The Field of Blood

by Paul Doherty

  ‘But I came back here later,’ Hilda said.

  ‘At what time?’

  ‘Oh, it must have been just before curfew, between ten and eleven o’clock.’

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Hilda Smallwode: when the Master’s away, I always come and see that all is well.’

  ‘Why these questions?’ Bridget Sholter asked, getting to her feet. ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘I am implying nothing, madam.’ Athelstan also rose. ‘We are investigating the dreadful murder, not only of your husband, but of two other souls. My parish faces a heavy fine and the people I serve are poor. I need to know every detail if I am to lodge an appeal.’

  Eccleshall spread his legs out, stretching them until the muscles cracked.

  ‘Well, Brother, now you have it: Miles and I left shortly after four o’clock. We crossed London Bridge. We stopped to say a prayer at the chapel of St Thomas à Becket. The gatekeeper, after some delay, let us through. We must have arrived at the Silken Thomas just before six o’clock. At some time before eight Miles decided to return for his St Christopher medal.’

  ‘Yes, can I see that?’ Athelstan asked.

  Bridget Sholter, looking narrow-eyed, made to refuse but Sir John coughed and shuffled his feet.

  ‘I’ll get it for you.’

  She left and came back. The medal was really a large locket, gold gilt on a silver chain. Athelstan prised the clasp open to reveal on one side a picture of Christ, on the other a St Christopher bearing the Infant Jesus. Athelstan snapped it shut and handed it back.

  ‘I thank you mistress, Master Eccleshall.’

  They made their farewells and went out into Eastchepe.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Sir John asked.

  Athelstan led him through a porchway.

  ‘Sir John, Miles Sholter was murdered. I am sure, as God made little apples, those two are responsible!’

  Chapter 8

  Athelstan stared up at the great keep of the Tower. On the green around him the women of the garrison were washing their clothes in great iron-hooped vats. Children also played in these, splashing water, jumping out and chasing each other. Soldiers lounged in the shadows drinking ale and playing dice. A lazy, pleasant place. The autumn sun was now warm and the grounds of the Tower seemed more like the setting for a midsummer fair than a formidable fortress. The mangonels, catapults and battering rams were all covered with tarred sheets. A horseman rode in, the hooves of his mount clattering on the cobbles. Grooms shouted and ran out to help take off the harness and lead the horse away. Cooking smells drifted from the kitchens and, from the royal menagerie, came the powerful roar of the lion sent as a gift by the Prince of Barbary to John of Gaunt.

  The great hall, which lay next to the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, had its door flung open. Servants and retainers were bringing out the greasy laden trestle tables to be scraped and washed once the women had finished with the vats of water. Two great hunting dogs snarled and fought over blood-spattered bones. Athelstan’s gaze travelled to the parapets where archers, supposedly on guard, sought shade against the autumn sun.

  Athelstan eased his writing bag off his shoulders and sat down on the grass. One of the great hunting dogs came over, chased by a child; it would have licked his face but the little boy grabbed the dog and pulled it away. Athelstan turned back to study the keep which soared up into the sky six or seven storeys high, built of dressed stone. Athelstan wondered at the ingenuity of the builder, Gundulf.

  ‘He was a Bishop of Rochester,’ he said to himself. ‘He may not have been much of a churchman but, as a mason, he had a real gift.’

  Athelstan glanced across at the Chapel of St Peter ad Vincula which lay to his left. The old church was being refurbished and Athelstan noted how the derelict cemetery had been turned into a pleasant green yard; the old tombstones and other monuments had been removed then the ground grassed over.

  Athelstan loosened the cord round his waist and made himself comfortable. Sir John had met Flaxwith at the Tower gates and despatched him on certain errands. He had then gone to report to the constable, Sir Marmaduke Mountjoy. However, this newly appointed official was out hunting on the marshes so Sir John had to do business with the surly-faced lieutenant, Colebrooke. The coroner now sauntered back out of the hall whistling under his breath. One of the great dogs ran up. Athelstan was always amused how animals loved Sir John. The coroner skipped away.

  ‘Nice dog! Nice dog!’ he said. ‘Now go and eat someone else!’

  ‘What are we waiting for, Sir John?’

  Athelstan saw Colebrooke, dressed in a brown leather jerkin, green leggings and battered boots, come out on to the steps of the half-timbered great hall, thumbs stuck into his war belt. Sir John crouched down on the grass and indicated with his head.

  ‘Old Merry Eyes over there,’ he declared sardonically, ‘will take us up into the chamber where Bartholomew Menster worked and kept his possessions. Thank God the place has not been cleared. They are still looking for a replacement. When I called this morning, I told Master Hengan to meet us here around noon. Look, Brother.’ The coroner made himself comfortable. ‘You really believe that precious pair we’ve just visited are guilty of murder? But how could it be done? Sholter was definitely seen leaving the city, crossing the bridge and arriving at the Silken Thomas.’

  ‘I don’t know, Sir John, but, as you often say, I feel it in my water.’ Athelstan plucked at a piece of grass and chewed on it.

  ‘Are you hungry, priest?’ Sir John unstoppered the wineskin. ‘Old Merry Eyes over there filled it.’ He took a swig, pulled a face and spat it out. ‘Satan’s futtocks! It’s vinegar!’

  ‘It will clean the wineskin,’ Athelstan replied, his mind going back to Mistress Sholter and Master Eccleshall. Two killers, posturing in mock innocence. She, the grieving widow, he the understanding friend. You played the two-backed beast together, he thought. You’ve committed adultery and, in some subtle way, you killed that poor man. My parishioners will now pay for your wickedness. Time will pass and, by Easter, you will be married, adding blasphemy and sacrilege to your sins.

  ‘Be of good cheer, Brother. Here comes Master Hengan.’

  They got to their feet as the lawyer strode across the grass towards them. He clasped their hands; despite the smile, Hengan looked worried.

  ‘I’ve been to see Mistress Kathryn at Newgate.’ He scratched his thinning hair. ‘She’s in good spirits, but she just sits and keeps her own counsel.’

  ‘Master Colebrooke!’ Sir John bawled.

  The lieutenant came down the steps and walked as slowly as possible across the grass.

  ‘Look at that sour face,’ Sir John whispered. ‘It would turn piss sour.’

  ‘Sir John.’ The lieutenant forced a smile, his eyes watchful.

  Athelstan had done business before with Colebrooke. A red-haired, testy-tempered young man full of his own importance, constantly bemoaning the fact that he was always lieutenant and never constable.

  ‘Ah, Master Colebrooke, if you could show us to Bartholomew Menster’s chamber?’

  Colebrooke sighed, jingled the keys on a ring on his belt, and led them across the green into the Wakefield Tower. They tramped up the spiral stone staircase passing different chambers, their doors open. Some were empty, others housed clerks poring over rolls of vellum. Near the top Colebrooke stopped outside a nail-studded door, unlocked it and threw it open. The chamber was large and circular. It smelt musty and stale. Colebrooke hastened to open the shutters, allowing in bursts of sunlight and fresh air. The bed had been stripped; only a straw-filled mattress remained and two dark-stained bolsters. A cloak hung from a peg on the wall, other garments from hooks on the inside of the door. There were tables and stools, a tray of pewter cups and a cracked flagon. A wooden lavarium, bearing a bowl and jug, stood in the corner. Some saddlebags lay piled next to coffers and chests beneath a crucifix.

  ‘He never took anything with him,’ Athelstan remarked
. ‘I mean, at first it was thought Bartholomew had eloped with the young tavern wench.’

  Colebrooke rubbed his nose on the back of his hand.

  ‘I never believed that: Bartholomew was a quiet, studious man. He loved working in the Tower, constantly chattering about its history, searching among the records and old manuscripts.’

  Athelstan walked over to the table and touched the rolls of vellum, the well-thumbed ledgers sewn together with black twine.

  ‘God have mercy on him,’ Colebrooke continued. ‘Fancy a man like Bartholomew being killed by a woman, eh?’

  ‘When was his last day of work?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘We had the midsummer fair on the Feast of St John, the twenty-fourth of June, that was a Thursday. I remember seeing him the following day.’

  ‘That would be the twenty-fifth?’

  ‘Yes, then he disappeared.’

  ‘Did he say or do anything untoward?’ Sir John asked.

  He had taken off his wineskin and ostentatiously poured the wine into a chamber pot he had pulled from underneath the bed. Colebrooke smirked.

  ‘You don’t like our wine, Sir John?’

  ‘No, I don’t. But answer my question!’

  ‘When he went missing, I made careful search.’ Colebrooke shook his head. ‘I could discover nothing. A close, secretive man, Bartholomew. All we knew was that he was sweet on a tavern wench.’

  ‘Did he have friends?’ Athelstan asked.

  ‘No family to talk of. Bartholomew lived and slept here, until he took up with the wench.’ Colebrooke walked to the door. ‘If you want, I shall have refreshments sent up.’ With another smirk he left.

  Sir John went and kicked the door shut with his boot.

  ‘Right, gentlemen.’ The coroner rubbed his hands. ‘I’m hungry, but nothing that a pot of ale and a meat pie wouldn’t cure. So, let’s begin.’

  They soon listed Bartholomew’s paltry possessions: some robes, clothing, belts, a sword and rusty dagger; two skullcaps, a felt hat, wallets and empty purses.

  ‘I wager any money he had soon disappeared,’ Sir John said. ‘Colebrooke’s got the eyes of a jackdaw.’

  Athelstan, seated at the desk, was piling all the manuscripts together. These he divided out and asked his companions to go through them.

  The day wore on; now and again broken by the sound of a bell or the blowing of a horn as the hunters returned to the Tower from the moorlands to the north. Most of the manuscripts were old accounts and ledger books which provoked nothing of interest. Two or three were letters written by Bartholomew to different people in the city. Athelstan was determined to find something and, after a while, he pushed these aside, going quickly through the pile until he brought out a yellowing piece of parchment sewn together with twine. As he thumbed through this, the pages crackling, the ink slightly faded, he noticed a fresh piece of parchment had been inserted. He studied the entry most carefully.

  ‘This is an extract from a chronicle,’ he exclaimed. ‘An account of the building of the Tower.’ Athelstan sifted quickly among the manuscripts. ‘And here’s a map, crudely drawn.’

  The parchment was stiff, blackened at the edges. Athelstan studied the map, aware of the other two standing behind him. He pulled the small candle closer.

  ‘It’s a mason’s drawing, done in black ink, though this is faded. Look, there’s the keep. Here are the Tower walls.’ Athelstan moved his finger to the left. ‘And there’s Petty Wales, beneath it the river. And look at this.’ He pointed to the faded words ecclesia Romana, ‘the Roman Church.’ ‘This chronicle was written two hundred years ago by a very old man who was one of Bishop Gundulf’s scribes. He describes how the Tower was constructed. He also comments on the Roman ruins. Apparently, the Paradise Tree is built on the ruins of an old Roman church.’ He turned over the pages and noticed the fresh marks in the margin. ‘That’s Bartholomew’s writing. The chronicler is telling of Gundulf’s treasure. Apparently the old bishop had it melted down and fashioned into a great ingot. A foot in diameter and, listen to this, nine inches thick!’

  ‘Satan’s futtocks!’ Sir John breathed.

  ‘The chronicle then goes on to say that before he died, “Gundulfus celavit hunc thesaurum, quod fulgebat sicut sol, in ecclesia prope turrem.” Gundulf hid this gold,’ Athelstan translated, ‘which glowed like the sun, in the church next to the Tower.’ He paused. ‘In my view the church next to the Tower is a reference to the old Roman ruins.’

  ‘The site of the Paradise Tree?’ Sir John exclaimed.

  ‘Bartholomew must have believed that Gundulf hid his treasure somewhere in the vicinity of the tavern.’ Athelstan turned his stool round. ‘Did Bartholomew ever discuss this matter with you or Mistress Vestler?’

  Hengan shook his head. ‘Never to my knowledge, Brother.’ He tapped the map. ‘If any treasure were buried beneath that tavern, I doubt if it’s there now.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Brother, I deal in property: bills of sales, searches and scrutiny. If the old Roman church was destroyed and a tavern built, the treasure must be under it.’

  ‘Of course,’ Athelstan replied. ‘It’s near the river and the ground becomes water-logged.’

  ‘This was written over two hundred years ago,’ Hengan pointed out. ‘The Thames often breaks its banks. It’s a common occurrence every autumn: the soil crumbles, the river swells and floods the mud-banks.’

  ‘So it could have been swept away?’

  ‘Perhaps but, there again, if the treasure were hidden and protected by the old foundations . . .’

  Athelstan recalled the Four Gospels.

  ‘I wonder,’ he mused, ‘if our little religious group chose that spot to await St Michael or to continue their own searches? Master Hengan, they told me a story about barges which come up the Thames late at night carrying dark figures which, if the Four Gospels are to be believed, disembark and steal towards the Paradise Tree.’

  ‘Oh, Lord save us!’ The lawyer rubbed his eyes. ‘I hope Whittock doesn’t get hold of that.’

  Athelstan looked across the chamber to where Sir John stood half-listening while going through other pieces of manuscript. At the mention of Whittock, the coroner strode across.

  ‘Odo Whittock, the serjeant-at-law?’

  ‘The same,’ Hengan replied.

  Sir John glimpsed the puzzlement in Athelstan’s eyes.

  ‘Odo Whittock,’ he explained, ‘is a young, ambitious serjeant-at-law: a veritable limner, a sniffer-out of crime. He works for the Barons of the Exchequer but, now and again, he does pleas for the Crown.’

  ‘In other words a prosecutor?’

  ‘Yes, Brother, a prosecutor,’ Hengan said. ‘I have heard good rumour that Sir Henry Brabazon has appointed Whittock to investigate this matter. Let me put it this way. Brabazon will loose the arrows.’

  ‘But Whittock will be by his side,’ Athelstan finished, ‘holding the quiver?’

  ‘Precisely, Brother. If Whittock gets hold of that sort of story, of which I know nothing, it will go badly for Mistress Kathryn.’

  ‘I remember Odo,’ Sir John intervened. ‘Tall, thin-faced, nose like a falcon’s beak. Eyes which never miss a trick. Prisoners at the bar are more frightened of him than they are of torturers in the Tower. A good friend but a bad enemy.’

  ‘Did Bartholomew ever try and buy the Paradise Tree?’ Athelstan asked, returning to the matter in hand.

  ‘Not to my knowledge. But, as I have said, Mistress Vestler might sing a different tune.’

  ‘Oh, look at this.’

  Sir John, who had gone back to his searches, came and threw a scrap of parchment into Athelstan’s lap. Athelstan picked it up and quickly translated the Latin.

  ‘Who is Geoffrey Bapaume? Oh yes, I see, a goldsmith! Good heavens!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘It’s a list of monies, five hundred pounds sterling, lodged by the said Bartholomew Menster in Bapaume’s coffers. Bartholomew must have been careful with his monies: this was dated th
e sixth of June of this year. It would seem our dead clerk was collecting all his monies together.’

  ‘I’ll visit Bapaume before the scrutineers from the Exchequer do,’ Sir John said. ‘Now Bartholomew is declared officially dead, they’ll search out every penny he owned. If there were no heirs, the royal treasury will sweep in the lot.’

  ‘So, what do we have here?’ Athelstan got up and paced the floor. ‘Firstly, we know that Bartholomew was a careful clerk, sweet on the tavern wench, Margot Haden. He held a post here in the Tower which he used to search out the lost treasure of Gundulf, Bishop of Rochester. Secondly, we know Bartholomew found an old chronicle, written some years after Gundulf died. The writer was probably repeating a legend, or one that he may have learned from his old master, that Gundulf melted his gold down and hid it in a church near the Tower. Thirdly, we know that Bartholomew was deeply interested in this secret. This probably accounts for his visits to the Paradise Tree and his relationship with the young chambermaid. He made a cryptic reference to the Four Gospels about the treasure glowing like the sun and being hidden beneath the sun; that was an allusion to the line from the chronicle. Fourthly, we know that Bartholomew’s last day on this earth was probably the twenty-fifth of June, but that’s as far as we go. What else, Sir Jack?’

  ‘Bartholomew would work here until just before sunset. In summer time that would be seven or eight o’clock in the evening, so he and Margot must have been murdered after that on the evening in question. That’s some time ago. Memories dim. We know there was no mark of violence on the corpses, no blows to the skull or the ribcage of either. Therefore, we can safely deduce that death was by poison which must have been concealed in something they ate or drank.’

  ‘Excellent, my lord coroner.’ Athelstan smiled. ‘Sharp as a cutting sword; ruthless as a swooping hawk.’

  Sir John beamed with pleasure. ‘Master Hengan, would you agree with this?’

  The lawyer scratched his chin and nodded.

  ‘Bartholomew was a clerk.’ The lawyer picked up the story. ‘But he had seen military service. Margot was a young woman, vigorous and strong; their deaths must have been by stealth . . .’