by Paul Doherty
A few days after his arrival at the Guildhall, Athelstan joined Cranston for supper in the refectory. The friar ate little and drank even less but asked the coroner, along with Flaxwith and his bailiffs, to join him in the great bailey just after he celebrated his Jesus Mass. Athelstan refused to provide any details except that Sir John should also ensure that Tiptoft, his messenger, accompany them. Early the next morning they arrived at the Golden Oliphant. Athelstan strode through the great taproom, calling everybody to sit round the tables. Under the watchful eye of Flaxwith and his bailiffs, the entire household were guided in to take their seats. Athelstan glanced around; all were there: Stretton, Gray, Camoys, Griffin, Foxley, Mistress Cheyne and her moppets and servants. At Athelstan’s request, the bailiffs made a sweep of the galleries and chambers. Only when Cranston declared himself satisfied did Athelstan climb on to the dais in the Golden Hall, hands outstretched.
‘Beloved brethren,’ he began, ‘I thank you for your patience and cooperation. I ask you to sit here and reflect whilst I make certain preparations.’ He climbed down and beckoned at Tiptoft to follow him out of the Golden Hall, then gave him precise details on what to do. Tiptoft expressed his surprise, but Athelstan repeated his instructions before taking the messenger back into the taproom, where he demanded and received from Mistress Cheyne a ring of keys to all the chambers. Athelstan then visited the murder room on the top gallery. He entered the chamber next to where Whitfield had been found hanging, closely shuttered the window, put a stool in the middle just beneath the lantern hook, then returned to the Golden Hall, Tiptoft accompanying him.
‘Very well,’ Athelstan declared, ‘I shall now stage my masque based on the events of that morning when Amaury Whitfield was found hanged. Please, I beg you, correct me if I err in any way. Some of you are more knowledgeable than others. I would be grateful for your close attention to what I say. Now I appreciate the guests were in the refectory but for the present, that is too small to hold you all. This taproom will suffice well enough.’ He pointed at Tiptoft, who had been closely advised on what to do. ‘You, Sir, for the moment, will act the part of Master Griffin. You have been upstairs to rouse the guests, that’s what happened, yes?’ A murmur of agreement, led by Stretton and Gray, greeted his question. ‘Simnel cakes had been baked,’ Athelstan continued. ‘Lebarge in particular was greedy for them. Whitfield’s absence is eventually noticed, so Joycelina is sent up to rouse him. She returns claiming that she cannot and something must be wrong.’
‘That is correct,’ Griffin shouted to cries of approval.
Athelstan’s ‘congregation’, as he now called them, watched fascinated as they realized that the truth may be about to unfold.
‘Mistress Cheyne,’ Athelstan continued, ‘you then sent Master Foxley to fetch two of the labourers from the garden to bring in that battering ram. Joycelina had reported Whitfield’s chamber to be locked and barred; she’d glanced through the eyelet but that too was closed. I understand this battering ram has been used before when a chamber is locked and the guest within refuses to respond. Very well, Master Foxley, please do what you did that morning. Sir John, I would ask you act the part of Lebarge and follow exactly what he did. Tiptoft, you are now Joycelina; go along the galleries, assure anyone you meet not to be disturbed about what they may hear.’
‘But everyone is here,’ Mistress Cheyne protested.
‘Yes, yes, they are. But on that particular morning, apparently they were not, which is why you, Mistress Cheyne, despatched your helpmate!’ Athelstan pointed at Foxley and Tiptoft. ‘Do what I ask.’
Both men left on their separate tasks. Athelstan waited until Foxley had returned with the two bemused labourers. One of the men carried a small, stout battering ram. Athelstan ordered everyone to remain where they were and led Foxley and the two labourers up to the top gallery and the chamber next to Whitfield’s. At Athelstan’s behest, Foxley pressed against the door, peered through the eyelet and keyhole and pronounced both blocked. The door was clearly locked and bolted with the key still inserted. Athelstan gestured at the door. ‘Break it down, as you did that morning. Do not worry, Master Foxley, the city will pay for any reasonable repairs. Now, where is Tiptoft? I need him here.’ Athelstan gestured at the labourers to begin as he went back to the top of the stairs calling for Tiptoft, his voice echoing harshly along the gallery. The labourers pounded the door, Foxley shouted encouragement and instructions whilst Athelstan continued to summon Tiptoft. At last the door gave way, snapping at the lock, its thick leather hinges breaking from the lintel. The chamber beyond lay in pitch darkness. Athelstan immediately dismissed the labourers whilst instructing Foxley to go into the chamber to unshutter and open the window. Once this was done, Athelstan led Foxley and Tiptoft back out into the gallery and down the stairs to join the rest in the Golden Hall.
‘All is set,’ Athelstan whispered to Cranston. ‘It is best if we do this in the presence of a host of witnesses whose memories are now being stirred. So …’ Athelstan walked into the centre of the hall.
‘What were you doing?’ Mistress Cheyne, who had been whispering to Foxley, sprang to her feet. ‘This is my house, my home.’
‘And your place of murder,’ Athelstan retorted, silencing her and the murmuring of the rest. ‘Master Foxley,’ Athelstan asked, ‘who was in the gallery when the door was forced, I mean just now?’
‘Why, you, me and the labourers; Master Tiptoft joined us later. You were calling for him.’
‘And the door we forced was both bolted and locked?’
‘Yes, of course, you could see that for yourself.’
‘And when the door was forced, the window?’
‘Firmly closed and shuttered until I opened it.’
‘Master Tiptoft,’ Athelstan put his hand on the messenger’s arm, ‘you heard me shouting. Where were you?’
‘In the chamber which was forced.’
‘Nonsense!’ Fear thrilled Elizabeth Cheyne’s face and voice.
‘Impossible!’ Foxley exclaimed.
‘I was in the chamber,’ Tiptoft insisted. ‘Brother Athelstan gave me the key. As soon as l left here, I went upstairs. I locked and bolted the door, closed the eyelet and made sure that the window was firmly shuttered. The room was as dark as night. I stood, as Brother Athelstan advised, to the left of the door as it opens. When it was forced and flung back, I stayed. Athelstan dismissed the labourers then Master Foxley entered, crossing the chamber to pull back the shutters. I simply stepped round the door and joined Brother Athelstan on the threshold, a matter of heartbeats. I did as Brother Athelstan asked. Remember the chamber was as black as a moonless night. I counted how long it took to step around the door, I barely reached four.’
Athelstan glanced around. ‘Remember that, because I was calling Tiptoft, Foxley thought, when he turned around after opening the windows, that Tiptoft had been with me all the time. When the chamber was being forced, Master Foxley, you were concentrating solely on the door and what might lie inside. True?’ The Master of Horse agreed. ‘I also noticed,’ Athelstan continued, ‘that on the day she was killed, Joycelina was wearing sandals. Did she always wear those?’
‘Yes,’ Anna the maid shouted.
‘So why, on the morning Whitfield was found dead, was Joycelina wearing red-capped, thick, soft-soled buskins?’
‘Nonsense!’ Mistress Cheyne exclaimed.
‘So how do I know she had a pair?’ Athelstan turned to the rest. ‘She did, didn’t she?’
‘Yes.’ One of the maids lifted her hand. ‘Mistress, after Joycelina died, you gave them to me.’
Cheyne’s head went down.
‘Joycelina,’ Athelstan explained, ‘wore those same buskins that morning to ensure that for a few heartbeats, in that pitch-black chamber with Foxley terrified and having eyes and mind only for that swinging corpse and opening the window, she could slip soundlessly forward and join you, Mistress Cheyne, her accomplice.’
The Mistress of the Moppets did not reply,
though she turned slightly as members of her household murmured their agreement to Athelstan’s statement.
‘Sir John?’ Athelstan turned to the coroner. ‘You imitated Lebarge. You left here and went to the foot of the stairs leading to the top gallery. Did anyone pass you?’
‘Oh, of course not.’ The coroner grinned. ‘I heard you calling Tiptoft but he never came by. He never passed me. I stayed in that recess until the labourers returned and I followed them down.’
Athelstan went and crouched before Mistress Cheyne. ‘I have demonstrated,’ he held her cold, angry gaze, ‘how you and Joycelina murdered Amaury Whitfield.’ He rose, gesturing at Flaxwith to come forward and restrain the murderess, sitting on a high-backed chair, fingers firmly clutching its arms.
‘Search her,’ Athelstan ordered. Flaxwith did so, ignoring her protests, and drew the needle-like dagger, more of a bodkin than a knife, out of a secret sheath on the belt around her waist. He threw this on the table as Athelstan took a stool to sit opposite the accused. He stared around. He would have preferred to first question Mistress Cheyne in some secure, isolated chamber, but those present, although they did not fully realize it, were in fact witnesses to her crimes.
‘Amaury Whitfield,’ Athelstan began, ‘came here to join the Festival of Cokayne, to forget his terrors and, above all, to complete his plans to flee abroad. True, Master Gray?’ He turned to where the sea captain slouched on a bench.
‘Answer!’ Cranston roared.
‘Correct,’ Gray replied. He gestured with his hands. ‘Whitfield, Lebarge and Mistress Cheyne’s household. You must know that by now?’
‘Good.’ Athelstan smiled at him. ‘Whitfield’s mind and soul does not concern us now. He was a terrified man with an unfinished, ever-changing plot about masking his disappearance behind an accident or suicide.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘This does not matter any more. However, Whitfield was not only a frightened man but a very, very wealthy one with a heavy money belt crammed with good coins, strapped around his waist. He would have provoked your suspicions, Mistress Cheyne, by hiring a chamber on the top gallery: that was a way of protecting himself. Of course, during her ministrations to Whitfield, Joycelina must have learnt about this treasure trove. Somehow or other, you both discovered how wealthy Whitfield was and how accessible his riches were. You planned to kill him and seize that wealth. You probably plotted to do it once you reached foreign parts. However, that part of your plan you could not control. We all know Whitfield was disturbed, deeply agitated, fearful of his powerful master and,’ Athelstan glanced quickly at Stretton, ‘other equally sinister figures. No wonder Whitfield moved from plot to plot and plan to plan. We shall never know the truth of it, but in the end, I believe he was thinking of fleeing on his own, possibly with Lebarge, which is one of the reasons he went down to visit the Tavern of Lost Souls. However, Whitfield’s visit to Mephistopheles does not concern us. All I can say is that he went there panic-struck, considering all the choices he could make. Indeed, in the end I would say Whitfield’s wits were turned, he was not thinking clearly.’
‘I would agree.’ The usually taciturn Griffin spoke up. ‘Let’s admit it. We all saw him talking to himself and drinking deeply …’
‘You, Mistress Cheyne,’ Athelstan accused, ‘suspected Whitfield’s ultimate plan. He was going to disappear, escape your clutches, so you and Joycelina concocted your murderous design. On the night before he died, Whitfield and you others drank deeply, yes?’ Athelstan did not wait for agreement. ‘Afterwards Whitfield lurched upstairs, possibly planning to leave either during the night after he had met a certain stranger or immediately the following morning. You, Mistress Cheyne, together with Joycelina, slipped upstairs and inveigled yourself into his chamber. No one would notice. Lebarge, who occupied the only other chamber on the gallery, had also drunk deeply. For all I know, an opiate may have been slipped into his drink, I suspect it was. However, let’s move on.
‘In that chamber, locked and bolted, Whitfield would prove to be most malleable to you and Joycelina. Drunk and sottish, you enticed him into some sexual game to rouse his potency. I understand that strangulation can be used to excite a man like Whitfield. Whatever, the fire rope was taken and transformed into a hanging noose. Somehow or other you or Joycelina inveigled Whitfield to stand on that stool. Drunk and confused, he would not realize the trap until the noose around his neck swiftly tightened and the stool was kicked away. He struggled, you and Joycelina may have grabbed his legs and pulled him down to hasten death. In a very brief period, it was all over.’
‘You have no proof of this, no evidence. I have always been honest …’
Mistress Cheyne glared around. Athelstan could detect little sympathy or support for this grasping woman.
‘We will come to proof in a moment, won’t we, Sir John?’
Cranston nodded approvingly even though he secretly wondered what real evidence the little friar could lay against this cunning killer.
‘You knew about Whitfield’s note of desperation,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You left that out. Above all, you removed his fat, bulging money belt. No wonder Master Foxley thought Whitfield looked slimmer in death than in life.’ Athelstan paused. ‘All is how you want it. You and Joycelina slip out, lock the door behind you and take the key. No one else has access to that chamber.’
‘Whitfield would have struggled, surely?’ Stretton asked.
‘No,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘he was deep in his cups when he left here that night. We know from another source that he intended to go out in the early hours, but of course, he was never given that choice. He was drunk, wasn’t he?’ A murmur of agreement confirmed this. ‘A potion or a powder may have been added, but above all, Master Stretton, Whitfield did not view Mistress Cheyne and Joycelina as dangerous – why should he? He had come here to be entertained, to be pampered and cosseted by them. I suspect he babbled like a babe about his fears, his madcap schemes to vanish, the letter he planned to leave. In Whitfield’s eyes, Mistress Cheyne and Joycelina were his lovers, his friends and allies.’ Athelstan smiled bleakly. ‘As you know, as we all now know, he viewed others sitting here as the real threat.’ Stretton glanced away. ‘We now come to the events of the following morning. Most of this household, guests and servants, are in or around the refectory. Lebarge had woken all mawmsy and dry-mouthed after the previous night’s drinking. He was roused by Griffin and hurried down to eat his favourite simnel cakes. Whitfield does not. So …’
‘Strange.’ Anna the maid sprang all hot-eyed to her feet.
‘What is strange?’
‘Well, Brother. Joycelina was all important here, high and mighty. I cannot recall her ever going up to the top gallery to rouse guests.’
‘Shut up, you stupid bitch!’ Mistress Cheyne exclaimed.
‘Whitfield was most partial to Joycelina,’ another called.
‘And those simnel cakes!’ Anna shouted. Athelstan could see there was little love lost between Mistress Cheyne and her servant. ‘Whenever have you made simnel cakes so early in the morning?’ she asked accusingly.
‘I did it because Lebarge wanted them.’
‘No matter,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Lebarge was down here. You, Mistress Cheyne, decided to act. Joycelina, whether it was her duty or not, went up to that chamber and returned claiming Whitfield could not be roused. You, Mistress Cheyne, acted decisively and swiftly: those in the refectory are instructed to stay. Foxley is sent to bring the labourers and the battering ram. Joycelina is despatched, ostensibly to inform the other servants about what is about to happen. In truth, she climbs swiftly to Whitfield’s chamber, unlocks the door and goes inside where she ensures the eyelet is blocked, the key turned and the bolts pulled across; she then locks herself in with that dangling corpse. Tell me,’ Athelstan glanced around, ‘does anyone here recall Joycelina seeking them out that morning?’ Silence greeted his words. A thin-faced slattern, wiping greasy fingers on her grubby gown, got off the bench, hands fluttering.
> ‘I passed her on the stairs. My task is to empty chamber pots …’
Her words were greeted with laughter which the slattern dismissed with a flick of her rat-tailed hair. ‘She told me to go immediately down to the refectory. I …’ She shrugged and sat down.
‘Does anyone else?’
‘We were all here,’ Anna, who could sense blood, called out.
‘Hawisa might have helped us about what happened but we will come to her by and by.’ Athelstan cleared his throat. ‘All is now set. Mistress Cheyne supervises the breakdown of the door whilst calling for Joycelina as if her accomplice is still below stairs. Of course she isn’t. The door is forced. The labourers are immediately dismissed. Master Foxley is sent to open the window. You, Sir, are shocked by the sight of Whitfield’s swaying corpse. The chamber is cloaked in darkness, even so you only have eyes for that ghastly sight. You have to pass it and reach the window to pull back the shutters. Your eyes, ears, all your senses are taken up with the terrible tragedy confronting you. You would never dream that someone else was in the room. When you turned from the window you saw two people who must have been with you on the gallery. What else would you think? Before you battered the door down, you knew it was locked and bolted, and remember, you were mawmsy with ale fumes after being deep in your cups the night before. I played the same trick just now with Tiptoft and I convinced you even though you are more sober and alert. Now, to go back to that morning. Joycelina simply moved ever so softly in her buskins, from one place to another, all in the space of a few breaths. So, Master Foxley, think! When you were out on the gallery, whilst the door to Whitfield’s chamber was being broken down, can you recall actually seeing Joycelina?’