Paul Doherty - Herald of Hell

‘Nonsense!’ Elizabeth Cheyne leapt to her feet. ‘This is all a lie. A farrago of lies. You have no …’ Flaxwith, pressing on her shoulders, forced the woman to sit down.

‘Lebarge,’ Athelstan continued, ‘was truly frightened and confused. His master was dead, he did not know who to trust except for one person, young Hawisa. He hid his relationship with her behind a mask of diffidence, publicly dismissing her as just another whore. But I know, as you do, Mistress Cheyne, that secretly he was much taken with her. Strange that you never provided such information to me when I first questioned you. Whitfield wanted to flee, Lebarge also, and the scrivener intended to take little Hawisa with him. The moppet may already have been hiding Lebarge’s baggage; she had a chamber here, or certainly some place where she could stow away his possessions. I admit I have little proof for what I say, but, to continue. On that particular morning after Lebarge had visited the death chamber, he had a few swift words with his sweetheart then fled to St Erconwald’s for sanctuary. He went there because he was confused and frightened. He’d committed no crime but at least he would be safe in sanctuary against Thibault and any other adversary. Eventually he would be granted permission to leave London by the nearest port, which is what he wanted in the first place. Above all, safe in my church, he could think, plan and plot. Hawisa would know where he was, a place nearby, and, in time, easily join him. Lebarge decided to shelter there, determined only to take sustenance from myself or the widow woman …’

‘Benedicta?’ Mistress Cheyne spat the name out. ‘We know all about her, Brother Athelstan …’

‘As God knows about you being so determined on Lebarge’s death. You learnt from Griffin or others here that Lebarge had left the refectory …’

‘She asked me and I told her,’ the Master of the Hall interjected.

‘You, Mistress Cheyne, must have wondered what Lebarge really knew, what he had seen, heard or felt. You would realize he was safe in sanctuary with time to reflect. Above all, Lebarge knew about that money belt. It would be only a matter of time before he began to cast the net of suspicion wider and wider. Lebarge had to die and, if it was going to be done, it was best done quickly. You would use the one person Lebarge trusted …’

‘Hawisa!’ Foxley shouted. ‘I saw you on the day Lebarge fled conferring with her.’

‘Of course you did. Is that not so, Mistress Cheyne? You consoled her, promised help, every assistance. To cut to the quick. You offered to take Hawisa to St Erconwald’s in the evening of that same day when my church is fairly deserted and full of dancing shadows. Just a brief meeting. You would help both of them. You wrapped a simnel cake in some linen as a small token of friendship. Lebarge would like that. Cloaked and cowled, both of you slipped into St Erconwald’s, two women who would not attract attention. You told Hawisa not to be long. You would keep watch and alert her to any danger. You insist that Lebarge eat the cake immediately and Hawisa bring the linen covering back with her so there’d be no trace of anyone from outside assisting him, one of the rules for all who seek sanctuary. At the time these would appear trivial matters. Hawisa and Lebarge would be eager to discuss a future which, little did they know, you intended to destroy. I can imagine Hawisa, that little mouse, slipping through the shadows whilst you kept watch near some pillar close by the Lady Altar, ready to cough or give some prearranged signal if danger approached. The short meeting took place. Hawisa met Lebarge not in the mercy enclave but in the shadow of the rood screen door. The cake is handed over and eaten but, unbeknown to you, or even despite your instructions, Hawisa also provided Lebarge with a knife and some coins, just in case he decides to flee sanctuary. She then rejoined you. You would make sure all was well, that the cake had been eaten and the linen cloth returned.

‘Afterwards, you both slipped away into the gathering darkness back to the Golden Oliphant, though only one of you reached here. You are a killer, Mistress Cheyne, to the very sinews of your wicked heart. You are steeped in evil with no conscience. On the way back to the Golden Oliphant you murdered Hawisa along some filthy runnel or alleyway: a swift stab to the heart in some dark-filled cranny where you could take care of anything that might indicate who she was or where she came from. Hawisa became just another corpse amongst those of so many poor women, found with their throat slit or drenched in their heart’s blood, lying on a filth-filled laystall or in a dirt-smeared recess.’ Athelstan gestured around. ‘Somewhere in this house you have hidden the possessions of both Lebarge and Hawisa.’

‘Hawisa ran away!’ Mistress Cheyne exclaimed. ‘She’s fled.’

‘Why would she?’ Cranston retorted. ‘She, like the rest of you, was under strict orders not to leave the Golden Oliphant. Why should a little moppet challenge that?’ By the murmur of protest this provoked, Cranston could see why Athelstan had chosen to confront Mistress Cheyne in public: everything the whore-mistress now said or did was being closely scrutinized.

‘Hawisa has not fled.’ Anna led the attack. ‘Where would she go? Now Lebarge is dead, she would be alone with no home, hearth, kith or kin. She risked being put to the horn as an outlaw.’

‘I spoke to her,’ another cried, ‘the last time I saw her. She talked about wishing to go abroad or returning to Coggeshall where she was born.’

Others shouted their comments. Mistress Cheyne just sat seething with hate, fingers curling as she glared at Athelstan.

‘And now,’ Athelstan raised his voice to still the clamour, ‘we come to the murder of your accomplice, Joycelina …’

‘She fell.’

‘She tripped,’ Athelstan countered. ‘Once again, you assemble the household in the refectory and hall. You are busy in the kitchen baking bread as well as at the wash tub outside. You’d sent Joycelina to sweep and clean Whitfield’s chamber. A macabre task, a killer cleaning the very chamber where she had committed murder. Joycelina would, quite rightly, be highly nervous, deeply apprehensive, wary of her victim’s ghost hovering close about her, fearful that she might be discovered. You told her to clean the chamber just in case any trace of what you had both plotted might be found. The gallery is deserted, everyone, including yourself, is busy below. You had Anna close by,’ Athelstan pointed at the maid, ‘quite deliberately so. Young lady,’ Athelstan smiled at Anna, ‘you have a most carrying voice; do you remember what happened?’

‘Mistress Cheyne had left bread baking in the oven while she and I went outside. I came in. No, she sent me in, that’s right. I found the bread burning.’ Anna grinned in a display of broken teeth. ‘She then told me to go and fetch Joycelina.’

‘Why?’ Athelstan leaned forward. ‘Why did you need Joycelina down here? You had Anna and others to help you. A minor, most insignificant matter, a passing moment of no importance whatsoever except for what you had secretly planned. Joycelina was busy in Whitfield’s chamber. You left her there and went downstairs. You had, however, prepared a lure, a snare. On each side of those steep steps leading down from the top gallery stands a newel post. Around one of these you had fastened a piece of twine, just to hang there, unnoticed. Before you continued down, you turned, took this innocent looking piece of twine and fastened it tight around the opposite newel post. The snare is set: those stairs are dangerous enough but you have created a death trap. You return to the kitchen. There is little or no chance of anyone going up those stairs, why should they? The only person coming down would be Joycelina and you wanted her dead.’