The Devil's Domain

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Hell’s teeth!’ Sir John cursed. ‘Sir Maurice, I trusted you.’

  ‘And you still can!’ the knight retorted. ‘I am a soldier, Sir John. Like other young men, I drink ale and ogle the wenches but that was before Angelica!’

  ‘So why should a young girl commit suicide in a London tavern?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sir John! I really don’t!’

  They continued up into Cheapside, crossing Carfax. Here the streets were not so empty now. The cage on top of the great water conduit was full of all the rabble apprehended the previous evening by the city watch. Some lay in the great wooden stockade still suffering from drinking too much. Others shouted greetings to friends, a few cursed as Athelstan and Sir John passed.

  At last they reached the Golden Cresset. The taverner was waiting for them in the taproom surrounded by his scullions and servants, white-faced and anxious.

  ‘Where’s the corpse?’ Sir John demanded.

  Athelstan could see that the coroner was very, very angry. He didn’t even bother to seek any refreshment.

  ‘You haven’t touched anything, have you?’ he asked as the taverner stepped forward.

  The man, dressed in his church attire, shook his head. He looked awkward and ill at ease in his rather large polished boots.

  ‘Have you been to Mass?’ Athelstan asked kindly.

  ‘Oh yes, Brother. I don’t know your name?’

  ‘Brother Athelstan. I am parish priest at St Erconwald’s. I’m also secretarius to my lord coroner here.’

  ‘We’ve been to Mass but I left Tobias the tap boy. He guarded the chamber. I didn’t want those piddling beadles in . . .’

  ‘Take us up!’ Sir John ordered.

  They climbed the stairs to the gallery. The young boy seated with his back to the door pressed down the latch and swung the door open.

  ‘Oh, sweet Lord!’ Sir Maurice gasped.

  ‘I know you.’

  Athelstan turned. A young woman stood in the doorway pointing at Sir Maurice.

  ‘You were here yesterday evening, in the taproom!’

  He just slumped down on the stool and put his face in his hands.

  CHAPTER 8

  ‘Come on!’ Sir John urged. ‘Help us cut the poor woman down!’

  While Sir Maurice held the corpse, Sir John sawed through the rope. The body was laid on the bed. Athelstan leaned down, noting that the face was swollen and purple, the tongue protruding, the eyes darkening, all beauty and grace spoilt by her violent death throes. Athelstan, heavy-hearted, whispered into the poor girl’s ears the Act of Contrition followed by the words of absolution. He heard a squeaking in the corner and, without thinking, picked up a pot which lay on the table and flung it angrily at the rat scurrying there. As he loosened the noose knot, the body, now stiffening, trembled a little. He brushed back the hair and tried to close the eyes but they remained half-open, gazing sightlessly upwards. He took a rag from the wash bowl, carefully wiped the woman’s mouth and chin then glanced round. The taverner and his daughter, goodly folks, stood in the doorway.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Athelstan said. ‘Where’s the woman’s baggage?’

  The taverner opened a coffer at the foot of the bed and brought out a pair of saddlebags. The contents comprised nothing but a change of clothing, shoes and a small purse containing a few silver coins. Athelstan handed two of these to the taverner.

  ‘For your trouble,’ he offered. ‘Sir John, where will the corpse go?’

  ‘Once we have viewed it, since it is summer,’ the coroner replied lugubriously, ‘she must be buried quickly. Send your tap boy,’ he told the taverner, ‘to the Harrower of the Dead. You know who he is?’

  The taverner swallowed hard and nodded.

  ‘Before you go,’ Athelstan said. ‘A few questions. When did this young woman come here?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon.’

  Athelstan gestured at the corpse. ‘And she was dressed like this, a blue taffeta dress?’

  ‘No,’ his daughter replied. ‘She was wearing travel garb, a brown smock tied at the neck and a kirtle beneath. She gave me these to wash, they are in the laundry house now.’

  ‘Then what?’ Athelstan asked. He smiled. ‘Oh, your name?’

  ‘Margaret. I came up here. She was a young gentlewoman. She said she had travelled from Dover.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘By the time I came up she had changed. She gave me the clothes and said to have them washed and dried; the cost was to be put on the final reckoning. I asked if she wanted something to eat or drink. She refused so I left.’

  ‘And her horse?’

  ‘A brown-berried palfrey,’ the taverner said. ‘Still in the stable below, saddled and harnessed.’

  ‘Continue.’ Athelstan sat on the bed at the side of the corpse.

  The taverner shuffled his feet.

  ‘Well, the hours passed. My daughter became concerned but the door was locked and bolted from the inside. So Tobias the tap boy climbed up from the stable yard.’ He spread his hands. I then sent for the coroner. I was going to cut her down but I know the city regulations: the corpse must be left as you’d find it.’

  ‘Good man.’ Sir John took a sip from his wineskin.

  ‘I assure you, sir, we have touched nothing nor have we taken anything from this poor girl. I know nothing of her death.’

  ‘And no one visited her?’

  ‘Not even this young man here?’ Athelstan pointed at Sir Maurice.

  ‘He was in the taproom,’ Margaret replied. ‘Cradling a blackjack of ale and looking very woebegone but, to my knowledge, he never came up here.’

  ‘Nor asked to see Anna Triveter?’ Athelstan asked.

  Margaret shook her head.

  ‘Very well.’ Sir John drew himself up. ‘Master Taverner, this is the corpse of the young woman who came here?’

  ‘It is, my lord coroner.’

  ‘And you have taken nothing from the corpse or her belongings?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Very well.’ Sir John turned to Sir Maurice. ‘Sir Maurice Maltravers, knight banneret of His Grace the Duke of Lancaster, do you recognise this corpse?’

  ‘No, sir, I do not.’

  ‘Have you, or did you, have dealings with her?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘On your oath?’

  ‘On my oath, Sir John, I had nothing to do with her in life and I certainly had nothing to do with her in death.’

  ‘Then this is my verdict,’ the coroner declared. ‘Anna Triveter, supposed inhabitant of Dover, did feloniously kill herself on Saturday evening, 29th August in the year of Our Lord 1380. Right!’ He clapped his hands. ‘Now we’ve got that over. Master Taverner, you may keep all the woman’s possessions, including her clothing, her horse and silver. When the Harrower of the Dead collects her corpse, you must arrange for honourable burial in the paupers’ graveyard at St Mary-Le-Bow and pay for a chantry priest to sing five Masses before the Feast of the Epiphany next. On your oath do you accept?’

  ‘I do, my lord coroner. But . . .’

  ‘What’s the matter, sir?’

  Athelstan trusted the taverner, who had a broad, honest face, a family man who’d acted honourably. Many an innkeeper would have filched the silver and claimed the horse had been stolen. The taverner wet his lips.

  ‘Well, Brother. I now recognise you. You are Athelstan, aren’t you, from St Erconwald’s in Southwark? Watkin the dung-collector sometimes comes here!’

  ‘I am sure he does,’ Athelstan replied dryly. ‘He’s well known in many of the taverns in the city.’

  ‘As I am,’ Sir John added warningly. ‘But what’s the matter, fellow?’

  ‘She’s a suicide,’ the taverner blurted out. ‘She should be buried at midnight at a crossroads outside the city!’

  ‘She’s a poor girl,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Who probably killed herself while her wits were fuddled.’ He picked up the corpse’s hand and looked at the fingernails carefull
y. ‘And we don’t know whether it’s suicide or not, do we?’

  ‘The coroner has pronounced his verdict.’

  ‘The coroner has pronounced his verdict on what is obvious. However, the more I stand here, the greater a niggling doubt grows.’

  He moved to the bed and began to study the young woman’s hair most carefully, parting it, letting the strands run through his fingers. He reminded Sir John of Lady Maude examining the two poppets’ heads for lice.

  ‘Can I go?’ the taverner asked.

  ‘Yes, but stay downstairs until the Harrower of the Dead arrives and we are finished.’

  Cranston leaned against the wall, mopping his brow while Sir Maurice stood, arms folded. Athelstan continued his examination of the woman’s corpse: the hair, the nails, then he lifted the skirt and began to examine her torso.

  ‘Should you do that?’ Sir Maurice asked.

  ‘A corpse is a corpse. The soul has gone, all beauty of the body is dead.’

  He examined the woman’s belly carefully. The skin of the thighs was covered in pimples and blotches. He shifted the corpse to look along the back.

  ‘What are you searching for, Athelstan?’

  The Dominican made the body decent.

  ‘Are you going to say she was hanged?’

  ‘Here we have a young woman,’ Athelstan said. He clicked his tongue against his lower lip. ‘She calls herself Anna Triveter and travels from Dover to London. Her one desire is to see her beloved Sir Maurice Maltravers. Young man! You can lean against that wall and sulk or you can co-operate with us.’

  ‘I am not sulking,’ Maltravers retorted. ‘Brother, I am furious! I did not know this woman. And until Sir John here sent a message to the Savoy Palace, I didn’t know . . .’

  ‘Of course you didn’t,’ Athelstan interrupted cheerfully.

  ‘What’s that?’ Sir John lowered the half-raised wineskin.

  ‘It’s a matter of logic,’ said Athelstan. ‘Anna here arrives at the Golden Cresset.’ He pointed to her boots which lay just within the doorway. ‘Pick those up, Sir John.’

  Cranston did so; they were small, rather fashionable, made of leather with silver buckles.

  ‘Look at the heels and soles.’

  The coroner did so.

  ‘They are clean, aren’t they?’

  ‘She could have done that herself.’

  ‘Oh, she did.’

  Athelstan walked over to the wooden lavarium which bore a bowl, a jug and, on the floor beneath, a pile of rags. He picked one up. It was dirty and wet.

  ‘Brother.’ Sir John glowered at the Dominican. ‘Don’t let’s dance round the mulberry bush. It stands to reason the woman was tired and exhausted after her journey. She cleaned her boots as many a traveller would. She changed her garb and sent it to the wash-house.’

  ‘And then she’d just commit suicide.’ Athelstan pointed to the rope. ‘Where did she get that from?’

  ‘There’s a coil left in every room.’ Sir Maurice spoke up. ‘In case of fire.’ He pointed to what was left of the rope still lying in a corner. He went over and picked up the knife still lying there. ‘She cut some of this, put one end round the beam, formed a noose and put that round her neck.’

  ‘But,’ Athelstan objected, ‘why should a young woman who is desirous of seeing you, Sir Maurice, come into this chamber, change her clothing, wash her boots, bolt and lock the door and then hang herself? Above all, where did she get the writing material?’ Athelstan asked. ‘For that last lovelorn letter?’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ Sir John breathed.

  ‘I don’t think she committed suicide. I doubt if her name’s Anna Triveter and I don’t think she came from Dover.’ Athelstan smiled apologetically at Cranston. I am sorry to upset your verdict so soon, but it’s best if these matters are kept secret!’

  ‘Continue!’ the coroner barked.

  ‘Anna Triveter is probably a whore. If you examine her finger-nails, Sir John, down near the rim around the skin, you’ll see the traces of paint. If you examine her hair it is beautiful, lustrous and red, but among the roots you will find the traces of dye. Her body is marked, small cuts on her back. Welts which healed some time ago. I suspect she has been whipped or received the end of a birch, whether in punishment or pleasure,’ Athelstan continued dryly, ‘I do not know. Suffice to say, Sir John, Sir Maurice, this is not some young gentlewoman.’

  ‘But why?’ Sir John asked. ‘What did happen?’

  ‘She’s a whore. And brought here to act the part. She’s given a change of clothing, a set of saddlebags and some silver. She arrived at the Golden Cresset and, following instructions, has her clothes taken down to the wash-house while she wipes her boots.’

  ‘But why?’ Sir John again asked.

  ‘Oh, Sir John, you’ve travelled many a day between Dover and Canterbury.’

  ‘Of course. In summer the Pilgrims’ Way is white chalk. It clings to your cloak. I’ve seen the travellers look so dusty you’d think they were covered in snow.’

  ‘Precisely, Sir John. She has her clothes washed and her boots cleaned.’

  He glanced at Sir Maurice. The young knight was just staring, open-mouthed; now and again his gaze would shift to the corpse stiffening on the bed.

  ‘Now this is a busy tavern,’ Athelstan continued. ‘People coming and going, particularly on a Saturday. Poor Anna, who thinks she’s never earned so much money so easily, lies down on the bed. She has done what she has been ordered to and waits for further instructions. The assassin enters. He locks and bolts the door behind him and crosses to the bed. Poor Anna is asleep, she struggles awake but the assassin’s hand or probably a garrotte string is round her throat. She is dead before she can really gather her wits. The assassin’s clever. He doesn’t steal any of the silver but takes the knife she carried and cuts some of the rope. One part goes round the rafters, the other round the poor dead girl’s neck. She’s left hanging there. The rope is thick, harsh: the bruising and discoloration of death hides the real cause of death, strangulation by the garrotte string.’

  ‘And the assassin?’ Sir Maurice asked.

  ‘Oh, he’d be cowled in some disguise. He’d wait for the tavern yard below to be empty. He then went to the window.’

  ‘But the shutters were closed!’

  Athelstan walked over. ‘I know from Sir John that this is one of the easiest tricks of the guild of housebreakers. The assassin closed one side of the shutter, climbed out on to the sill, pulling the other behind him, then dropped to the ground.’

  ‘But he could have been seen, even seized?’

  ‘Sir John, it would only take a few seconds to flee and be lost in some city side street. Anyway, who’d be brave enough to challenge him?’

  ‘And the letter?’

  ‘Oh, before the murderer left, the love note was placed near the corpse. One final thing. Sir Maurice, you know a great deal about horses. Go down to the stables, carefully check the palfrey this young woman is supposed to have ridden all the way from Dover, then come back and tell us what you have found.’

  The knight hurried off.

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve seen any life in him,’ Sir John remarked, closing the door. ‘Do you really believe, Athelstan, this poor woman was murdered?’

  ‘See for yourself, Sir John. Look at the hair, the nails, the neck.’

  ‘Yes, I see it,’ he said, holding the fingers. ‘Just near the quick of the thumb, traces of paint.’

  He examined the woman’s hair and then looked carefully at the neck, scarred horribly by the rope. He’d barely finished when Sir Maurice reentered the room. It was the first time Athelstan had really seen him smile.

  ‘Brother, I tell you this.’ The knight rubbed his hands. ‘The palfrey’s a sturdy little cob but it has no more travelled from Dover than I have. The hooves are freshly shod.’

  ‘That could have been done when they reached London,’ Sir John said.

  ‘I don’t think so, Sir John,’ Athel
stan replied. ‘I suspect poor Anna Triveter travelled no more than a mile.’

  ‘Parr!’ Sir Maurice cried. ‘This is the work of Sir Thomas Parr!’

  ‘But it’s clumsy.’ Sir John spoke up. ‘Sir Thomas is a man who can call on an army of retainers and indulge in the most subtle stratagems.’

  ‘It is clumsy,’ Athelstan said. ‘Young man.’ He walked towards the knight. ‘We have questions for you and a lot depends on your answers. This was an evil and cunning trick. True, Sir John and I can prove that Anna Triveter no more travelled from Dover, than we have journeyed from Jerusalem. But that’s because both of us are trained in the art of observation, logic and deduction. We are skilled hunters,’ Athelstan continued, ‘of the sons of Cain: those who kill in the darkness and then step out into the light, wipe their lips and say they’ve done no wrong.’ He pointed to the corpse. ‘However, to the untrained eye, here is a young woman who claims to be handfast to you. She has travelled from Dover and, because of your rejection, took her own life. So, a few questions and some are repetitious. Have you ever met this woman before?’

  ‘No, Brother, on my soul!’

  ‘But you consorted with a girl called Anna in Dover?’

  ‘Yes, Brother, a whore. I’ve been shriven of my sin and done penance.’ Sir Maurice licked his lips. ‘I beg you to keep that as a matter for the confessional. It was before I met the Lady Angelica. Since then I have had eyes for no other woman. My life has been chaste, my mind and soul pure.’

  He spoke so passionately, Athelstan accepted the knight was telling the truth.

  ‘Very well.’ Athelstan tightened the cord round his waist, fingering the three knots there, each a reminder of his vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. ‘We now have Anna Triveter who walks into this play unannounced. We know she is a whore. However, she comes here and pretends to be your common-law wife who has travelled all the way from Dover. She cleans her boots and has her travelling smock washed because she wishes to hide the fact that she has probably travelled no further than from one of the wards in the city. She has been hired by someone who kills her, hoists her corpse up on the end of that rope and leaves a letter for the world to read. The assassin then slips out of the window. Agreed?’