Field of Blood

Hengan.'
    They got to their feet as the lawyer strode across the grass towards them. He clasped their hands; despite the smile, Hengan looked worried.
    'I've been to see Mistress Kathryn at Newgate.' He scratched his thinning hair. 'She's in good spirits, but she just sits and keeps her own counsel.'
    'Master Colebrooke!' Sir John bawled.
    The lieutenant came down the steps and walked as slowly as possible across the grass.
    'Look at that sour face,' Sir John whispered. 'It would turn piss sour.'
    'Sir John.' The lieutenant forced a smile, his eyes watchful.
    Athelstan had done business before with Colebrooke. A red-haired, testy-tempered young man full of his own importance, constantly bemoaning the fact that he was always lieutenant and never constable.
    'Ah, Master Colebrooke, if you could show us to Bartholomew Menster's chamber?'
    Colebrooke sighed, jingled the keys on a ring on his belt, and led them across the green into the Wakefield Tower. They tramped up the spiral stone staircase passing different chambers, their doors open. Some were empty, others housed clerks poring over rolls of vellum. Near the top Colebrooke stopped outside a nail-studded door, unlocked it and threw it open. The chamber was large and circular. It smelt musty and stale. Colebrooke hastened to open the shutters, allowing in bursts of sunlight and fresh air. The bed had been stripped; only a straw-filled mattress remained and two dark-stained bolsters. A cloak hung from a peg on the wall, other garments from hooks on the inside of the door. There were tables and stools, a tray of pewter cups and a cracked flagon. A wooden lavarium, bearing a bowl and jug, stood in the corner. Some saddlebags lay piled next to coffers and chests beneath a crucifix.
    'He never took anything with him,' Athelstan remarked. 'I mean, at first it was thought Bartholomew had eloped with the young tavern wench.'
    Colebrooke rubbed his nose on the back of his hand.
    'I never believed that: Bartholomew was a quiet, studious man. He loved working in the Tower, constantly chattering about its history, searching among the records and old manuscripts.'
    Athelstan walked over to the table and touched the rolls of vellum, the well-thumbed ledgers sewn together with black twine.
    'God have mercy on him,' Colebrooke continued. 'Fancy a man like Bartholomew being killed by a woman, eh?'
    'When was his last day of work?' Athelstan asked.
    'We had the midsummer fair on the Feast of St John, the twenty-fourth of June, that was a Thursday. I remember seeing him the following day.'
    'That would be the twenty-fifth?' 'Yes, then he disappeared.'
    'Did he say or do anything untoward?' Sir John asked.
    He had taken off his wineskin and ostentatiously poured the wine into a chamber pot he had pulled from underneath the bed. Colebrooke smirked.
    'You don't like our wine, Sir John?'
    'No, I don't. But answer my question!'
    'When he went missing, I made careful search.' Colebrooke shook his head. 'I could discover nothing. A close, secretive man, Bartholomew. All we knew was that he was sweet on a tavern wench.'
    'Did he have friends?' Athelstan asked.
    'No family to talk of. Bartholomew lived and slept here, until he took up with the wench.' Colebrooke walked to the door. 'If you want, I shall have refreshments sent up.' With another smirk he left.
    Sir John went and kicked the door shut with his boot.
    'Right, gentlemen.' The coroner rubbed his hands. 'I'm hungry, but nothing that a pot of ale and a meat pie wouldn't cure. So, let's begin.'
    They soon listed Miles's paltry possessions: some robes, clothing, belts, a sword and rusty dagger; two skullcaps, a felt hat, wallets and empty purses.
    'I wager any money he had soon disappeared,' Sir John said. 'Colebrooke's got the eyes of a jackdaw.'
    Athelstan, seated at the desk, was piling all the manuscripts together. These he divided out and asked his companions to go through them.
    The day wore on; now and again broken by the sound of a bell or the blowing of a horn as the hunters returned to the Tower from the moorlands to the north. Most of the manuscripts were old accounts and ledger books which provoked nothing of interest. Two or three were letters written by Bartholomew to different people in the city. Athelstan was determined to find something and, after a while, he pushed these aside, going quickly through the pile until he brought out a yellowing piece of parchment sewn together with twine. As he thumbed through this, the