by Paul Doherty
‘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-firth 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 trouble 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 realized 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 tre
asure?’ 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 possession 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 has 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 bushed 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, chap-man and trader, took the oath.
‘Now, sir,’ Whittock began. ‘On the twenty-fifth of June last I was traveling to Canterbury to pray before the shrine of blessed Thomas à 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 quite, 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 quite, 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 f
ound beneath the oak tree. If you have a labourer moving around cutting branches, the grass and soil are distributed, 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 Meadows.
‘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 Meadows.’
‘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?
