Текст книги "Field of Blood"

Автор книги: Paul Harding

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Sir John leaned over to hide behind the man in front while he took a generous swig from the miraculous wineskin.

'If I wasn't so busy, Sir Jack,' Sir Henry called out without even glancing across, 'I'd ask for a drink from that myself!'

Before any eyebrows could be raised or questions asked, he gestured at Brokestreet to continue.

'The tavern was silent. The night was a black one, no moon, no stars.'

'Which month, Mistress Brokestreet?'

'I believe June, my lord: sudden storms had swept in.'

'You have a good memory?'

'My lord, Mistress Vestler said the rain would make the ground softer.' 'Proceed!'

'We brought a handcart into the taproom and placed the two corpses on. We took them out around the side of the tavern, through the herb gardens and into Black Meadow.'

'If it was so dark,' Sir Henry interrupted, 'how could you see?'

'Mistress Vestler lit lantern horns: two if I remember correctly. One she placed at the entrance to the meadow, the other at the foot of the great oak tree.'

'And the corpses?'

'We wheeled them out together. Mistress Vestler had a mattock and hoe. We dug a shallow pit and threw the corpses in. My lord, I was afeared. Mistress Vestler is a cunning woman and she threatened me. I later left her service and she gave me good silver to keep my mouth closed.'

'Heavens above!' Sir John whispered. 'I remember Bartholomew Menster. He was quite a senior clerk in the Tower. People wondered what had happened to him.'

Brabazon lifted the sprig of rosemary to his nose, sniffing at it carefully, eyes intent on Brokestreet. Sir John might be right, Athelstan reflected: the chief justice had a heart of flint but he was no man's fool. He had not taken a liking to the prisoner at the bar.

'You do realise what you are saying?' Sir Henry asked, lowering the sprig of rosemary.

'It is a very grave matter,' one of the other justices now asserted, 'to go on oath and accuse another citizen of hideous murder.'

'I will go even further,' Brokestreet answered defiantly. 'The Paradise Tree is a busy place. People coming and going as they pleased. For all I know, my lord, there may be other corpses in that field.'

'A true Haceldama,' Sir Henry said, quoting from the scriptures. 'A Potter's Field, a Field of Blood. Well, Mistress Brokestreet, you have thrown yourself upon the mercy of the court but, of course, you are not released. You will be taken back to Newgate, though lodged in more comfortable surroundings in the gatehouse. The court will pay good monies for your sustenance and upkeep while these matters are investigated. Do you have anything to add, mistress?'

The prisoner shook her head, a smile of triumph on her face.

'If you are wrong,' the chief justice continued, 'you shall certainly hang! Sir John Cranston, would you please come before the court?'

Sir John gave a great sigh, handed his wineskin to Athelstan then stopped abruptly. The friar followed his gaze, which was fixed on a royal messenger on the other side of the court. The man had just entered, his boots splattered with mud. He carried a small leather bag containing missives, documents for the court.

'Satan's tits!' Sir John breathed. 'What is it, Sir John? What's the matter?' 'I know your man, one of the victims.' 'Sir John Cranston!' the tipstaff called. 'The court awaits!'

Sir John pushed by and went down to stand, feet apart, before the bar.

'Sir Jack, it is good to see you. You are the King's coroner in the city of London? It is the wish of this court that you take Mistress Kathryn Vestler and place her under house arrest. If she attempts to flee, she is liable to forfeiture of life, limb and property. You are then to proceed to this field known as Black Meadow which lies behind Mistress Vestler's tavern. You are to take bailiffs and beadles from the city and discover the truth behind the prisoner's allegations.'

'And if they are lies, as I am sure they are, I will come back and assist in her hanging!'

'And if they are not,' Sir Henry bellowed, 'you are to arrest Kathryn Vestler and bring her before this court!'

Chapter 3

Sir John Cranston sipped from the blackjack of ale and stared up at the side of pork, wrapped in a linen bag, hanging from one of the rafters to be cured. He smacked his lips and gazed appreciatively round the taproom of the Paradise Tree. The sun was still strong, turning the late afternoon a mellow golden colour, with only a tinge of early autumn. The taproom was fairly empty. Athelstan walked towards a window seat from where he gazed across the lush herb garden at the red-painted wicket gate.

'That must lead to Black Meadow,' he observed.

'It certainly does.' Sir John joined him. 'And, if you go through the meadow, it will take you down to the Thames.'

He took the friar through the door and into the gardens. To the far right were some apple trees, heavy with ripening fruit. Above these soared the great turrets of the Tower.

'Old Vestler was a canny soldier,' Sir John said. 'He fought in France and secured many ransoms. He came back after the Treaty of Bretigny, sold everything he had and bought this tavern. Even in lean times the Paradise Tree always prospered.'

Athelstan sniffed the air; he caught a tang of wood smoke and burning meat. That's not from the kitchens, he thought, I wonder where?

'Brother, look at this!'

Athelstan went over to where Sir John stood staring down at a gleaming sundial. The face, of burnished bronze with Roman lettering, was fixed into a thick stone cupola which rested on a squat column of ancient stone about a yard and a half high.

'A curiosity,' Athelstan said, noticing how the arm of the sundial rested between two numbers. 'I wonder how accurately it measures the passing of the sun?'

'I don't know,' Sir John growled. 'You're the student of the heavens!'

'Was Stephen Vestler?'

'No, he just loved collecting curiosities.'

'Ah yes, I noticed the old weapons fastened to the tavern walls.'

'Stephen bought them from the Tower garrison, a reminder of his warlike days.'

Athelstan walked back through the taproom, along a stone-paved corridor. The walls, clean and lime-washed to repel flies, were decorated with old maces, halberds and shields. A snowy white cat crouched on the bottom step of the stairs leading to the rooms above. Athelstan grasped the newel post carved in the shape of the tree of forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden. He tried not to rouse the cat as he listened to the sounds of weeping. Hengan had taken Mistress

Vestler up to her chamber. The poor widow woman was distraught, beside herself with fear and anger.

'God save and protect them!' Athelstan said to himself. 'But the serpent has entered paradise and our golden day is about to turn to night!'

He heard sounds further up the path: the gate being opened, the crunch of boots on gravel. Henry Flaxwith, red-faced, lips pursed in self-importance, strode into the tavern. Chief bailiff to Sir John Cranston, Flaxwith carried a cudgel in one hand and the lead to his dog Samson in the other. Athelstan, out of charity, always smiled at the dog. Privately, he'd never seen such an ugly animal, which was a squat bull mastiff with a wicked face, gleaming eyes, slavering jaws and indescribable personal habits.

'Good morrow, Brother.'

Flaxwith moved his cudgel to the other hand and grasped Athelstan's. Samson immediately cocked his leg against the door post. The white cat rose, back arched, tail up, hissing and spitting. Samson growled and the cat promptly fled up the stairs.

'You'd best come with me,' Athelstan told him and led him into the taproom.

The door to the kitchen buttery now thronged with chambermaids and potboys. They all stood anxious-faced watching this drama unfold. Flaxwith greeted Sir John while his burly bailiffs squatted on stools, their mattocks, hoes and spades piled in a corner.

'Right lads!' Sir John rubbed his hands together. 'This is the Paradise Tree, property of a friend of mine, Kathryn Vestler. So, keep your sticky fingers to yourselves. I want you to dig a hole.'

He led them out into the herb garden and down through the wicket gate. Black Meadow was inappropriately named, for it consisted of a peaceful, broad swath of green fringed by hedges on either side. It swept down to where the Thames glinted in the distance. Even from where he stood, Athelstan could see boats and wherries, barges and heavy-bellied cogs making ready for sea.

'Why is it called Black Meadow?'

'God knows,' Sir John replied. 'Mistress Vestler leases it out for grazing.' He pointed to a small flock of sheep. 'And, of course, makes a pretty profit.'

Athelstan gazed at the thick grass, weeds twisted in wheels of fresh lushness, various coloured flowers dotted as far as the eye could see.

'That,' Athelstan pointed to the great oak tree, its branches stretching out to create a broad pool of pleasant shade, 'must be what Brokestreet meant.'

The oak was huge, five to six feet in girth. Its broad leaves were already tinged with gold as summer turned to autumn. In this lazy, pleasant spot lovers could meet or families take bread and wine out on Holy Days to eat and drink, lie in the cool grass and stare up at the sky.

'It's hardly a place for murder,' Athelstan commented.

Sir John marched his bailiff across towards the oak tree. The friar sat down and plucked at some daisies, twirling them in his fingers, admiring their golden centre, their soft white petals.

'Perfectly made. Not even Solomon in all his glory was as beautiful as you.' He smiled. 'Or so the good Lord said.'

He sat and watched as the harmony of this green pleasantness was shattered by shouts and oaths as the bailiffs began to dig.

'Brokestreet never said which side of the oak the corpses were buried. So dig a ditch lads, two foot wide and about a yard deep,' bawled Sir John.

They didn't get very far. Progress was hindered by the tough, far-reaching roots of the oak tree.

'They are not country people,' Athelstan noted.

The bailiffs had to pull back, a good two yards from the turn of the oak tree where they began again. Athelstan watched for a while but he was distracted by a plume of smoke at the far end of the field, rising above where the land dipped towards the river. He caught the smell of wood smoke and, once again, the fragrance of burning meat.

'There shouldn't be anyone there,' he muttered.

He got up, clutching his chancery bag more securely, and walked through the field past the sweating bailiffs. Sir John told Flaxwith to keep an eye on them.

'And that bloody dog away from the sheep!'

These had already glimpsed Samson's slavering stare and moved as close as they could to the far hedge.

'Where are you going, Brother?'

Athelstan pointed to the smoke.

'If this is Mistress Vestler's land, what's that? Travellers? Moon People?'

They breasted the hill and looked down. The meadow was cut off from the mud flats along the Thames by a thick prickly hedge. In the far corner stood a wattle-daubed cottage with a thatched roof.

From a hole in the centre of the thatch rose a plume of black smoke and, before the open door, a group of figures crouched before a fire ringed with bricks over which a turnspit had been fixed. Athelstan narrowed his eyes.

'Do you know these, Sir Jack?'

The coroner, however, was helping himself to a generous swig of wine; Athelstan shook his head when Sir John offered to share it.

'No thanks, Sir John, that blackjack of ale was enough for me. Who are they? At first glance I thought they were Franciscans.'

'They are wearing brown gowns, cords round their waists, there must be four all together. One man and three women. The fellow's head shaved as bald as a pigeon's egg. I wonder if they know anything?'

Sir John strode off, cloak swirling behind him. Athelstan hurried to keep up. The four figures were not alarmed by their approach but continued with their cooking, more concerned with turning the rabbit on their makeshift spit. The women were young but their faces were greasy, marked with dirt. The man, thin as an ash pole, was scrawny-faced, his bald head glistening with sweat. He came forward, hands extended.

'Pax et bonum,Brothers!'

Athelstan noticed the watery, constantly blinking eyes, the rather slack mouth. A man not in full possession of his wits, he reflected.

'Pax et bonum,'the stranger repeated as he grasped Sir John's podgy hand and kissed it.

'And a very good afternoon to you too,' Sir John replied. 'Who are you? What are you doing here?'

'I am the First Gospel.'

'I beg your pardon?' Athelstan intervened.

'Good afternoon.' The First Gospel stepped closer, raising his hand in benediction.

'I am Brother Athelstan, a Dominican from Southwark. This is Sir John Cranston, a coroner of the city. What are you doing here? What is your real name?'

The man stared at him, lips parted, to reveal two white teeth hanging from red sore gums.

'I am the First Gospel,' he replied. 'And these are my companions.'

He stepped aside to introduce the three women. They all looked the same, with black, straggly hair and fat greasy faces. They seemed friendly enough and waved shyly at him.

'This is the Second Gospel, the Third Gospel and the Fourth Gospel. We are the Book of the Gospels,' the stranger concluded triumphantly.

Athelstan chewed his lip. Sir John's face was a picture to behold, lips parted, blue eyes popping.

'Satan's futtocks!' he breathed. 'If I hadn't seen and heard myself, I wouldn't have believed it!'

First Gospel gestured to a log before the fire.

'Be our guests. Would you like something to drink? We have a small hogshead of ale, some good wine and, in a short while, rabbit meat stuffed with herbs. It is good for a man to eat. The body may be a donkey but it must be strong enough to carry the soul, yes, Brother?'

Athelstan took a seat beside the coroner and mentally beat his breast at his arrogance. This stranger seemed sharper-witted than he first thought. He watched as the Four Gospels bustled around. Such religious groups were now springing up all over the kingdom and beyond the Narrow Seas. The Illuminated, The Brides of Christ, The Flowers of Heaven, The Pillars of Jacob, The Tower of Angels. All filled with fanciful ideas that the end of time was nigh and that Christ would come again to mete out justice and establish a new Jerusalem.

One of the women kept turning the spit and Athelstan found his mouth watering at the savoury odour. The women looked happy, content, not as fey-witted or mad as members of other groups Athelstan had encountered.

'Who let you camp here?' Sir John demanded, finding it difficult to sit on the log. He unhitched his cloak and placed it on the ground beside his beaver hat.

'Oh, Widow Vestler,' First Gospel replied.

'She is a good woman,' Three Gospels chorused as one. 'We consider her to be one of the elect. In the new kingdom, when Michael comes, she will be given estates, palaces, full hordes for her tribute.'

'And who is this Michael?' Athelstan asked.

'Why, Brother, St Michael the Archangel.' The First Gospel pointed to a gap in the hedge. 'We watch the river for him.'

'I am sorry.' Athelstan kept his face straight.

'No, listen.' First Gospel wagged a warning finger as his voice fell to a whisper. He leaned forward, a fanatical gleam in his eyes. 'Brother, you will not believe this but, soon, St Michael will come up the Thames in a golden barge.'

'By himself?' Sir John interrupted. 'Or will he have Moleskin rowing him?'

First Gospel looked puzzled.

'We've never heard of him, sir. No, no, St Michael will come with the other archangels, Gabriel and Raphael. The barge will be rowed by massed ranks of seraphim.'

'I see,' Sir John murmured. Tm getting the full picture now. And so why should they come up the Thames?'

'Why, sir, to take over the Tower. Its roofs will turn to gold, its walls to gleaming white ivory. The angels will set up camp there and prepare a worthy tabernacle for the return of Le Bon SeigneurJesu.'

At this surprising announcement all Four Gospels leaned forward, their brows touching the earth.

'And who told you all this?' Athelstan asked as they sat back on their heels.

'I had a vision,' First Gospel replied. 'I was once a shoemaker in the town of Dover. I went up on the cliffs and I heard the voices. "Go," they said, "go to the banks of the Thames, set up camp and await our return." '

'And these three ladies?' Athelstan asked.

'They are my wives. They, too, are included in the Great Secret.'

'I wish I had visions like that,' Sir John muttered out of the corner of his mouth. 'Good ale, fresh meat and all three in bed at the same time.'

'Hush, Jack!' Athelstan warned him.

'We came here four years ago,' First Gospel went on sonorously. 'At first Widow Vestler turned us away but then she thought otherwise. We set up camp. This cottage was already standing.'

'And when will St Michael come?'

'Why sir, the year of Our Lord, thirteen eighty-one.'

'Why not thirteen eighty-two?' Athelstan asked.

'One, three, eight and one make thirteen!' came the sharp reply. 'If you count the figures together, they come to thirteen. Now one and three is four, and we are the Four Gospels preparing the way!'

Athelstan gaped in astonishment. Of all the theories he'd heard, both sublime and ridiculous, this was the most bizarre. Yet the Four Gospels seemed harmless enough, probably swinging between sanctity and madness. He smiled to himself. Prior Anselm always believed the line between the two was very thin.

Sir John pointed to the gap in the hedge. 'And you go out there on to the mud flats to watch and wait?'

'Oh, yes, even at night.'

First Gospel got to his feet and led them through the gap in the hawthorn hedge. Athelstan was immediately caught by the contrast. It was like moving from one country to another. The lush green meadow, the sweet smell of cooking, the perfume of the flowers, gave way to the mud flats along the Thames, which even in the sunlight looked bleak and forbidding. The ground fell away like a sea shore, the steep incline cut by a barrier wall, probably built to resist flooding though the stones were crumbling and mildewed. He and Sir John made their way carefully down and stood on that. Beyond it the broad mud flats were dotted with pools, the hunting ground of gulls and cormorants which rose in clusters and with loud shrieks. The tide was still ebbing, the river itself quite peaceful now. Only the occasional barge or wherry, bearing the royal arms, made its way along to the Tower quayside.

'What is this?' Athelstan tapped his sandalled foot on the wall.

'Widow Vestler said it was Roman but that sharp lawyer of hers, Hengan, he came down here once to make sure all was well. He said all these lands once belonged to Gundulf, the man who built the Tower.'

'And why did Widow Vestler let you stay here?' Athelstan asked.

'Oh, she's kind-hearted, very generous. She gives us food and drink, says we are harmless enough.'

Athelstan glanced at the base of the wall and noticed the ground was charred and burned. The embers looked fresh.

'What is this?' He pointed.

'Widow Vestler allows us to build a fire at night and put an oil lamp here. We asked her permission,' First Gospel added warningly.

'Of course,' Sir John agreed. 'Just in case St Michael comes by night and can't see his way.'

'Oh, Sir John, you are a wise man,' one of the female Gospels simpered, standing behind them.

'Flattery! Flattery!' Athelstan nudged the coroner in the ribs. 'Another admirer, eh, Sir Jack!'

He glimpsed one of the standards flying from a passing barge and recalled Sir John's outburst in the Guildhall. He climbed down from the wall, tugging at the coroner's sleeve.

'Sir Jack, you mentioned that you know one of the victims?'

Cranston tapped his forehead with the heel of his hand.

'Lord save us, friar, I did.' He led Athelstan away from the Four Gospels. 'I am sorry, in the excitement

I forgot but, look you Brother, I glimpsed that messenger wearing the royal livery in the Guildhall, yes?'

Athelstan nodded.

Sir John swallowed hard. 'I believe that young man, the victim who had no boots, he, too, was a royal messenger. And, unless my memory fails me, a principal one.'

Athelstan's face paled. 'Oh no!' he groaned.

Sir John himself looked worried, clicking his tongue.

'I think he was called Miles Sholter.' 'Heaven forfend!'

'According to the law,' Sir John continued, 'if a royal messenger is killed, the parish or village in which his corpse is found is liable to a heavy fine unless it produces the murderer.' He looked over his shoulder to where the Four Gospels were chattering excitedly among themselves. 'Southwark is known as a nest of sedition and rebellion. The peasants under their secret council, the Great Community of the Realm, have strong support in St Erconwald's parish and elsewhere.'

'I follow your reasoning, my lord coroner,' Athelstan intervened. 'They'll maintain this royal messenger was ambushed by rebels and murdered while these same traitors killed the whore and her customer.'

'The fine would be great. In Shoreditch, two years ago, the parish of St Giles was fined four hundred pounds sterling and, because they couldn't pay, the leaders of the parish council went to prison.'

'But …?'

'Sir John Cranston, my lord coroner!'

Henry Flaxwith stood at the top of the hill, gesturing at them to come.

'Truly, we are launched upon a sea of trouble,' Sir John remarked. 'Brother, they must have found something.'

They hurriedly climbed back up the hill. Flaxwith, red face perspiring, leaned on his shovel.

'Oh, Sir John, Brother Athelstan, you have to see this! Eh, come back!'

The bailiff shouted as Samson, a bone in his slavering jaws, raced by them down towards the Four Gospels. As they turned away, Athelstan heard the chaos breaking out behind them. Samson had a nose for food; he would probably have dropped the bone and headed straight for that cooking rabbit.

Athelstan followed Sir John's quick stride to the great ditch dug around the oak tree. His heart sank at the sight of the two pathetic bundles lying on the grass. He glanced into the ditch and groaned. At least four other skeletons lay sprawled as if they had been killed, their cadavers bundled into a hastily prepared grave.

'You found them like this?' Sir John barked.

'Four here, Sir John, and two more on the other side. Between each skeleton there's at least half a yard. There may even be more.'

The skeletons lay in different positions: on their sides, backs or faces down in the dirt. Scraps of clothing, pieces of leather boots, rusting buckles were strewn around. One was apparently a female whose bony fingers still clutched a leather bag while the brooch which had pinned her hair lay in the mud beside her.

'Can you say how they died?' Sir John asked as he eased himself into the pit.

'There's no mark of violence on them, Sir John,' Flaxwith replied.

Athelstan murmured a quick requiem and also climbed into the pit. He and Sir John moved the skeletons over but they could find no blow, no crack where sword or dagger had sliced bone or skull. Athelstan hastily sketched a blessing, clambered out and crossed to the two soiled bundles. Flaxwith pulled back the dirty canvas sheets. The corpses beneath were in the last stages of decay: the flesh had dried, shrivelled and peeled off. This made the skulls even more grisly with their sagging jaws and empty eye-sockets. One corpse had the remains of a cloak about it. The other, certainly a woman, shreds of her kirtle, yellow and blue in colour. A pair of pattens were still lashed to her feet while the boots the man wore, though cracked and grey with dirt, were of good Spanish leather. Sir John knelt down beside the cadavers. He slipped the ring off the dead man's finger.

'It bears the royal insignia,' he declared, getting to his feet. 'There is little doubt these are the cadavers of Bartholomew Menster and Margot Haden.'

Helped by Athelstan, he scrutinised the corpses further, turning them over. Now and again they had to rise and walk away gulping in the fresh air.

'A pit of putrefaction,' Sir John breathed. 'They bear no mark of violence, no blow to the head or body!' He faced the friar. 'Satan's bollocks! Alice Brokestreet is apparently telling the truth!'

They walked back to the pit, Sir John issuing orders and distributing largesse.

'Henry, I want you and one of your burly lads to come with me. The rest are to sheet these corpses and take them to the Guildhall.'

'There may be more,' Flaxwith pointed pout.

'Aye, there may well be.' Sir John wiped the sweat from his brow. He strode off, not even waiting for Athelstan who had to hurry to catch up.

'What's the matter, Sir John?'

The other man stopped, tears welling in his eyes.

'Ten years ago, Brother, on the great north road leading to York, stood a hostelry, the Black Raven, a spacious, well-endowed tavern. It was managed by a taverner and his two sons. A lonely place out on the moors, though welcoming enough. Rumours sprang up, about travellers, pilgrims, chapmen disappearing. At first people shrugged these off. Travellers often became lost on the moors. The mists come swirling in, hiding paths and trackways and the unwary can blunder into a marsh or mire. However, the local sheriff investigated. He is a friend of mine, keen of wit and sharp of eye. To cut a long story short, Brother, the taverner was murdering solitary travellers and burying their bodies out on the moors.'

'And you think Mistress Vestler did the same?'

'Athelstan, corpses don't appear under oak trees unless they are put there!'

'But you said Mistress Vestler was a good woman?'

'Oh, she and her husband were kind and friendly but they did have a partiality for gold and silver.' He stamped his boot on the ground. 'God knows what lies beneath here but I don't think Kathryn will placate Sir Henry Brabazon with coy smiles and fluttering eyelids.' He turned round.

Flaxwith and another bailiff were following. Behind them, triumphant as a knight returning from a tourney, waddled Samson, a half-roasted rabbit between his jaws.

'Brother, I thought life had become too quiet and peaceful. Now we have Mistress Vestler, a murderess, perhaps many times over, while your parishioners are going to receive the shock of their lives.'

He marched back through the garden into the taproom.

Master Hengan appeared in the taproom but Sir John shook his head, gesturing at him to leave. He beckoned at the ale-master who was standing in the kitchen doorway, scullions and maids thronging behind him.

'Come in here!' Sir John ordered. 'Go on, all of you, take a seat!'

The maids and scullions did. The potboys sat on the floor, the spit-turners took their place on either side of the fireplace.

'Now, I have questions for you. Do any of you recall a clerk known as Bartholomew Menster who came here, sweet on a chambermaid, Margot Haden?'

'Oh yes.' The ale-master spoke up. 'A tall man, Bartholomew, quiet and studious.' He moved his body in imitation. 'Shoulders rather hunched. He really liked our Margot. He often came here after he had finished work in the Tower.' He pointed to the far corner near the garden door. 'He'd always sit there and eat, wait for Margot to finish.'

'And did Mistress Vestler encourage this?' Athelstan asked.

'She was welcoming enough,' the ale-master replied. 'But she often scolded Margot for wasting time. She was kind enough to Bartholomew because he paid well and brought other clerks here.'

Sir John sat down on a bench, Athelstan beside him. The friar touched his chancery bag but he was too tense, too anxious to write; he would remember all this later on when he returned to St Erconwald's.

'And what happened to Bartholomew and Margot?'

'You know, my lord,' one of the potboys piped up.

'No lad, I don't, remind me,' Sir John asked sweetly.

'About three months ago we'd all been out to the midsummer fair. Margot and Bartholomew disappeared soon afterwards. Officers came from the Tower to enquire about the whereabouts of Bartholomew but we couldn't help them.'

'And Margot disappeared at the same time?'

'Of course.' The boy rubbed his nose on the back of his hand. 'Gone like a river mist they were.'

'And what did Mistress Vestler say?'

'She thought they had eloped.'

'Aye that's right,' a maid intervened. 'But the officer from the Tower, a tall beanpole of a man, he said that couldn't be true, Master Bartholomew had not taken any of his property with him.'

'You are sure of that?' Athelstan asked.

'Yes and we thought it strange because, just after they disappeared, Mistress Vestler said she had kept Margot's belongings long enough. Nothing much, just a gown, a cloak, some trifles. She was in a fair temper. She burned them on the midden-heap in the yard.'

'Why did she do that?' Athelstan asked.

'Mistress Vestler said her tavern had enough clutter. Margot was not coming back and she wouldn't get a price for any of the goods.' The maid shrugged.

'Did you notice anything else untoward?' Athelstan asked. 'About their disappearance?'

A chorus of no's greeted his question. Sir John got to his feet and pointed to the ale-master.

'I'm appointing you as steward. You will answer to the Crown on what happens here.'

The ale-master's face paled. 'And Mistress Vestler?'

'I have no choice,' Sir John replied. 'I must arrest her for murder and commit her for trial before the King's justices!'

Chapter 4

This declaration was met by horrified silence.

'It's impossible!' the ale-master whispered.

'I must tell you,' Sir John replied, 'that we have been out to Black Meadow. Aye, and it's well named. We have discovered the corpses of both Margot and Bartholomew.'

One of the maids started to sob.

'And worse yet,' the coroner continued, 'the skeletons of six others.'

One of the potboys began to shake,– he crept like a little child to sit with one of the maids who put her arms around him. Athelstan studied them carefully. These were not hard men and women but good people, simple in their loves and hates, their work and lives. The evil Sir John was describing was well beyond their experience. If Kathryn Vestler was guilty of such hideous crimes, her servants were certainly innocent. Athelstan rose and walked into the centre of the taproom.