Field of Blood

On the window seat behind, Hilda the maid was examining a broken strap one of the apprentices had brought in.
    'Is Master Eccleshall here?' Sir John boomed. 'Of course not.'
    Mistress Sholter rose in alarm. She was still dressed in widow's weeds, her face pale. Athelstan abruptly realised how deep her voice could be.
    'Well, you can get out for a start!' Sir John pointed to the maid.
    Athelstan heard a dog yapping; Flaxwith and Samson had joined them. Sir John went to the door.
    'Henry, keep everybody out of here! Brother Athelstan and I wish words with Mistress Sholter.'
    The coroner slammed the door behind him and drew the bolts. Mistress Sholter had retaken her seat.
    'What is this?' Her eyes had a guarded look. 'Why do you come here like this? I am a widow, my husband is not yet buried.'
    'You are a murderess.' Cranston eased himself down into a chair and leaned against the wooden panelling.
    Athelstan sat on a high stool before the counting desk. He felt like a bird perched on a branch. The widow kept her poise but her nervousness was apparent. She kept shifting the stacks of coins.
    'Tell her, Brother.'
    'Last Saturday,' Athelstan began. 'You do remember last Saturday, Mistress Sholter?' 'Of course!'
    'Your lover and accomplice Eccleshall brought horses from the royal stables.' 'My lover!'
    'Yes, yes, quite. I'll come to that later. Anyway, your husband left, spurred, sword belt about him. He kissed you goodbye and mounted his horse. As he was riding down the street, or even before, he took out the St Christopher medal he always kept with him and hung it, like many travellers do, over the horn of his saddle.'
    'Impossible!' Mistress Sholter spat out. 'He left it here. It's still upstairs.'
    'No, mistress, your husband had two medals. A common enough habit with something precious. I shall tell you what happened. He and Eccleshall left Mincham Lane and rode down towards London Bridge. As is customary, because they are royal messengers, they had officially to notify the gatekeeper, Robert Burdon. He remembers your husband, and I have a testified statement that Burdon distinctly remembers the St Christopher medal hanging from your husband's saddle horn.'
    'It may have been something else,' she intervened.
    'I don't think so. The riders continued through Southwark and then, for God knows what reason, Eccleshall managed to persuade your husband to leave the road and climb a hill to a derelict house once owned by an old miser. The house is a gaunt, sprawling affair, allegedly haunted, so a rather lonely place. If Eccleshall noticed anyone he would probably have chosen a different location. As I said, God knows what excuse was used. Perhaps Eccleshall feigned illness, something wrong with his horse? Or just a curiosity to visit the old ruin? Once inside the house, however, Eccleshall continued with the plan he'd hatched with you. He killed your husband. The poor man would never dream that such an attack would be launched.' Athelstan paused. 'You know what happened then, mistress. They had taken their time crossing the bridge which would provide enough time for you to clear away the stall, dispense with your maid and hurry down through Petty Wales. You'd go disguised, cowled and hooded: one among many on a busy Saturday evening. Once on Southwark side you hastened along the lanes. I wonder if you arrived before they did?'
    Mistress Sholter was now breathing quickly, leaning back in her chair.
    'You took your husband's corpse and hid it in the cellar of that house. Your husband was clean-shaven, with long black hair. You would be the same height, mistress. You dressed in his clothes, boots, cloak, and wore his insignia. You and Eccleshall then travelled on to the Silken Thomas.'
    'Someone would have noticed,' she interrupted.
    'Oh, but they didn't. Eccleshall did all the talking. A room was quickly hired and up to the chamber you go. I am sure, mistress, where necessary, you could lower your voice, make it sound like a man's. Why should anyone think differently? Why should they suspect you weren't a man? You were a stranger at the Silken Thomas, cowled and cloaked. Most people are wary of royal messengers. Not like the Paradise Tree, eh?'
    'The Paradise Tree!' she exclaimed.
    'Yes, the tavern in Petty Wales where Miles and his so-called friend Eccleshall often went to drink. Strange, isn't it? The taverner there said your husband was known for his bully-boy ways, shouting his orders. At the Silken Thomas he was,