The Field of Blood (13 page)

‘But let’s look around.’

‘What for, Brother?’

‘You’ll know when you find it. Oh, be careful, the upper stories are not safe.’

Sir John looked up at the ceiling and noticed the rents.

‘Aye, it would be a fool who went up there.’

‘The stairs have long disappeared,’ Athelstan said. ‘Taken, no doubt, by some inhabitant of my parish for firewood.’

The lower rooms were the same. Anything of value had long disappeared. The floor was of stone but lintels, doors, window frames had all been plucked out. Athelstan came out of the scullery and noticed the steps leading down to what must have been a cellar. He went carefully down. The air was mildewed and smelt of coal and firewood.

‘Simon must have used this as a storeroom,’ he shouted, his voice sounding hollow. ‘It’s dark as . . .’

‘Satan’s armpit!’ Sir John bellowed.

Athelstan undid his wallet and took out a thick candle and a tinder. He struck but no flame came. He tried again and, at last, the wick was lit creating a small circle of light. Athelstan gazed around. Nothing but cobwebbed walls and ceilings. The cellar was no more than a stone box, a pile of black coal dust gleaming in the corner. Athelstan waited until his companion came gingerly down the steps.

‘Hush now!’ the friar warned.

‘What is it?’

Athelstan closed his eyes. He’d always been warned by Prior Anselm never to look for any spiritual experiences. ‘Resist such occurrences,’ the prior had urged. ‘God rarely moves through visions but the ordinary things of life. There are more miracles on a tree in spring than in many of our so-called visionaries’ dreams.’

Nevertheless, Athelstan felt tempted. He thought of the assassin cowled and hooded, face masked. Poor Miles had probably been killed on Saturday evening, just after he left the Silken Thomas. His corpse hidden here till Sunday when the other two had stumbled on the assassin.

‘Brother! Brother!’ Sir John urged him back to business.

‘Hush!’ Athelstan lifted a hand, eyes still closed. ‘The assassins, Sir John, killed someone on Saturday but came back on Sunday to dispose of the corpse. So, where would they keep it? This cellar has been used to store coal: yet I can’t remember any coal dust on the victim’s clothing. Ergo, either the corpse was never placed here or the coal dust was on the upper garment and his boots which, as we know, were later removed. The leggings were dark green. They would hide such stains and moving the corpse would also loosen the dust.’

‘Agreed!’

‘So, what we are looking for, Sir John, is any stain or mark which shouldn’t be here: that will be the deciding factor.’

Athelstan crouched down, holding the candle out, and moved slowly across the floor. He stopped at a clean patch against the wall and stared at the dark mark in the centre.

‘A piece of sacking has been laid here. Look, Sir John. This stain.’ He rubbed it with his fingers.

‘It could be anything,’ Sir John said. ‘Spilt wine . . .’

‘Or blood,’ Athelstan added. ‘Sholter’s corpse was probably hidden here before being taken to the room above where the assassin was disturbed. Right, Sir John, now for the Silken Thomas.’

The tavern lay at a crossroads just outside Southwark where the common scaffold and stocks stood. These were empty but in the tavern yard swarmed chapmen with their pack ponies, pedlars and tinkers. Some Moon People in their motley-coloured rags had wandered in, two men and a woman; they were offering to tell fortunes and read palms but all they received were dark looks and muttered curses. The woman came across and tried to grasp Athelstan’s hand.

‘Will ye not let me see?’ she asked in a harsh, strange accent. ‘All of us have a future, pretty ladies perhaps.’

‘I doubt it! But here, mistress.’ He pressed a penny into her callused hand. ‘That’s not to read fortunes but to leave us alone!’

The Moon woman scurried off. Athelstan looked about him. The Silken Thomas was a three-storied building, its plaster and black beams hidden by creeping ivy which climbed up around the windows, giving it a pleasant serene appearance. A prosperous enough place but nothing like the Paradise Tree: the wooden sills were chipped, only some of the windows had glass. Others were covered by oiled paper or were simply boarded up with wooden shutters. Inside, the taproom was a large, ill-lit, sprawling place with benches and stools in different corners; a huge trestle table down the centre served as the common board. At the far end, just near the door leading to the kitchens, ranged the great tuns and vats above which ranged shelf after shelf of blackjacks and tankards, pewter mugs and cups. A tinker sat at a table, displaying a white rat in a cage which would go round and round on a makeshift wheel like that of a water-mill. Others were laying bets as to how many times the rat would turn it before it wearied and climbed off. A pickpocket, recently released from the stocks outside, was loudly complaining about his stiff neck. A little boy stood on a table and tried to massage it for him. The tavern-keeper swept out of the kitchen wiping his hands on a bloody rag which he stuffed beneath his stained apron. He took one look at the coroner and bustled across.

‘Good day, sir. Can I help you? Our ales are the best you’ll find on the Canterbury Road. Indeed, anywhere in Southwark, if that’s your direction.’

‘Miles Sholter!’ Sir John barked, showing his wax seal of office. ‘And Philip Eccleshall. Two royal messengers, they arrived here last Saturday evening.’

‘What was it sir, two quarts of ale? A piece of chicken pie? Or we have eel pastries? I am a busy man, sir.’

‘And I am a King’s officer!’

‘Two quarts of ale and a chicken pie would do nicely.’ Athelstan pulled out a silver piece. ‘And we’ll sit over in the corner.’

The taverner’s oily face broke into a smile. Athelstan tried not to flinch at the blackened stumps and his yellowing teeth, jagged and broken. He looked at the man’s dirty fingernails.

‘On second thoughts,’ he added, ‘just two quarts of ale.’ He pressed his sandalled foot on the toe of Sir John’s boot. ‘I do urge you, sir, to help us or Sir John Cranston here, who is coroner of the city, might come back with his merry boys.’

The taverner held his hands up as if in prayer.

‘Sir Jack Cranston. I’ve heard of you, sir.’ He hurried across and wiped two stools with his rag. ‘Make yourselves comfortable. The ale is free, my gift.’

‘No, it isn’t.’ Athelstan put the silver piece on the table. ‘We pay for what we drink and for what we learn.’

Despite his ponderous girth the taverner moved quickly. He roared out the order and a slattern hurried across. The blackjacks were large and looked clean, the ale frothing at the top and running down the sides.

‘Now, sir, how can I help you?’ The taverner pulled a stool across.

‘Miles Sholter and Philip Eccleshall,’ Sir John repeated. He sipped from the tankard and smacked his lips in appreciation. ‘Tell the truth and, bearing in mind the ale is fragrant, I’ll forget your earlier rudeness.’

‘They arrived here on Saturday evening. You know the way they are. They came bustling in, cloaks on, hoods up, spurs clinking, sword belts on. One, of medium height, had long dark hair, the other was taller.’

‘And what happened?’ Athelstan asked.

‘They gave their names, Sholter and Eccleshall, and their office. Sholter was rather quiet but Eccleshall was full of his own importance.’

‘Did they order food or drink?’

‘No, they immediately hired a chamber. I took them up to one on the first floor, the best we have: two beds, a chest, coffer, table and a . . .’

‘Thank you. Just tell us what happened.’

‘They stayed there. One of the maids took some food up, about an hour after they arrived. One was lying on the bed, the other was mending a spur. Their saddlebags were unpacked and they were talking about their journey. About seven or eight in the-evening, one of them came clattering downstairs all in a hurry, the other behind him. The taller one, Eccleshall, was arguing with his companion. “Why not leave it?” he cried. But the other said no and demanded his horse be saddled. They had already paid for their chamber so I didn’t object and off the other one went.’

‘Did you know he was murdered?’ Sir John asked.

The taverner shook his head and wiped his face with a rag.

‘Who was murdered?’

‘The one who left.’

‘So, that’s what happened.’

‘What do you mean?’ Sir John demanded, glaring across at the group of chapmen whose shouts and curses shattered the peace of the taproom. The pedlars, who’d overheard that Cranston was a King’s officer, immediately fell silent.

‘Well, the taller one, Eccleshall, after his companion left, he came down here.’ He pointed to the inglenook. ‘He just sat there looking into the flames.’

‘And he never left?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Never.’

‘You are sure of that?’

Athelstan felt a surge of disappointment.

‘Well, you see, Brother . . .?’

‘Athelstan. I am Sir John’s secretarius. I am also parish priest of St Erconwald’s.’

‘Ah.’ The taverner tapped the side of his fat nose. ‘I’ve also heard of you. Look, I tell the truth. Eccleshall drank deeply that night. I could see he was worried. He had great difficulty climbing the stairs and that was long after closing. Now, like all taverners, I’m frightened of fire. I always go round and check that some drunken bugger has not left a candle alight. We deliberately do not put locks in our rooms because of that.’ He grinned. ‘If a man and his lady friend wish a little privacy, they can always put a stool against the door. Anyway, it must have been well after midnight. I opened the door to Eccleshall’s chamber, the candle was out and he was snoring like a pig on the bed. We also have a groom guarding the stables. No one disturbed him.’

‘And the next morning?’ Athelstan asked.

‘Eccleshall, rather heavy-eyed, came down to break his fast. He was very agitated, asking everyone had they seen his companion? Of course, we hadn’t. He ordered his horse to be saddled and left. Oh, it must have been about nine in the morning.’

‘And you are sure,’ Athelstan insisted, ‘that two came here?’

‘Of course! Eccleshall and the other, Sholter, slightly shorter, dark-haired, fresh-faced.’

Athelstan thanked him and the taverner went back to the kitchen, chuckling at the easy silver he had earned.

‘It seems you are wrong, Brother.’ Sir John patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘Sholter and Eccleshall came here. Sholter left but, if Eccleshall had anything to do with his murder, I can’t see how he could be in two places at once!’ He looked round the taproom. ‘Brother,’ he said quietly, leaning across the table. ‘What happens if the Great Community of the Realm were here? One of their so-called officers? You heard the taverner. Eccleshall and Sholter swagger in, loudly proclaiming who they are, then one abruptly leaves just before darkness falls.’

‘You mean he was followed out and killed?’

‘It’s possible.’ Sir John licked his lips. ‘That ale was nice.’

‘No, Sir John, you’ve drunk enough.’ Athelstan pushed his tankard across. ‘Or, at least I have, you can finish mine then it’s back to Southwark and across to the city!’

They left the Silken Thomas and made their way into Southwark. The streets were now busy, the small markets which stood on each street corner doing a busy trade in second-hand goods.

‘Or what they’ve stolen from the other side of the river,’ Sir John commented.

Many people recognised Athelstan and his burly companion. In the main, good-natured abuse was called but, on one occasion, the coroner had to draw his sword as some dried dog-turds struck the house wall beside him. The group of roaring boys gathered in an alehouse doorway quietly slunk back.

‘Let’s move on,’ Athelstan urged. He went down an alleyway.

‘Brother, I thought we were going to the bridge?’

‘No, Sir John, just bear with me. I have a little parish business to do. The Venerable Veronica.’

They found Dog Tail Lane. The Venerable Veronica lived in a mean, shabby tenement thrust between an old warehouse on one side and a dingy cook shop on the other. Her chamber was at the top of rickety stairs which stank of urine. The walls were cracked and split, the flaking plaster covering the shabby, wooden steps like a coating of snow. The Venerable Veronica, however, was welcoming enough and her chamber was neat and tidy. She was sitting on a stool, hand over a small dish of glowing charcoal fixed on a tripod. In a far corner stood a cot bed screened off by a tawdry cloak which hung from hooks fixed into the ceiling.

Despite her great age, Sir John was surprised how striking the old woman was. She was small, narrow-faced; her skin looked lined and seamed but her eyes were sharp and bright as a sparrow’s. She responded quickly enough, asking her visitors to bring across a bench so they could sit near her while she ‘warmed her poor hands’ over the charcoal.

‘I should go to church more often, Brother,’ she began. ‘But my old knees and back hurt.’

‘I could bring you the sacrament when I come,’ Athelstan offered. ‘It’s easy enough done.’

‘Would you really, Brother, and shrive me?’

‘Of course, whenever I visit, just ask.’

The old woman peered up at him, moving her hands as if washing them above the charcoal.

‘You are different from the other, Brother, the one who came before you. He was born in sin, he lived in sin and he died in sin. He took everything, he did: chalices, cups, breviary. William Fitzwolfe sold them all.’

‘Including the blood book?’ Athelstan asked.

The Venerable Veronica sighed and nodded.

‘That’s why I am here, Mother,’ Athelstan continued. ‘We truly have a problem in the parish. Eleanor, daughter of Basil the blacksmith, wishes to marry Oswald, Joscelyn’s son.’

‘Ah yes, yes.’ The old woman blinked her eyes, head up, mouth open. She rocked herself backwards and forwards. ‘The harridan, that fishwife Imelda, the one who’s married to the ditcher, the troublemaker. I met her in the lane below. She was all hot with the gossip, like a sparrow on a spring morning.’ Veronica glanced at Athelstan. ‘Perhaps I should have kept my words to myself, Brother, but I was so lonely and I wanted someone to talk to. I told them Eleanor’s and Oswald’s great-grandmothers were sisters. They shared the same womb and the same blood line.’