Field of Blood

Pig weeks ago. Not as a whore, though she may have granted her favours, but more as a chamber girl and wine maid. She killed a clerk in a quarrel and escaped but the hue and cry were raised.'
    'And?' Sir John asked testily. 'The vicar of hell?'
    'The tavern-keeper said he had no knowledge of such a man.'
    'I am sure he did.'
    'But, he said that if he came across him, he would present the compliments of my lord coroner and Brother Athelstan.'
    'Do you hear that, friar?'
    Athelstan, lost in a reverie, started and looked at Sir John.
    'A brothel-keeper knows you.'
    'We are all God's children, Sir John.'
    'What are you thinking about, Brother?'
    Athelstan picked up his writing bag, took out a scrap of parchment, seal, inkpot and quill. He wrote a few lines.
    'I'm thinking about St Christopher medals, Sir John.'
    Athelstan shook the piece of parchment to ensure the ink was dry. He took a penny out of his purse and handed the coin and scrap of parchment to Flaxwith.
    'When you've finished your ale, Henry, would you and your lads go back to Petty Wales. Seek out a young woman called Hilda Smallwode in Shoe Lane: she's maid to Bridget Sholter.'
    'Oh, the widow of the murdered messenger?'
    'Ask her the question I've written out. Did she see her master's medal hanging from his saddle horn or did she notice it in the house after he had left? You are to tell her you are from Sir John Cranston and she's to keep the matter secret.'
    Flaxwith, eager to be away, drained his tankard and got to his feet, gesturing at his companions to follow.
    'By the way,' Athelstan asked, 'where's Samson?'
    'I've left him at a horse leech in Bodkin Lane.'
    'Ah!' Sir John breathed. 'Don't say the darling boy's ill?'
    'Something he ate, Sir John. He stole a string of sausages from a butcher's stall last night and the little fellow hasn't been the same since.'
    Sir John raised his tankard and toasted him.
    'Do give Samson my love.'
    Flaxwith stamped out, complaining under his breath about Sir John's attitude to his beloved dog. The coroner ordered more tankards.
    'I've got some bad news. While you were away looking at that fire-eater, Athelstan, I asked Henry about the accounts of the Paradise Tree but they've already been taken. Odo Whittock has, in the name of the chief justice, seized them already' Sir John dug into the deep pocket in his cloak and drew out a tattered ledger. 'That's all he could find but it's five years old, the last year Stephen Vestler was alive. I was going to…'
    'I'll have it, Sir John.'
    Athelstan took the greasy-covered ledger, bound by pieces of red twine, and put it in his writing bag. Hengan was staring down at the table lost in his own thoughts.
    'Master Ralph, you look sad.'
    'Brother, I am more frightened.' Hengan sipped at the fresh tankard of ale. 'It does not augur well for Mistress Vestler. We know that the two corpses are those of Bartholomew the clerk and his sweetheart but there's also the question of the other skeletons.' He paused. 'Is it possible?'
    'What?' Sir John demanded.
    'Well, all the flesh and cloth had rotted away. Now around the city are numerous burial pits, relics of the great pestilence which swept through London thirty years ago. People were buried in gardens, any available piece of land.'
    'And you think that's what happened in Black Meadow?' Athelstan asked.
    'It's a possibility. I mean, if Mistress Vestler was a murderess, wouldn't we find or discover more corpses in the same state as Bartholomew?'
    'There's one place I can look,' Athelstan added, 'my mother house in Blackfriars. When the pestilence swept through London the Dominican order did very good work. The brothers tended to the dead but they also made a careful list of burial grounds and, when the pestilence subsided, went out and blessed these.'
    Sir John beamed from ear to ear.
    'It's possible,' he whispered excitedly.
    'But it makes little difference,' Hengan intervened. 'What does it matter if you hang for one or a dozen? Sir John, I think we should be going.'
    They left the Lamb of God and made their way up through the milling crowds and into the open area before the grim doorway of Newgate. To one side ranged the fleshers' stalls and slaughterhouses. The cobbles ran with blood and ordure and the air was thick with the stench from the boiling cauldrons and vats.
    Athelstan always hated the place. It stank of death, pain and punishment. The stocks in front of the prison were empty but a makeshift scaffold had been assembled. It