The Field of Blood

by Paul Doherty

  ‘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.

  ‘In Christ’s name,’ he declared, ‘and I ask you now, as you will answer for the truth before Christ and His court of angels, do any of you know anything about these deaths?’

  The assembled company just looked at him.

  ‘Then I have my answer. So, I ask you this, solemnly, on the Eucharist, the body and blood of Christ.’ He paused. ‘Over the last two years, has anyone ever come here, making enquiries about people who stayed at the Paradise Tree?’

  The ale-master stepped forward and two of the chambermaids raised their hands.

  ‘Brother, in the last few months to my recollection, strangers have come asking, “Did so and so reside here? Did they hire a chamber? Did they eat and drink?”’

  ‘I have heard the same.’ One of the maids spoke up.

  ‘Who were these people?’ Sir John asked.

  ‘Oh strangers, chapmen, pedlars, tinkers, people coming in and out of the city.’

  ‘Aye and enquiries were made about Bartholomew and Margot,’ another offered.

  ‘There’s more.’ The potboy came forward, his little thin arms hanging by his side like sticks. ‘I have seen Mistress Vestler burn possessions.’

  Athelstan glanced at the coroner, who usually maintained his bonhomie, his fiery good humour, but his rubicund face had paled. He looked haggard, rather old.

  ‘Oh, Sir John,’ Athelstan sighed. ‘What do we have here?’

  ‘You’d best go about your duties,’ Sir John told the tavern workers. ‘Brother Athelstan, come with me.’

  They went out up the wooden staircase. The Paradise Tree was well named. The floorboards were polished and cleaned. The windows on the stairwells were full of glass, some even painted with emblems. Bronze brackets for candles were fastened into the wooden panelling. Flowers and pots of herbs were tastefully arranged along shelves and sills. The first gallery even had woollen rugs to deaden the sound; small pictures in gilt frames decorated its walls. At the far end a door stood half-open. Inside Kathryn Vestler was sitting on a chair, Hengan beside her on a stool. The tavern-mistress’s face had aged, pale, her eyes red-rimmed, her podgy cheeks soaked with tears. She had a piece of linen in her hands which she kept twisting round and round, staring at a point above their heads, lips moving wordlessly. Beside her on the floor was a half-filled goblet of wine. Hengan looked pitifully at them.

  ‘Sir John, we have heard the rumours.’

  ‘I am innocent!’ Mistress Vestler protested. ‘Before God and His angels, Sir John, I am innocent of any crime!’

  Athelstan moved over to a small desk and stool while Sir John took a chair just inside the door and sat in front of the widow woman. He leaned forward and clutched her hand.

  ‘Kathryn, I must tell you we have discovered a horrid sight.’

  He then informed her in pithy phrases everything they had seen and learned since their arrival. Mistress Vestler grew mor
e composed; Athelstan wondered if Hengan had slipped an opiate in the drink.

  ‘I know nothing of the corpses. Margot Haden disappeared about midsummer, Bartholomew with her. True, officers came from the Tower but I could not tell them anything.’

  ‘Why did you burn Margot’s possessions?’ Sir John asked.

  ‘They were paltry,’ she stammered. ‘Nothing much. I, I . . . didn’t think it was right to sell or give them to someone else, so I burned them. Bartholomew was a clerk, a fairly wealthy man. I thought Margot had left them here as tawdry rubbish. Her swain, her lover would buy her more.’

  ‘Did you like Bartholomew?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘He was a good, kindly man. But, Brother, I have suitors enough. Bartholomew was of little interest to me.’

  ‘And the others?’ Sir John asked.

  ‘What others?’ the woman snapped.

  ‘Your own servants. Enquiries have been made here of people who visited the Paradise Tree.’

  ‘That is nonsense!’ Hengan spoke up heatedly.

  ‘In what way, sir?’

  ‘The Paradise Tree is a busy tavern. It stands near the Tower and the river. People often visit here. It is logical that enquiries were made. Did so and so come? Where have they gone?’

  ‘But they also said you burned the possessions of people who stayed here?’

  ‘Sir Jack,’ Mistress Vestler replied. ‘There are at least twenty chambers in this tavern. Guests come, they leave scraps of clothing, items of saddlery which are broken or disused. I keep a clean and tidy house. What crime is there in burning such paltry things?’

  Sir John got to his feet and, in the time-honoured fashion, touched her shoulder.

  ‘Mistress Kathryn Vestler, by the power granted to me by the King and his city council, I arrest you for the murder of Bartholomew Menster, Margot Haden and other unnamed victims!’

  Mistress Vestler bowed her head and sobbed.

  ‘You will be taken to Newgate and lodged there to answer these charges before the King’s justices at the Guildhall.’

  Hengan got to his feet.

  ‘Sir John, may I have a word?’

  The two left the chamber. Athelstan looked across at the weeping woman. He did not know what to think. In his time he’d discovered that murder could have the sweetest face and the kindliest smile.

  ‘I shall pray for you, Mistress Vestler,’ he murmured.

  The woman’s face came up, her eyes hard.

  ‘Pray, Brother? What use is prayer now? Alice Brokestreet has had her way. Will you pray for me when they turn me off the ladder at Smithfield?’

  ‘That has not yet happened. Put your trust in God and Sir John.’

  Gathering up his chancery bag, Athelstan joined Sir John and Hengan out in the gallery. The lawyer was deeply agitated.

  ‘Sir Jack! Sir Jack! What can we do?’

  ‘Master Hengan, I’ve told you the evidence. What other explanation could there be?’

  ‘Is it possible that Alice Brokestreet and another murdered Bartholomew and Margot then buried their corpses in Black Meadow?’

  ‘What proof is there of that?’ Athelstan asked.

  Hengan, anxious-eyed, stared back.

  ‘Master Hengan, you are a lawyer,’ Athelstan continued. ‘I merely ask what Chief Justice Brabazon will demand. Why should Alice Brokestreet and this mysterious accomplice kill these two people? Why should they take them out and bury them in Black Meadow where they could have been seen by anyone in the tavern or that motley crew, the Four Gospels, whom I’ve just met?’

  Hengan’s face creased into a smile.

  ‘Mistress Vestler let them stay here out of the kindness of her heart,’ he countered. ‘Perhaps they can be of assistance? They must have seen something, surely? Corpses cannot be trundled out and buried in such a place without someone noticing!’

  ‘Precisely,’ Sir John confirmed, taking a swig from his wineskin. ‘And the justices will ask the same question.’ He looked up at the white plaster ceiling. ‘Master Ralph, you will defend Mistress Vestler?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Then let me speak to you privately.

  Sir John strode to the top of the stairs and bawled for Flaxwith, who came lumbering up. Sir John told him to guard Mistress Vestler then gestured at Hengan and Athelstan to follow him. They went down through the taproom and out into the garden. A small, flowery arbour built out of trellis wood stood at the far side, a cool, secretive place with a quilted bench round its curving sides. They took their seats, Sir John bawling for tankards of ale. While they waited till these were served, Athelstan studied the different plants and herbs: matted sea lavender, bog bean, pea flower, fairy flax; bees buzzed above them, butterflies, white and deep coloured, flitted from plant to plant. A mallard from the small stew pond at the other end of the garden strutted around. Swallows swooped across the grass and out over Black Meadow, somewhere a woodpecker rattled noisily against the bark of a tree. Athelstan could scarcely believe that this peaceful, pleasant place masked bloody murder and hasty burial.

  ‘You’ll represent Mistress Vestler?’ Sir John asked again.

  The lawyer stroked the tip of his sharp nose, lower lip coming up.

  ‘I am not skilled in such legal matters, Sir John. I only advise Mistress Vestler on her business affairs. However, I will prove her innocence in this matter.’

  ‘She has no children?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘None whatsoever, nor kith or kin.’

  ‘But she must have a will?’

  Hengan sipped from the tankard and wiped the white foam from his lips.

  ‘She brews the best ale on this side of the Thames,’ he said. ‘She’s no murderess. Yes, she has drawn up a will and I am her executor. Mistress Vestler has laid down clear provision. On her death the tavern is to be sold for the best possible price and all proceeds are to be sent to the Knights Hospitallers at their Priory of St John’s in Clerkenwell.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sir John trumpeted, his good humour returning. ‘Stephen, her late husband, was a bit of a noddle-pate. He maintained that, if Kathryn died before him, he’d journey east and join the Hospitallers in their struggle against the Turks.’

  ‘The will is very short and terse,’ Hengan confirmed. ‘And cannot be denied. I even tease Mistress Vestler that she hasn’t left one penny to me.’

  Athelstan looked at him sharply.

  ‘A jest, Brother. I have sufficient riches.’

  ‘She is a widow woman,’ Athelstan pointed out.

  Comely and wealthy. Surely she had suitors? After all, Master Ralph, you are a lusty bachelor yourself.’

  Hengan put his tankard down. ‘Oh, suitors came and went: adventurers, profiteers, Kathryn would have none of them. There’s a chamber in the tavern, Brother, used by her late husband, Stephen. She has turned it into a shrine to her husband’s memory with his writing-desk, his sword, his shield and armour, the pennant he carried at Poitiers. Mistress Vestler is a comfortable woman, happy in what she does. She has vowed never to remarry.’ He held the tankard up in a mock toast. ‘And, as for me, Brother.’ He sighed. ‘I speak in confidence?’

  ‘Of course, Master Ralph.’

  ‘I am a man, Brother, how can I put it? The company of women is pleasing enough.’ His kindly grey eyes held Athelstan’s. ‘But I have no desire to bed one.’

  ‘And what will happen now?’ Athelstan persisted. ‘If Mistress Vestler is found guilty and sentenced? Because, in this secret place, Master Ralph, I speak the truth, unpalatable though it be. If the jury find her guilty there’ll be no pardon for what she has done.’

  ‘Brother, I take your warning. Mistress Vestler stands in great danger of being hanged. If that happens . . .’

  ‘The tavern and all its moveables,’ Sir John interrupted, ‘are forfeit to the Crown.’

  Athelstan cradled his tankard; his deep friendship with Sir John, whatever his troubles in Southwark, committed him to this matter. In conscience he must do all he cou
ld to prove Mistress Vestler’s innocence.

  ‘Has anything untoward occurred?’ he asked. ‘Is there anyone with a grievance against Mistress Vestler?’

  The lawyer shook his head.

  ‘Does anyone desire the tavern? Or its properties?’

  ‘Mistress Vestler was very fortunate,’ Hengan replied, ‘She and Stephen bought this when prices throughout the city had fallen after the great pestilence. The tavern was not what it is now. These gardens, the carp pond, the chambers are all their doing. Mistress Vestler is a skilled cook. Her venison pies, baked in spices, are famous through the city. Now, to answer your question bluntly: about eighteen months ago a member of the Guild of Licensed Victuallers, Edmund Coddington, did offer a price for the tavern. Mistress Vestler refused.’

  ‘And where is this Coddington now?’ Sir John asked.

  ‘Oh, Sir Jack, he died of some ailment or other. Apart from him, no one else.’

  Athelstan recalled the Four Gospels and repressed a shiver. They looked and acted fey-witted but what if their smiles concealed some secret purpose? They would not be the first so-called witnesses to truth who masked their nefarious practices under the guise of religion. He finished his ale and got to his feet.

  ‘Sir Jack!’

  He gave the surprised coroner his empty tankard.

  ‘I shall be with you shortly.’

  Athelstan strode into Black Meadow. He paused at the pit where the bailiffs were now sheeting the skeletons and two corpses.

  ‘Can I help you, Brother?’ One of the bailiffs leaned on his mattock. ‘Dark deeds, eh?’

  ‘Dark deeds certainly. Tell me, sir, where did you find the two corpses? The man and the woman?’

  The bailiff scratched a cut on his unshaven chin.

  ‘Ah, that’s right.’ The fellow pointed. ‘Over there, Brother.’

  Athelstan went to the spot indicated and looked back towards the lych gate. The bailiff came over, his mattock resting against his shoulder like a spear.