Paul Doherty - Herald of Hell

‘But everyone is here,’ Mistress Cheyne protested.

‘Yes, yes, they are. But on that particular morning, apparently they were not, which is why you, Mistress Cheyne, despatched your helpmate!’ Athelstan pointed at Foxley and Tiptoft. ‘Do what I ask.’

Both men left on their separate tasks. Athelstan waited until Foxley had returned with the two bemused labourers. One of the men carried a small, stout battering ram. Athelstan ordered everyone to remain where they were and led Foxley and the two labourers up to the top gallery and the chamber next to Whitfield’s. At Athelstan’s behest, Foxley pressed against the door, peered through the eyelet and keyhole and pronounced both blocked. The door was clearly locked and bolted with the key still inserted. Athelstan gestured at the door. ‘Break it down, as you did that morning. Do not worry, Master Foxley, the city will pay for any reasonable repairs. Now, where is Tiptoft? I need him here.’ Athelstan gestured at the labourers to begin as he went back to the top of the stairs calling for Tiptoft, his voice echoing harshly along the gallery. The labourers pounded the door, Foxley shouted encouragement and instructions whilst Athelstan continued to summon Tiptoft. At last the door gave way, snapping at the lock, its thick leather hinges breaking from the lintel. The chamber beyond lay in pitch darkness. Athelstan immediately dismissed the labourers whilst instructing Foxley to go into the chamber to unshutter and open the window. Once this was done, Athelstan led Foxley and Tiptoft back out into the gallery and down the stairs to join the rest in the Golden Hall.

‘All is set,’ Athelstan whispered to Cranston. ‘It is best if we do this in the presence of a host of witnesses whose memories are now being stirred. So …’ Athelstan walked into the centre of the hall.

‘What were you doing?’ Mistress Cheyne, who had been whispering to Foxley, sprang to her feet. ‘This is my house, my home.’

‘And your place of murder,’ Athelstan retorted, silencing her and the murmuring of the rest. ‘Master Foxley,’ Athelstan asked, ‘who was in the gallery when the door was forced, I mean just now?’

‘Why, you, me and the labourers; Master Tiptoft joined us later. You were calling for him.’

‘And the door we forced was both bolted and locked?’

‘Yes, of course, you could see that for yourself.’

‘And when the door was forced, the window?’

‘Firmly closed and shuttered until I opened it.’

‘Master Tiptoft,’ Athelstan put his hand on the messenger’s arm, ‘you heard me shouting. Where were you?’

‘In the chamber which was forced.’

‘Nonsense!’ Fear thrilled Elizabeth Cheyne’s face and voice.

‘Impossible!’ Foxley exclaimed.

‘I was in the chamber,’ Tiptoft insisted. ‘Brother Athelstan gave me the key. As soon as l left here, I went upstairs. I locked and bolted the door, closed the eyelet and made sure that the window was firmly shuttered. The room was as dark as night. I stood, as Brother Athelstan advised, to the left of the door as it opens. When it was forced and flung back, I stayed. Athelstan dismissed the labourers then Master Foxley entered, crossing the chamber to pull back the shutters. I simply stepped round the door and joined Brother Athelstan on the threshold, a matter of heartbeats. I did as Brother Athelstan asked. Remember the chamber was as black as a moonless night. I counted how long it took to step around the door, I barely reached four.’

Athelstan glanced around. ‘Remember that, because I was calling Tiptoft, Foxley thought, when he turned around after opening the windows, that Tiptoft had been with me all the time. When the chamber was being forced, Master Foxley, you were concentrating solely on the door and what might lie inside. True?’ The Master of Horse agreed. ‘I also noticed,’ Athelstan continued, ‘that on the day she was killed, Joycelina was wearing sandals. Did she always wear those?’

‘Yes,’ Anna the maid shouted.

‘So why, on the morning Whitfield was found dead, was Joycelina wearing red-capped, thick, soft-soled buskins?’

‘Nonsense!’ Mistress Cheyne exclaimed.

‘So how do I know she had a pair?’ Athelstan turned to the rest. ‘She did, didn’t she?’

‘Yes.’ One of the maids lifted her hand. ‘Mistress, after Joycelina died, you gave them to me.’

Cheyne’s head went down.

‘Joycelina,’ Athelstan explained, ‘wore those same buskins that morning to ensure that for a few heartbeats, in that pitch-black chamber with Foxley terrified and having eyes and mind only for that swinging corpse and opening the window, she could slip soundlessly forward and join you, Mistress Cheyne, her accomplice.’

The Mistress of the Moppets did not reply, though she turned slightly as members of her household murmured their agreement to Athelstan’s statement.

‘Sir John?’ Athelstan turned to the coroner. ‘You imitated Lebarge. You left here and went to the foot of the stairs leading to the top gallery. Did anyone pass you?’

‘Oh, of course not.’ The coroner grinned. ‘I heard you calling Tiptoft but he never came by. He never passed me. I stayed in that recess until the labourers returned and I followed them down.’

Athelstan went and crouched before Mistress Cheyne. ‘I have demonstrated,’ he held her cold, angry gaze, ‘how you and Joycelina murdered Amaury Whitfield.’ He rose, gesturing at Flaxwith to come forward and restrain the murderess, sitting on a high-backed chair, fingers firmly clutching its arms.

‘Search her,’ Athelstan ordered. Flaxwith did so, ignoring her protests, and drew the needle-like dagger, more of a bodkin than a knife, out of a secret sheath on the belt around her waist. He threw this on the table as Athelstan took a stool to sit opposite the accused. He stared around. He would have preferred to first question Mistress Cheyne in some secure, isolated chamber, but those present, although they did not fully realize it, were in fact witnesses to her crimes.

‘Amaury Whitfield,’ Athelstan began, ‘came here to join the Festival of Cokayne, to forget his terrors and, above all, to complete his plans to flee abroad. True, Master Gray?’ He turned to where the sea captain slouched on a bench.

‘Answer!’ Cranston roared.

‘Correct,’ Gray replied. He gestured with his hands. ‘Whitfield, Lebarge and Mistress Cheyne’s household. You must know that by now?’

‘Good.’ Athelstan smiled at him. ‘Whitfield’s mind and soul does not concern us now. He was a terrified man with an unfinished, ever-changing plot about masking his disappearance behind an accident or suicide.’ Athelstan shrugged. ‘This does not matter any more. However, Whitfield was not only a frightened man but a very, very wealthy one with a heavy money belt crammed with good coins, strapped around his waist. He would have provoked your suspicions, Mistress Cheyne, by hiring a chamber on the top gallery: that was a way of protecting himself. Of course, during her ministrations to Whitfield, Joycelina must have learnt about this treasure trove. Somehow or other, you both discovered how wealthy Whitfield was and how accessible his riches were. You planned to kill him and seize that wealth. You probably plotted to do it once you reached foreign parts. However, that part of your plan you could not control. We all know Whitfield was disturbed, deeply agitated, fearful of his powerful master and,’ Athelstan glanced quickly at Stretton, ‘other equally sinister figures. No wonder Whitfield moved from plot to plot and plan to plan. We shall never know the truth of it, but in the end, I believe he was thinking of fleeing on his own, possibly with Lebarge, which is one of the reasons he went down to visit the Tavern of Lost Souls. However, Whitfield’s visit to Mephistopheles does not concern us. All I can say is that he went there panic-struck, considering all the choices he could make. Indeed, in the end I would say Whitfield’s wits were turned, he was not thinking clearly.’