoned wine and a pastry to the gatehouse. Now, because Brokestreet was a prisoner of the Crown, her gaolers treat her tenderly. All they remember is a man cowled like a monk.’ He smiled thinly. ‘He actually had the impudence to say it was a gift from Master Odo Whittock. Of course, our good serjeant-of-law knows nothing of this. Now, in other circumstances the gaolers would have drunk or eaten it themselves but the jug or flask was sealed. Both Brabazon and Whittock are well known for their long arms and vindictive tempers so the
wine was safely delivered. Mistress Brokestreet must have died immediately, there was more arsenic in it than grape.’

  ‘Does that mean her testimony will collapse?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘No,’ Sir John said. ‘She made a solemn declaration before the chief justice and, if Master Whittock has a brain in his head, he will have taken a sworn affidavit.’

  ‘It’s more dangerous than that,’ Hengan continued. ‘Brabazon will ask who wanted Mistress Brokestreet dead? And they’ll lay the blame at Kathryn’s door.’

  ‘But that’s not right!’ Athelstan expostulated. ‘Mistress Vestler herself is a prisoner. How could she be held responsible?’

  ‘Oh, Whittock will weave his webs. He’ll say that Kathryn has an accomplice outside.’

  ‘Aye, and it will get worse,’ the coroner growled.

  He succinctly informed Hengan what they had discovered regarding Mistress Vestler’s smuggling activities. The lawyer groaned.

  ‘You know nothing of this, sir?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Hengan snapped. ‘Yet, be honest, Sir John, there’s not a tavern in London which does not receive smuggled wine. Even the royal household is involved in it. It’s almost a national pastime, yet I understand what you say. If Whittock discovers it, and I am sure he will, he’ll allege that Mistress Vestler consorts with well-known outlaws and smugglers.’

  ‘And she arranged for one of these to carry out Brokestreet’s murder?’

  ‘Precisely, Brother.’

  Athelstan went to the door and opened it. The night air cooled his face as he looked out at where the parishioners were still dancing and singing.

  ‘Why the interest?’ he asked, turning round. ‘I mean, Alice Brokestreet has made a declaration; the case against Kathryn is overwhelming. So why is Whittock involved? She can only hang once.’

  ‘What I suspect,’ Hengan replied, ‘is the Crown now knows about Gundulf’s treasure. Maybe the Regent himself is involved? There are thousands upon thousands of pounds at stake. They may even think Mistress Vestler has discovered its Where abouts.’ Hengan pulled a face. ‘That’s serious enough. However, you must also remember Bartholomew Menster was a royal clerk. The Crown does not take lightly to its minions being ruthlessly murdered.’

  ‘It will come down to this.’ Sir John, despite the ale and wine he had drunk, remained calm and level-headed. ‘It will come down to, ‘he repeated, ‘the twenty-fifth of June this year, when Bartholomew was last seen.’

  ‘He definitely worked in the Tower on the twenty-fifth, the morrow of the birth of John the Baptist,’ Hengan said. ‘He left his chamber late in the day and, as we know, said he was going to the Paradise Tree. He was never seen again. I’ve also established that Margot Haden was last seen in the tavern on that day. According to witnesses she went out and never came back.’

  ‘What!’ Athelstan exclaimed.

  ‘Well.’ Hengan raised his hand. ‘We know Bartholomew visited the tavern and they both left.’

  ‘And Mistress Vestler?’

  ‘Oh, she was definitely there.’

  ‘How do we know that?’

  ‘From the servants . . .’ Hengan rubbed his chin. ‘I wish I had been there.’

  ‘Where were you, Master Ralph?’

  ‘Well, the Feast of St John the Baptist is a holy day. The day before, the twenty-fourth, I went on a pilgrimage to Canterbury, the regular pilgrimage by the Inns of Court.’ He shrugged. ‘I stayed at the Chequer Board tavern. I even had the pleasure of meeting Master Whittock there as well. We both prayed at the tomb of St Thomas a Becket. I came home on the feast of St Peter and St Paul, the twenty-ninth of June. Kathryn mentioned that Margot and Bartholomew had eloped, but I thought nothing of it.’

  Athelstan took a stool to the top of the table and sat down, cupping his face in his hand.

  ‘So, we have Bartholomew and Margot leaving the tavern late on the twenty-fifth of June. No one knew where they were going. Some months later their corpses are discovered in Black Meadow. I can see the line Master Whittock will follow. Bartholomew and the tavern wench went down to Black Meadow. Somebody met them there, gave them poisoned wine and buried their corpses.’ Athelstan shook his head.

  ‘Even the dimmest member of the jury will draw one conclusion: Kathryn Vestler killed them!’

  ‘Hear ye! Hear ye! All ye who have business before the King’s justices of Oyer and Terminer seated in the Guildhall of the King’s own city of London, draw close and witness the King’s justice being done!’

  The herald standing before the bar of the court proclaimed the message twice again. In a blare of trumpets, the justices sat down on their cushioned seats beneath the great scarlet canopy. Athelstan, next to Sir John on the witness benches, closed his eyes, bowed his head and prayed. Brabazon looked in fine fettle, florid face beaming round the court. He was the King’s justice and the other judges, who flanked him on either side, mere appendages to his own majesty. On the red and gold steps below, Master Whittock, dressed in a russet robe lined with lambswool, sat like the chief justice’s hunting dog. The serjeant-at-law leaned slightly forward, keen eyes studying members of the jury as they took their seats and swore the oath. At the far end of the hall, men-at-arms in the royal livery held back the crowds. The news had spread throughout the city and many had flocked to the Guildhall to witness the unfolding drama.

  The witnesses’ and spectators’ benches were full, so that Sir John had had to use all his authority to gain admission. Now he sat in his blue and gold doublet, cloak thrown across his green hose, legs slightly parted, tapping his high-heeled boots on the wooden platform. He kept glaring at the chief justice. Athelstan, who felt slightly tired after the previous day’s revelry, looked down at Mistress Vestler. She had been brought up in chains and now stood at the bar flanked by two tipstaffs carrying their white wands of office. Behind her stood a line of archers, arbalests hooked to their war belts.

  ‘May the good Lord and St Antony help her!’ Athelstan prayed.

  Mistress Vestler looked pale in mourning weeds, black gown and a veil of the same colour.

  ‘You’d think she was dead already,’ Sir John whispered. ‘But she holds herself well. Pleas for mercy will find no echo here.’

  Beside Mistress Vestler, Ralph Hengan sat and shuffled among certain papers. The small gate to the bar was open; two clerks carried forward a lectern which bore a book of the gospels. This was where the witnesses would stand, take the oath and give their testimony. Chief Justice Brabazon made a cutting movement with his hand. The two heralds stepped forward and gave a shrill blast on their silver-plated trumpets. The clerks seated at the foot of the steps rose, turned and bowed to Sir Henry. He nodded.

  ‘The court is in session!’ the chief clerk proclaimed. ‘Let the charges be read!’

  Confusion immediately followed. Whittock sprang to his feet and walked down to stand at the other Side of the bar from Mistress Vestler.

  ‘You are?’ Sir Henry Brabazon asked.

  ‘Odo Whittock, serjeant-at-law. My lord, before the charges are read, I must inform the court that its principal witnesses Alice Brokestreet has been found poisoned.’

  ‘In which case,’ Hengan interrupted, ‘the case should be dismissed.’

  ‘Not so! Whittock retorted. He held up a sheaf of parchments. ‘Mistress Brokestreet had made a statement under oath; her testimony has been accepted by the court.’

  ‘Are you implying,’ Master Hengan snapped, ‘that Mistress Brokestreet’s murder must be laid at the door of Kathryn Vestler?’

  ‘What does it matter?’ Whittock replied languidly. ‘Hang for one, hang for ten, you are still hanged!’

  Sir Henry smiled.

  ‘In which case,’ Hengan said, leaning against the bar, ‘I would also like the other matters to be discussed.’

  ‘What other matters?’ Sir Henry asked.

  ‘My lord, the corpses of Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden were discovered in Black Meadow, which belongs to my client. H
owever, my lord,’ Hengan pointed to Athelstan, ‘I can produce good witnesses and sound testimony that Black Meadow was used as a burial ground for victims of the pestilence. These human remains, pathetic though they may be, are not a matter for this court to consider.’

  Sir Henry played with his scarlet skullcap and conferred quickly with colleagues on either side.

  ‘All this,’ he replied, ‘is wasting the court’s time. Hanged for one is the same as being hanged for ten. The murder of Alice Brokestreet is beyond the power of this court. As regards the other matter, there is no need to call Brother Athelstan.’ The chief justice beamed in Sir John’s direction. ‘I will accept what you say, Master Hengan. Clerk, read out the indictment!’

  Athelstan relaxed. He was glad he wasn’t called as a witness. He listened to the charge, grim and stark that, ‘Kathryn Vestler did, on or around the twenty fifth of June thirteen-eighty, feloniously slay by poison Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden.’

  ‘My lord.’ Hengan rose, grasping the bar. ‘My client goes on oath and pleads not guilty to this and all other specified charges which may be levelled against her.’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’ Sir Henry smiled. ‘Master clerk, read out the sworn statement of Alice Brokestreet.’

  The statement produced nothing new. Master Whittock had been very careful not to introduce any other charges which could be challenged. It stated that Mistress Vestler had slain Bartholomew and Margot by an infusion of poison, that Brokestreet had helped take the corpses out in a handcart and bury them under the great oak tree in Black Meadow. How the felonious deed was Mistress Vestler’s doing and she, Brokestreet, had no choice but to co-operate. The clerk sat down.

  ‘My lord,’ Hengan began. ‘Mistress Vestler is a good woman, a respected member of the parish. She keeps a dole cupboard for the poor, gives alms generously and observes the King’s peace.’

  ‘Does she now? Does she now?’ Whittock came down the steps. ‘Mistress Vestler, you put yourself on oath in Newgate, when you denied these charges?’

  ‘I did.’