Paul Harding - Field of Blood

'The parish council will have a celebration!' Wat­kin declared, eager to exercise his authority. He glared spitefully at Pike's sour-faced wife who kept in the shadows, muttering that she was glad 'the difficulty had been resolved'.

Tables were set up, benches brought out from the church; Watkin brought his bagpipes; Ranulf the rat­catcher his lute; Manger the hangman his tambours. Merry Legs provided pies and pastries which, he proclaimed, were only two days old. Other offerings were made and Joscelyn was cheered to the heavens when he rolled barrels of ale and beer along from the Piebald. Athelstan promised that some of the expense would be met from the parish coffers.

Sir John, of course, was determined to stay. He drank two blackjacks of ale and, when challenged by Watkin and Pike, drank another faster than they. Afterwards he danced a jig with Ursula the pig woman and Pernell the Fleming: even Crim declared him light on his feet and nimble as a juggler.

Athelstan sat on the steps and watched it all. He drank his stoup of ale a little too fast and felt rather tired. Eventually he and Sir Jack left the parishioners and retired to the priest's house where the coroner threw his beaver hat and cloak into a corner, took off his doublet and sat on a bench opposite Athelstan, mopping his face.

'I sometimes curse your parishioners, Athelstan, yet they are a merry lot: it's so good to dance! Did I tell you I was at Windsor when the Countess of Salisbury lost her garter?'

'Tomorrow, Sir John, another lady will lose more than her garter!'

Sir John sobered up. 'Aye, Athelstan. What we've learned is bad enough but only the good Lord knows how much Master Whittock has unearthed. I hope Hengan's wits are sharp and keen for he is going to need all his power to defend Mistress Vestler.'

'Let us say,' Athelstan ventured, 'for sake of argu­ment, that Mistress Brokestreet is a liar.'

'Which she is.'

'Then how, my dear coroner, did she know about those two corpses? That's the nub of the case. The murder of two innocents is not something you pro­claim for all the world to hear.'

'So?'

'There are a number of possibilities, Sir Jack. Firstly, Kathryn Vestler told her about the corpses, but that's hardly likely. Secondly, somehow or other, Alice Brokestreet found out about the murders and kept the secret to herself.'

'In which case,' Sir John mused, 'we must ask why the assassin should tell her?'

'And that's my third point, Sir Jack. If Alice Brokestreet is lying and Mistress Vestler is innocent, someone else murdered Bartholomew and Margot. He, or she, then gave the secret to Brokestreet so she could escape execution by approving Mistress Vestler.'

'So Brokestreet will know the identity of the assassin?'

'Not necessarily, Sir John. She could have been informed by letter, or by a mysterious visitor to Newgate or even before she committed her own murder. Brokestreet is not the problem. She is only the cat's-paw. She was informed by the assassin who,

I suspect, will take care of Mistress Brokestreet in his own way and at his own time. Now Vestler is a widow. If she's found guilty of a felony and hanged, the Crown will seize the Paradise Tree and sell it to the highest bidder.'

'The real assassin could be the one who buys it in order to search for Gundulf's treasure.'

Sir John whistled under his breath.

'That's going to be hard to prove, little friar. The Paradise Tree is a profitable, spacious tavern; there will be many bids for it.'

'Yes, I know,' Athelstan sighed. 'So I suppose my conclusion is weak. However, it will not go well for us tomorrow. The profits of the Paradise Tree will have to be explained; as will those mysterious visi­tors at night and, above all, two corpses in Black Meadow. You went to Bapaume the goldsmith?'

Sir John nodded. 'He told me that Bartholomew Menster had intimated he was drawing all his gold and silver out to buy something but he didn't say what!' He tapped Athelstan on the back of the hand. 'But you did well, Brother. At least Mistress Vestler is cleared of the deaths of those other skeletons. I just hope Chief Justice Brabazon accepts your plea that Black Meadow was a cemetery during the great pestilence.'

He started at a knock on the door.

'Come in!' Athelstan shouted.

Joscelyn, the one-armed tavern-keeper, staggered in, his face wreathed in smiles. Under his arm he carried a small tun of wine which he lowered on to the table.

'Sir Jack,' he slurred. 'This is the best cask of Bordeaux claret, held in the cellars of the Piebald for such an occasion. It's only right that you and Brother Athelstan are the first to broach it.'

Cranston scooped it up like a mother would a favourite child. He examined the markings on the side, drew his dagger and began to cut at the twine which held the lid securely on. Then he paused, put the dagger down and held the cask up, inspecting it carefully.

Joscelyn's smile faded. 'What's the matter, Sir John?'

'You know full well, sir. I am the King's officer.'

Joscelyn licked his lips nervously and lowered himself on to a stool at the far end of the table.

'Sir Jack?' Athelstan asked. 'Is there a problem?'

'Yes there is, Brother.' Sir John tapped the top of the cask. 'This is rich claret brought from Bordeaux.' He pointed out the markings on the side. 'This tells you the year and the vineyard. But, Joscelyn,' he added sweetly, 'would you like to tell your priest what is wrong?'

'Why should I, my lord coroner? You are the King's officer.'

'The good tavern-master here,' Sir John said, 'has very generously brought a cask of wine to broach but one thing's missing: all wine from Bordeaux brought into this realm must pay duty. Each cask is marked with a brand saying it has come through customs. It is then sealed showing the port of entry. Such marks are very hard to forge.'

'Oh, Joscelyn, no!' Athelstan groaned. 'You haven't been involved in smuggling along the river?'

'Sir John, Brother, I brought it as a gift. Such casks are common among the victuallers and tavern-masters of London.'

'True.' Sir John smacked his lips. 'I am only here to celebrate and I am not a customs official.'

'Joscelyn, you should be careful,' Athelstan warned. A memory stirred. 'Where did you buy it from? Come on, Joscelyn. If you were involved in smuggling, my precious parish council would be involved up to their necks: Moleskin, Watkin and Pike. Are they? I don't want to see them dance on the end of a rope.'

Joscelyn swallowed hard.

'You bought this from someone else, didn't you? Your son talked about the Paradise Tree and Mistress Vestler.'

Sir John opened the cask with his dagger and groaned with pleasure.

'Don't lie to your priest!' Athelstan stood over the tavern-keeper.

'Yes, Brother, I bought it from Mistress Vestler. There are a number of tavern-keepers in South­wark …'

'Enough said.' Athelstan patted him on the shoul­der. 'Go on, Joscelyn, thank you for the wine. Join the revellers, your secret's safe with us.'

Joscelyn, all sobered up, sped out the door.

Sir John had broached the cask and was now filling two cups.

'Is it a sin to drink it, monk?'

'Friar, Sir John. No, I don't think it is. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Moreover, the mood I am in, I recall St Paul's words: "Use a little wine for thy stomach's sake", even if the customs duty has not been paid!' Athelstan sat opposite his friend and sipped the wine.

Sir John closed his eyes, smacked his lips and sighed. 'Oh this is truly a gift from heaven.'

'Well, we've solved one mystery,' Athelstan said. 'We now know who Mistress Vestler's midnight visitors are: river smugglers. They take their barges out to the wine ships before their cargo is unloaded, pay the captain a good price, then it's along to the Paradise Tree and other riverside taverns. Mistress Vestler must have done a roaring trade.' He thought of that lonely stretch along the mud flats and laughed. 'It also explains her charity, Sir John.'