Field of Blood

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