The Field of Blood

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Oh yes, but that didn’t concern me.’

  ‘Stephen and Kathryn Vestler did, didn’t they?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You became their friend and eventually, as you intended, their family lawyer. You could visit the Paradise Tree whenever you wished. Months passed into years; you still held fast to your greed. You wouldn’t discuss it with the Vestlers but used every opportunity to look around, to search, to make careful enquiries. It was very clever because now you were party to all documents, household accounts and memoranda. You could watch for anything untoward. Poor Stephen died and you became counsellor to his widow. It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it?’

  ‘You are sharp of eye, friar,’ Hengan answered. ‘Sharper than I thought.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I pray a lot, Master Hengan. Prayer sharpens the mind and hones the wit. Perhaps God wanted justice done and an innocent woman saved from hanging?’

  Hengan pulled his chancery bag towards him.

  ‘It’s a beautiful day,’ he observed, staring up at the branches. ‘I always thought it would be like this, with the gold before me.’

  ‘It’s not yours,’ Athelstan told him. ‘Never has been and never will. You are going to hang.’

  ‘On what evidence?’ the lawyer retorted sharply. ‘You attended Mistress Vestler’s trial.’

  ‘It’s true what they say.’ Sir John spoke up.

  ‘“Cacullus non facit monachum: the cowl doesn’t make the monk.” You are two men aren’t you, Master Ralph? The kindly lawyer, but that’s only a shroud for the rottenness beneath.’

  ‘Now, now, Sir John, are you envious of me? Do you secretly lust after Mistress Vestler’s sweetness?’

  Sir John would have Iunged at him but Athelstan held his hand out.

  ‘Let me speak,’ he ordered. ‘Everything in your garden, master lawyer, was grass and roses until Master Bartholomew Menster appeared: a studious clerk from the Tower who becomes sweet on a tavern wench at the Paradise Tree. To your horror you realise that he is a learned man with access to manuscripts and who has the same determination to discover Gundulf’s treasure as yourself. Nevertheless, you kept up the pretence. I wager you never talked with Bartholomew in the presence of Mistress Vestler but away, in some other place. It wouldn’t have taken you long to realise how close this interfering clerk was to the truth, so you decided to kill him.’

  ‘And Margot?’ Sir John asked.

  ‘Margot was just as dangerous,’ Athelstan said. ‘You heard the evidence in court. Margot was schooled and sharp-witted, determined to make a good marriage. She was prepared to hitch her fortunes to a well-paid clerk who, one day, might discover secret treasure. What did you do, Hengan? Offer to share information? Act the kindly lawyer, willing to help?’

  Hengan seemed more intent on the gold than Athelstan’s words.

  ‘You pretended to go to Canterbury,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You left the city but made a hasty journey back up the Thames to where you could hide away in many a tavern or alehouse suitably disguised. What you did do, however, was lure Bartholomew and Margot to a meeting. You’d send no letter, nothing which could be traced; perhaps just a hushed, excited whisper that you had discovered where the gold was, how you would meet Bartholomew and Margot at a certain time here, beneath the oak tree in Black Meadow.’

  ‘Are you sure your evidence is sound?’ Hengan taunted. ‘Wouldn’t Bartholomew or Margot chatter?’

  ‘Why should they?’ Athelstan retorted. ‘Mention gold, mention treasure and people lick their lips and narrow their eyes, their fingers itch as yours did. And why should Bartholomew and Margot distrust a respected man such as yourself? On the evening of the twenty-fifth they left the Paradise Tree and came here. You, like Satan, slid out of the shadows. In this deserted place, hooded and cowled, who’d notice you? I doubt if you stayed long. You gave them a present of wine, a token of your friendship. Perhaps you claimed you’d left a manuscript or document somewhere and away you’d go. Bartholomew and Margot are happy, joyous, in love with each other. They would be only too eager to share your flask of wine, something which could not later be traced. Cups are filled, thirsts slaked: death would have followed soon after.’ Athelstan pointed across the meadow. ‘Were you hiding somewhere over there? Did you come back just a short while, as the shadows, lengthened, to ensure they were truly dead? Pick up the flask of wine and any documents. Bartholomew may have been carrying? You are in the countryside near the Thames. The deed done, you hurry back towards the river, hire a wherry and then continue your journey to Canterbury.’

  ‘But I was there, friar.’

  ‘Oh, I am sure you were. You’d travel fast and, in the confusion, who’d remember you coming and going?’

  ‘And Mistress Vestler?’ Hengan asked.

  ‘I don’t know what you planned for the future. Who would be blamed? Certainly Mistress Vestler would not escape scrutiny but then she implicated herself, didn’t she? Darkness falls and Margot doesn’t return. Did Bartholomew and Margot often come here? Anyway, when Mistress Vestler came looking she discovered two corpses lying beneath an oak tree in her own meadow. Did she suspect? Did she wonder? She could not hide the corpses away so she hurried back for mattock and hoe and hastily buried them here.

  ‘The next day, to cover the disturbance, she hired a tree-cutter to come and cut the branches, cover the ground in leaves and twigs so no one would notice.’

  Athelstan watched Hengan. The lawyer was leaning forward, clutching the chancery bag tightly. Sir John, too, was nervous, hand on the hilt of his dagger.

  ‘Mistress Vestler’s thoughts are her own,’ Athelstan continued. ‘But she was in a fair panic. She searched the Paradise Tree and did something rather stupid. She collected Margot’s possessions and promptly burned them. Why, I don’t yet know. Later, when Bartholomew’s absence becomes noted, a search is made but nothing can be found. Other enquirers are turned away, forced to accept the unlikely story that Bartholomew and the tavern wench had eloped.’

  ‘And Alice Brokestreet?’ Hengan asked ‘She was the one who laid allegations against Mistress Vestler, not myself.’

  ‘Brokestreet was a harlot at heart, with no real love for Mistress Vestler. You knew that. Anyway, master lawyer, you were committed. You’d killed two people for Gundulf’s treasure. But, what if someone else took Bartholomew’s place? There was only one thing to do. Mistress Vestler also had to be removed, as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Why should I do that?’ Hengan asked abruptly. ‘Mistress Vestler was sweet and kind to me.’

  ‘For two reasons,’ Athelstan snapped. ‘First, like all gold hunters, Hengan, you couldn’t share with anyone.’

  ‘And secondly?’ Hengan asked quietly. ‘There is a further reason, friar?’

  ‘Yes there is, lawyer. On your return from Canterbury you must have been surprised to see nothing had changed. Mistress Vestler still managed the Paradise Tree. Bartholomew and Margot had disappeared into thin air; I wager you suspected what had happened. Of course, you must have reflected on the possibility that Mistress Vestler may have entertained suspicions about you. In other words, Hengan, she had to be silenced. You couldn’t poison her like you had Bartholomew and Margot. After all, you were one of the closest persons to her. So you’d sit and wait. News arrives that Alice Brokestreet was taken for killing a man in the Merry Pig. Did she know you, Master Hengan?’

  ‘Mistress Brokestreet never had the pleasure of meeting me,’ came the sardonic reply.

  ‘No, I’m sure she didn’t. The great lawyer would make sure of that. I suppose in the condemned cell at Newgate, dressed like a friar with the cowl pulled over, you could have been anyone.’

  ‘You went there dressed like that?’ Sir John asked abruptly.

  ‘Sir Jack, do you really expect me to answer that?’

  ‘Yes, he did,’ Athelstan said. ‘You’ve seen the condemned cell at Newgate, my lord coroner, black as pitch. Our good lawyer would be disguised, the same is true of his voice. Not that Ali
ce Brokestreet would care. All she could see was the hangman’s noose waiting for her and, abruptly, salvation is at hand. Our good lawyer tells her what to do: She will accuse Mistress Vestler, say no more than that and she will be a free woman. I doubt if Brokestreet cared if her visitor was Satan from hell.’ Athelstan sighed.

  ‘So the game began. Mistress Vestler was accused and sentenced to the gallows.’

  ‘But the Crown would then seize the Paradise Tree?’ Hengan spoke softly like a schoolmaster correcting a pupil.

  ‘Oh come, Master Hengan: you are Mistress Vestler’s executor with the right to poke and pry into her affairs; in reality, search around, looking for the treasure. Heaven knows even, when the time was right, buy the Paradise Tree, like Bartholomew Menster wanted to. He probably raised the matter with you, didn’t he? You must have learned about that and become very alarmed.’

  ‘As a lawyer,’ Hengan, protested, ‘I maintain the evidence still points to Mistress Vestler.’

  ‘All the evidence,’ Athelstan pointed out, ‘came from her own household books, and that made me curious. As Mistress Vestler’s lawyer and good friend, why didn’t you seize them, hide or burn them? It might be illegal, but something you’d expect a good friend to do in such circumstances. As it was, Master Whittock seized them and was able to track down the tree-cutter and the chapman, not to mention Margot Haden’s sister.’

  Hengan’s gaze had shifted back to the cart. He was watching it carefully, like a cat would a mousehole.

  ‘Brokestreet was another victim.’ Sir John spoke up. ‘You sent the poisoned wine to her so she’d cause no further problems. In that tangled brain of yours you probably saw it as some reparation for Mistress Vestler’s pains.’

  ‘This is all well and good.’ Hengan placed his chancery bag beside him, dabbing his face with the long cuff of his gown. ‘But you are missing one important factor: Mistress Vestler buried the corpses.’

  ‘You guessed that,’ Athelstan interrupted. ‘It’s a question of logic as well as self-defence. I am sure you later walked out into Black Meadow to carefully study the ground. Who knows, one dark night you may even have taken mattock and hoe and dug is yourself, just to make sure?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Hengan replied. ‘But why didn’t she accuse me? Why didn’t she just tell the truth on oath?’

  Athelstan shook his head. ‘Ever the lawyer, Master Hengan! What proof did she have? That she went out and found two corpses on a summer evening, so she buried them then hurried back to her tavern to burn Margot Haden’s possessions? Oh, I am sure she can explain it, but now is neither the time nor the place. As for further proof . . .’

  Athelstan glanced back towards the lych gate where he thought he saw a flash of colour, but all was quiet.

  ‘You told me that Brokestreet killed a man with a firkin opener? The only other person who knew that was the vicar of hell. How did you know? Unless you made a very careful scrutiny of Mistress Brokestreet before you approached her? Secondly, after the trial, you quoted accurately, word for word, the quotation from the chronicle we found in the Tower. Yet you only saw it for a few seconds. Finally, I was fascinated by Mistress Vestler’s actions on the morning following Bartholomew’s and Margot’s disappearance. She came down to Black Meadow and asked the Four Gospels a very specific question. Had they, the previous day, seen anyone they knew in the meadow? Now, those rogues.’ He saw the change of expression on Hengan’s face. ‘Yes, they are rogues, were kept well away from the Paradise Tree. The only people they knew were Bartholomew, Margot, you and herself. We know where Kathryn Vestler was. We also know the fate of Bartholomew and Margot. In an oblique way Mistress Vestler was asking about you.’

  ‘God knows,’ Sir John said as he moved his war belt to sit more comfortably, ‘why Mistress Vestler didn’t really speak the truth but I have my own suspicions.’ He thrust his face closer. ‘I believe she loved you, lawyer, but you wouldn’t understand that, would you? “What does it profit a man if,”’ he quoted from the gospels, ‘“he gains the whole world but loses his soul?” You lost your soul for that gold, you were quite prepared to kill because of it.’

  Hengan pulled a wry face. ‘I have heard the evidence. It’s not as conclusive as a court would want.’

  ‘Oh, we haven’t begun yet,’ Athelstan remarked.

  ‘Not really. Sir John here will take his bailiffs and search your house. We’ll find manuscripts showing your extraordinary interest in Gundulf’s treasure. We may find other documents. Then we can despatch royal couriers to Canterbury. Just where were you on each particular evening and day? Did you leave for the shrine on the twenty-third? If so, at which tavern did you stop? We will reach the conclusion that people saw you there but they can’t remember you arriving in Canterbury for one or two days after you claim. Moreover, does your house contain poisons? Alice Brokestreet was poisoned. Perhaps the memory of the gaolers at Newgate can be pricked? Whatever.’ Athelstan emphasised the points on his fingers. ‘Mistress Vestler will not hang. You will never have the gold and you must face the most cruel interrogation.’

  Hengan looked towards the lych gate where Master Flaxwith stood gesturing with his hand; around the bushes came other figures including Whittock, behind him a group of royal archers wearing the blue, red and gold livery. Hengan opened his chancery bag and took out a small arbalest. Sir John started forward but Hengan sprang to his feet.

  ‘Brother Athelstan! Sir John!’ the serjeant-at-law called out. ‘Is all well? I understand you have the treasure?’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Athelstan asked quietly.

  ‘Oh I had a madcap idea,’ Hengan said smiling, ‘that I would force Sir Jack to take the barrow down to the Thames and I’d escape with the gold. But this is life, not some troubadour song.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Athelstan repeated.

  Hengan took a bolt from the large wallet he carried on his belt and slipped it into the groove on the arbalest.

  ‘I confess all, Brother. To a certain extent I am sorry. Sorry for myself, for Kathryn, for all this sordid mess. I don’t want to hang. I don’t want to dance in the air. This is much quicker.’

  And, before Athelstan could stop him, Hengan ran towards Whittock. Confusion and chaos broke out. At first Whittock didn’t understand what was happening until Hengan slopped and loosed the quarrel. The crossbow bolt went awry, lost in the long grass. Hengan fumbled for another. Whittock shouted an order. Two of the bowmen hurried through the lych gate, bows bent, arrows pulled back. Hengan began to run, lifting the arbalest, a stupid, futile gesture. The two longbows twanged. One arrow caught Hengan full in the neck, the other in the chest. He flung his arms up against the sky and crashed to the ground where he rolled on his side, legs moving, then lay still. The two archers ran across and turned the corpse over.

  ‘Dead, sir!’ one of them called out.

  Whittock hardly spared the fallen man a glance. He strode across the meadow and, without a by-your-leave, pulled back the canvas sheet and stared open-mouthed at the gold.

  ‘Gundulf’s treasure at last!’ he breathed. ‘Did you find it, Sir John?’

  ‘I would like to say I did, Master Whittock, but the truth is that Brother Athelstan found it.’

  ‘How did you know?’ the friar asked.

  The serjeant-at-law’s harsh features broke into a smile.

  ‘I am the Crown’s officer. I have a right to know. I also paid the servants and scullions at the Paradise Tree good silver to keep me informed of everything that happened there. I was at the Guildhall when the news arrived so I went to the Tower, collected these merry lads and came here.’

  ‘You do not seem concerned about Master Hengan?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘I stood and watched for a while. It was apparent, how can I put it, that events had rapidly changed.’

  ‘Did you have any suspicions?’

  Whittock clicked his tongue, ‘I would like to say yes.’ He grinned. ‘No lawyer wants to be wrong. How can I put i
t, Brother? I did sense something amiss and wondered if Mistress Vestler had an accomplice. The only thing I found truly strange was that Hengan never hid those household accounts which told me so much. He was responsible, wasn’t he?’

  Sir John nodded.

  ‘The Crown will need a full report, Sir Jack.’

  Whittock snapped his fingers and called the arches over.

  ‘Have the corpse taken to the death house in the Tower! This,’ he pointed to the barrow, ‘will also be taken there and guarded until His Grace the Regent inspects it.’

  ‘It’s treasure trove,’ Sir John said quietly. ‘And according to the law, a portion of it should be given to the person on whose land it was found and to the finder.’

  Whittock scratched a cheek and, bending down, picked up Hengan’s chancery bag.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, Sir John, in the end justice will be done. I will take care of our dead lawyer and the Crown’s gold. And you, sir, have my permission to go to Newgate. Within the hour a letter of release will be dispatched. All charges against Mistress Vestler, including that of smuggling, will be withdrawn. A good day’s work, Sir John.’ He bowed. ‘Brother Athelstan, I bid you adieu.’

  Later that day, just as the bells of St Mary-le-Bow began to toll over the great marketplaces of London, Sir John and Athelstan escorted a weeping, pale-faced Kathryn Vestler into the dark coolness of the Lamb of God tavern. Sir John had taken her out of the condemned cell, not even waiting for or Whittock’s letter of release. Now he sat holding her hand, talking to her quietly, telling her everything that had happened.

  Kathryn had lost her calm poise, her air of resignation had crumbled into bitter sobs. She sipped at a cup of wine, refusing a portion of the beef pie Cranston had also ordered from the kitchens.

  ‘Mistress Vestler.’ Athelstan put his blackjack down. ‘Do you still think you are for a hanging? This is a time for celebration!’

  ‘No, Brother.’ Kathryn wiped her eyes. ‘This is the time for questions, isn’t it? I am sorry, Sir Jack, and you, Brother, for all your trouble.’