Текст книги "Field of Blood"

Автор книги: Paul Harding

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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 the 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 revellers, 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 sighed. '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 whereabouts.' 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, scrjcant-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! 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. However, 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 charge 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.'

'And you say you are a woman of good reputation?' 'I am,' came the calm reply. 'Even though you smuggle?'

Mistress Vestler, warned by Hengan about what Sir John had discovered, remained silent.

'We have found in the cellars of the Paradise Tree,' Whittock continued, 'small casks of Bordeaux, and even some from Alsace, which bear no customs mark.'

'My lord,' Hengan interrupted. 'My client has been charged with murder, not with smuggling. She need not incriminate herself on charges she has had little time to reflect on.'

'True, true,' Whittock replied in a mock whisper. 'I concede that, but you started this hare, Master Hengan, so I think my observation is relevant.'

'My lord.' Hengan desperately tried to move away from the matter. 'The indictment claims that Mistress Brokestreet knew that Kathryn Vestler poisoned her two alleged victims. However, we have it on good report that Margot Haden and Bartholomew Menster left the Paradise Tree on the evening of the twenty-fifth of June."

Yes, yes,' Whittock interrupted. 'But, my lord, Mistress Brokestreet has sworn that the crime was committed that night. In other words, Bartholomew and Margot may well have returned to the Paradise Tree and the crime been committed when the tavern was empty, no witnesses being around. I will also demonstrate that Mistress Vestler had a great deal to hide on that evening. It's best, my lord, if we listen to all the witnesses before we start proclaiming the truth.' Sir Henry agreed.

'In which case,' Whittock went on, 'I call Master Tapler, ale-taster at the Paradise Tree.'

The clerks of the court shouted the witness's name. From a small chamber at the other side of the hall, hidden in one of the transepts, Mistress Vestler's ale-taster shuffled out. The man was nervous and, as he took the oath, hand on the book of the gospels, the judge bellowed at him to speak up.

'Well, well, sir.' Whittock smiled across at him. 'We know who you are. We know where you work.'

Master Tapler looked decidedly agitated.

'I want you, sir,' Whittock's voice was almost a purr, 'to recall what happened on the twenty-fifth of June of this year. You had all returned to work after the Holy Day, hadn't you?'

'Yes, sir, we had.'

'And the tavern was busy?'

'No, sir.'

'Oh, so what time did you close?'

'Well, sir, because it was summer, the curfew didn't toll till about an hour before midnight.'

'What happened that evening? Anything extraordinary? Come, come, sir,' Whittock continued sharply. 'You know why you are here. Did Master Bartholomew come to the tavern?'

'Yes, sir, between the hours of nine and ten. It was a beautiful summer's day, the sun hadn't set.'

'And what happened?'

'He stayed for a stoup of ale; rather excited he was. Then he and Margot left.'

'Do you know where to?' 'No, sir.'

'And was Mistress Vestler around?' 'She always is, sir.'

'That particular night, what did Mistress Vestler do?'

'Sir, she was most insistent that the cooks and scullions, tapboys and slatterns, myself included, all had to leave early.'

'She was decidedly nervous, Master Tapler?'

'Yes, sir, she was.'

Athelstan glanced at Sir John.

'Oh, forgive me,' the friar whispered. 'Lost in my own troubles I should have questioned those people myself.'

Whittock, apparently distracted by the whisper, glanced across and smiled.

'And what happened then, Master Tapler?'

'Mistress Vestler urged us to leave, customers included.'

'Why?'

'I had the distinct impression,' Tapler's voice fell to a mumble, 'that she was expecting someone.' Whittock smiled from ear to ear. 'Master Tapler, I thank you.'

Chapter 13

Hengan did his best with the ale-taster but it was a losing battle. In fact, the more he questioned the more damaging it became.

'It was very rare for Mistress Vestler to urge us to leave the tavern early, so why that night?'

Hengan realised the harm he was doing, stopped his questioning and Tapler was dismissed.

'She'll hang,' Sir John murmured. 'God save us, Athelstan, but I think she's guilty myself.'

'The court calls Isobel Haden!' the clerk shouted.

Athelstan's head came up. A young woman came out of the adjoining chamber into the well of the court. The clerk escorted her to the witness stand and again the oath was taken. Whittock was now thoroughly enjoying himself.

'We have your name and occupation,' he began. 'You are a seamstress in the parish of St Mary Bethlehem near Holywell. And your sister Margot was a tavern wench at the Paradise Tree?'

'Yes, sir.'

Sir Henry was now leaning forward. 'Did your sister enjoy her work?' 'Yes, sir, she did.'

'How do you know that? Come on, girl, tell the court.'

'My sister wrote me letters.'

'My lord.' Whittock glanced at Sir Henry. 'If necessary, I can produce these letters.'

The chief justice looked at Hengan who shook his head despairingly.

'So, your sister, even though only a tavern wench, was lettered?' Whittock asked.

'Oh yes, sir, our father was a wool merchant. We attended the parish school and learned our horn books. He was very proud of Margot.' Her voice trembled. 'She could read and write.'

'So she was more than just a tavern wench?' Whittock insisted. 'A young woman who might well attract the likes of Bartholomew Menster?'

'Yes, sir. Margot only entered service because she wanted to leave the parish. A good lass, Margot,' Isobel continued defiantly, looking balefully down at Mistress Vestler. 'She would have made a fine marriage.'

'And your sister wrote to you about her work?'

'To be honest, sir, she liked the Paradise Tree. Miss Vestler was kind: she gave her money, clothes, as well as a Book of Hours.'

'Did she now?' Whittock purred. 'My lord, a matter we will return to in the very near future. Mistress Isobel, in those letters, your sister told you how she had met Bartholomew Menster, a clerk of the Tower, that he was sweet on her but Mistress Vestler did not like it?'

'Indeed, on one occasion, Master Bartholomew had sharp words with her.'

'Over what?' Whittock persisted.

'According to the letter, Mistress Vestler had snapped: "I wish you'd leave the matter alone. You have my thoughts on it." '

'And you think Mistress Vestler was talking about your sister?'

'Yes, sir, and Margot did as well.'

'Did Bartholomew propose to your sister?'

'Yes, sir, he did. Margot had high hopes that they would exchange vows at the church door.'

'Did your sister talk about anything else?'

'Oh yes, sir.' Isobel paused and dabbed at her eyes with the cuff of her brown smock.

Athelstan could see Isobel had been well prepared for this. She was undoubtedly telling the truth but Whittock's questions were extracting this piece by piece so the jury could follow and understand the way he was leading.

'Tell us,' Whittock said softly.

'My sister wrote that Master Bartholomew had high hopes of tracing certain lost treasures.'

Her words created murmurs in the court. Sir Henry tapped his knee excitedly.

'My lord.' Whittock walked back to the foot of the steps and glanced up at the justices. 'There seems to be good evidence that Gundulf, Bishop of Rochester, who built the Tower, may have buried his treasure somewhere in the grounds of the Paradise Tree.'

'And have you looked for this treasure?' Sir Henry asked.

'My lord, I have conducted a careful search of the gardens and cellars.' Whittock smiled. 'That's how we found the casks of wine which had not passed through customs.'

'My lord.' Hengan sprang to his feet. 'Is this relevant? Is Mistress Vestler being accused of seizing treasure trove and hiding it from the Crown? She is on trial for murder, not for petty treason!'

Sir Henry pursed his lips. 'True, true, Master Hengan. Master Whittock, this questioning?'

'My lord, my lord.' Whittock spread his hands. 'I simply wish to demonstrate to the court that Mistress Vestler may have had a number of grudges against Master Bartholomew. Not only young Margot but the possible whereabouts of this treasure.' He bowed. 'However, if it's your wish, I shall let the matter rest.' Whittock turned back to the witness. 'Your sister, how long did she serve at the Paradise Tree?'

'About three years.'

'And she spent her money well on clothes, gowns, robes?'

'Yes, she told me she kept careful accounts at the back of her Book of Hours.'

'Ah yes, yes.' Whittock rubbed his chin and tapped the end of his pointed nose. 'Would you say that your sister was a sober young woman, industrious, of sharp wit?'

'Of course!'

'She was not the sort,' Whittock said, then paused, 'to elope in the dead of night, leaving all her possessions behind her?'

'No, sir, she would not.'

'But, that is the story Mistress Vestler gave you when you made enquiries at the Paradise Tree?' 'It was.'

'And then you went there yourself?'

'At the end of July, I stayed three days.'

'And you were shown Margot's chamber?'

'A garret, sir, at the top of the house. It was stripped bare.'

'And your sister's possessions?'

'Mistress Vestler said that's how it had been left. Nothing of what remained could be sold or kept so she had burned it.'

'And what did you think of that?'

'At the time I thought it strange but, perhaps, Margot had taken her possessions with her. Now …' Her voice faltered. 'I cannot understand why Mistress Vestler burned everything.'

'No, no,' Whittock replied, 'and, to tell you the truth, mistress, neither can I.'

Whittock finished with a flourish and Hengan went to the bar where he stared across at Isobel Haden.

'You are on oath, madam.'

'I know I am.'

'And have you told the truth?' 'As God is my witness.'

'But, at the time, you really did think your sister had eloped with Master Menster?' 'Yes, sir, I did.'

'And, when you went to the Paradise Tree, you believed Mistress Vestler?'

'Of course. She seemed a kindly woman. Margot had talked highly of her.'

'And now?'

The young woman became confused. 'She said my sister had eloped but she hadn't. All the time, her corpse lay beneath that oak tree.' Her voice trembled.

'Do you find it hard to accept that Mistress Vestler would do your sister such mortal injury?' 'Yes …'

'Remember, you are on oath!'

'Yes, yes, sir, I do. But why should she burn my poor sister's possessions?'

Hengan thanked the young woman. Her departure was followed by hushed conversation, both among the jury and the spectators.

'I can't understand this,' Athelstan whispered. 'Whittock's had only a few days yet he's ferreted out one thing after another.'

'He is good,' Sir John replied. 'They intend Kathryn to hang and the Crown will put the Paradise Tree under the most careful scrutiny.'

Athelstan glanced up as the clerk called the next witness, a thin, spindle-shanked fellow, his greasy hair tied at the back by a red ribbon. He wore a soiled leather jacket, darned hose and scuffed boots. A chapman or tinker, Athelstan thought: he was proved correct when Matthew Biddlecombe, chapman and trader, took the oath.

'Now, sir,' Whittock began. 'On the twenty-fifth of June last I was travelling to Canterbury to pray before the shrine of blessed Thomas a Becket.' He pointed to Hengan. 'My learned colleague over there was also on pilgrimage. Sir Henry Brabazon, our noble judge, was holding Commissions of the Peace in Middlesex. Mistress Vestler was in the Paradise Tree. So, sir, where were you?'

The chapman shuffled his feet.

'She's very kind,' he muttered.

'Where were you?' Whittock almost shouted.

'I travel the city, sir.' Biddlecombe looked up at the chief justice. 'From Clerkenwell down to Westminster. I sell ribbons and laces, needles, gew-gaws …'

'And very good ones too, I'm sure,' Sir Henry broke in sardonically. 'Pray, Master Matthew, do continue.'

'I do not earn enough to hire a chamber,' the fellow declared. 'But Mistress Vestler lets me sleep in one of her outhouses. She gives me ale and cold pie …'

'Yes, yes, quite,' Whittock intervened. 'Your belly, sir, does not concern us: your words do.' He sniffed noisily. 'I was talking about Midsummer's Day earlier this year. You are on oath, sir; for perjury you can be pressed.'

'I, I know,' Biddlecombe stammered, refusing to glance at Mistress Vestler. 'I arrived at the Paradise Tree on Midsummer's Eve. I intended to stay three days. On the Holy Day itself I went to the fair held outside the Tower.'

'And the day after?'

'I went to London Bridge and returned late. I fell asleep in the outhouse. It was a beautiful night. I woke because I felt strange. The tavern was quiet, then I heard a sound in the yard. When I opened the door and peered out, Mistress Vestler was there.'

'And what was she doing?' Whittock asked quietly.

'She had a mattock, hoe and spade in a small barrow. I remember seeing her clearly; she had taken her shoes off and was wearing a pair of boots.'

'And what time was that, sir?'

'I don't know. Darkness had fallen though the night sky was clear.'

'So,' Whittock insisted. 'Was she going somewhere or coming back?'

'Oh, coming back. She put the mattock and the other implements up against one of the doors, wheeled the barrow away and went into the scullery.'

'You must have thought it was strange? I mean, why should a tavern-keeper, so prosperous and with so many servants, be gardening or digging at such a late hour? That's what you thought, wasn't it, Master Biddlecombe?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And what else?' Whittock leaned back like a reproving schoolmaster.

'Well, sir, she was quiet, as if she didn't want anyone to see or hear what she was doing.'

'I am sure she did not.' Master Whittock spread his hands and looked at Hengan.

Hengan didn't bother to rise from his stool.

'Master Biddlecombe, how did you know it was Mistress Vestler?'

'She held a lantern horn.'

'Thank you.' Hengan rubbed his face in his hands, a despairing gesture.

Whittock, however, had not finished. A tree-feller was called; he took the oath glibly and loudly proclaimed that, on the morning of the 27th of June, Mistress Vestler had hired him to go out and lop the branches on the oak tree in Black Meadow.

'That was early, wasn't it?' Whittock asked.

'Yes, sir. Pruning of trees is not usually done till autumn and, to be honest, I really couldn't see why she wanted to cut such a great tree. I mean, it stands by itself in Black Meadow.'

'What's the relevance of this?' Hengan rose, his face suffused with anger.

Sir Henry chose to overlook his discourtesy.

'Master Whittock?' he asked.

'Why, my lord, the relevance is quite clear. The corpses of the two victims were found beneath the oak tree. If you have a labourer moving around cutting branches, the grass and soil are disturbed, branches and twigs fall down.'

'In other words,' Sir Henry observed, 'Mistress Vestler didn't want the oak tree pruned but rather the ground which covered the graves to be disguised.'

Whittock bowed. 'My lord, you are, as ever, most perceptive.'

Whittock's last witness caused a stir. Athelstan didn't recognise the name, Walter Trumpington, until First Gospel came striding out of the chamber and across to take the oath. He had the sense not to play his games here, but took the oath, gave his name and claimed he belonged to an order called the Four Gospels who had the use of a small plot of land in Black Meadow.

'You recall the morning of the twenty-sixth of June last?' Whittock demanded.

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'Mistress Vestler came down to see us. She asked if, the previous day, we had seen anyone we knew in Black Meadow.'

'And had you?'

'No, sir, we had not.'

'Did Mistress Vestler often make such a request of you?'

First Gospel, careful not to look at Mistress Vestler, shook his head.

'She was good and kind to us but I thought it was strange at the time.'

Hengan rose to question but First Gospel would not be shaken: he and his community remembered the incident quite clearly.

Brabazon then called Kathryn Vestler to the stand.

Hengan made careful play of her pious works, her good reputation and character but he could elicit nothing to shake the testimony of so many witnesses. Whittock closed like a weasel would on a rabbit, biting and tearing. Once again Mistress Vestler refused to discuss Gundulf's treasure or the allegation of smuggling. She confessed to burning Margot Haden's clothing and property. She admitted to hiring the woodcutter and, when confronted with the chapman's testimony, did not even bother to make an excuse.

'What I do on my own property and when I do it,' she declared defiantly, 'is my own concern!'

Nor did she deny approaching First Gospel and asking the question.

Athelstan didn't really listen to the interrogation. He studied Mistress Vestler closely. She stood resolute and pale-faced, drained of all bonhomie. Athelstan recognised that logic, every item of evidence, spoke against her yet there was something dreadfully wrong. He sensed she was lying, but why?

The clerks gathered to ask Chief Justice Brabazon whether there would be a recess but he waved his sprig of rosemary: he had scented blood, the hunt would continue until the quarry was brought down. Whittock summarised the evidence. Hengan followed with an impassioned and eloquent plea on behalf of his client but his desperation was apparent. At one time he even hinted that, if Mistress Vestler produced Gundulf's treasure, the Crown might consider a pardon for all past offences. Sir Henry chose to ignore this. He conferred with his fellow justices then gave a pithy but damning summation of the case against Mistress Vestler. An hour candle was lit. The jury withdrew but the candle was scarcely burning before the foreman came back and announced that they had reached their verdict. The jury filed back into their pews. The clerk reread the indictment and tolled a hand bell.