Field of Blood

pages crackling, the ink slightly faded, he noticed a fresh piece of parchment had been inserted. He studied the entry most carefully.
    'This is an extract from a chronicle,' he exclaimed. 'An account of the building of the Tower.' Athelstan sifted quickly among the manuscripts. 'And here's a map, crudely drawn.'
    The parchment was stiff, blackened at the edges. Athelstan studied the map, aware of the other two standing behind him. He pulled the small candle closer.
    'It's a mason's drawing, done in black ink, though this is faded. Look, there's the keep. Here are the Tower walls.' Athelstan moved his finger to the left. 'And there's Petty Wales, beneath it the river. And look at this.' He pointed to the faded words ecclesia Romana, 'the Roman Church.' 'This chronicle was written two hundred years ago by a very old man who was one of Bishop Gundulf's scribes. He describes how the Tower was constructed. He also comments on the Roman ruins. Apparently, the Paradise Tree is built on the ruins of an old Roman church.' He turned over the pages and noticed the fresh marks in the margin. 'That's Bartholomew's writing. The chronicler is telling of Gundulf's treasure. Apparently the old bishop had it melted down and fashioned into a great ingot. A foot in diameter and, listen to this, nine inches thick!'
    'Satan's futtocks!' Sir John breathed.
    'The chronicle then goes on to say that before he died, "Gundulfus celavit hunc thesaurum, quod fulgebat sicut sol, in ecclesia prope turrem." Gundulf hid this gold,' Athelstan translated, 'which glowed like the sun, in the church next to the Tower.' He paused. 'In my view the church next to the Tower is a reference to the old Roman ruins.'
    'The site of the Paradise Tree?' Sir John exclaimed.
    'Bartholomew must have believed that Gundulf hid his treasure somewhere in the vicinity of the tavern.' Athelstan turned his stool round. 'Did Bartholomew ever discuss this matter with you or Mistress Vestler?'
    Hengan shook his head. 'Never to my knowledge, Brother.' He tapped the map. 'If any treasure were buried beneath that tavern, I doubt if it's there now.'
    'Why is that?'
    'Brother, I deal in property: bills of sales, searches and scrutiny. If the old Roman church was destroyed and a tavern built, the treasure must be under it.'
    'Of course,' Athelstan replied. 'It's near the river and the ground becomes water-logged.'
    'This was written over two hundred years ago,' Hengan pointed out. 'The Thames often breaks its banks. It's a common occurrence every autumn: the soil crumbles, the river swells and floods the mud-banks.'
    'So it could have been swept away?'
    'Perhaps but, there again, if the treasure were hidden and protected by the old foundations…'
    Athelstan recalled the Four Gospels.
    'I wonder,' he mused, 'if our little religious group chose that spot to await St Michael or to continue their own searches? Master Hengan, they told me a story about barges which come up the Thames late at night carrying dark figures which, if the Four Gospels are to be believed, disembark and steal towards the Paradise Tree.'
    'Oh, Lord save us!' The lawyer rubbed his eyes. 'I hope Whittock doesn't get hold of that.'
    Athelstan looked across the chamber to where Sir John stood half-listening while going through other pieces of manuscript. At the mention of Whittock, the coroner strode across.
    'Odo Whittock, the serjeant-at-law?'
    'The same,' Hengan replied.
    Sir John glimpsed the puzzlement in Athelstan's eyes.
    'Odo Whittock,' he explained, 'is a young, ambitious serjeant-at-law: a veritable limner, a sniffer-out of crime. He works for the Barons of the Exchequer but, now and again, he does pleas for the Crown.'
    'In other words a prosecutor?'
    'Yes, Brother, a prosecutor,' Hengan said. 'I have heard good rumour that Sir Henry Brabazon has appointed Whittock to investigate this matter. Let me put it this way. Brabazon will loose the arrows.'
    'But Whittock will be by his side,' Athelstan finished, 'holding the quiver?'
    'Precisely, Brother. If Whittock gets hold of that sort of story, of which I know nothing, it will go badly for Mistress Kathryn.'
    'I remember Odo,' Sir John intervened. 'Tall, thin-faced, nose like a falcon's beak. Eyes which never miss a trick. Prisoners at the bar are more frightened of him than they are of torturers in the Tower. A good friend but a bad enemy.'
    'Did Bartholomew ever try and buy the Paradise Tree?' Athelstan asked, returning to the matter in hand.
    'Not to my