Field of Blood

He glared spitefully at Pike's sour-faced wife who kept in the shadows, muttering that she was glad 'the difficulty had been resolved'.
    Tables were set up, benches brought out from the church; Watkin brought his bagpipes; Ranulf the ratcatcher his lute; Manger the hangman his tambours. Merry Legs provided pies and pastries which, he proclaimed, were only two days old. Other offerings were made and Joscelyn was cheered to the heavens when he rolled barrels of ale and beer along from the Piebald. Athelstan promised that some of the expense would be met from the parish coffers.
    Sir John, of course, was determined to stay. He drank two blackjacks of ale and, when challenged by Watkin and Pike, drank another faster than they. Afterwards he danced a jig with Ursula the pig woman and Pernell the Fleming: even Crim declared him light on his feet and nimble as a juggler.
    Athelstan sat on the steps and watched it all. He drank his stoup of ale a little too fast and felt rather tired. Eventually he and Sir Jack left the parishioners and retired to the priest's house where the coroner threw his beaver hat and cloak into a corner, took off his doublet and sat on a bench opposite Athelstan, mopping his face.
    'I sometimes curse your parishioners, Athelstan, yet they are a merry lot: it's so good to dance! Did I tell you I was at Windsor when the Countess of Salisbury lost her garter?'
    'Tomorrow, Sir John, another lady will lose more than her garter!'
    Sir John sobered up. 'Aye, Athelstan. What we've learned is bad enough but only the good Lord knows how much Master Whittock has unearthed. I hope Hengan's wits are sharp and keen for he is going to need all his power to defend Mistress Vestler.'
    'Let us say,' Athelstan ventured, 'for sake of argument, that Mistress Brokestreet is a liar.'
    'Which she is.'
    'Then how, my dear coroner, did she know about those two corpses? That's the nub of the case. The murder of two innocents is not something you proclaim for all the world to hear.'
    'So?'
    'There are a number of possibilities, Sir Jack. Firstly, Kathryn Vestler told her about the corpses, but that's hardly likely. Secondly, somehow or other, Alice Brokestreet found out about the murders and kept the secret to herself.'
    'In which case,' Sir John mused, 'we must ask why the assassin should tell her?'
    'And that's my third point, Sir Jack. If Alice Brokestreet is lying and Mistress Vestler is innocent, someone else murdered Bartholomew and Margot. He, or she, then gave the secret to Brokestreet so she could escape execution by approving Mistress Vestler.'
    'So Brokestreet will know the identity of the assassin?'
    'Not necessarily, Sir John. She could have been informed by letter, or by a mysterious visitor to Newgate or even before she committed her own murder. Brokestreet is not the problem. She is only the cat's-paw. She was informed by the assassin who,
    I suspect, will take care of Mistress Brokestreet in his own way and at his own time. Now Vestler is a widow. If she's found guilty of a felony and hanged, the Crown will seize the Paradise Tree and sell it to the highest bidder.'
    'The real assassin could be the one who buys it in order to search for Gundulf's treasure.'
    Sir John whistled under his breath.
    'That's going to be hard to prove, little friar. The Paradise Tree is a profitable, spacious tavern; there will be many bids for it.'
    'Yes, I know,' Athelstan sighed. 'So I suppose my conclusion is weak. However, it will not go well for us tomorrow. The profits of the Paradise Tree will have to be explained; as will those mysterious visitors at night and, above all, two corpses in Black Meadow. You went to Bapaume the goldsmith?'
    Sir John nodded. 'He told me that Bartholomew Menster had intimated he was drawing all his gold and silver out to buy something but he didn't say what!' He tapped Athelstan on the back of the hand. 'But you did well, Brother. At least Mistress Vestler is cleared of the deaths of those other skeletons. I just hope Chief Justice Brabazon accepts your plea that Black Meadow was a cemetery during the great pestilence.'
    He started at a knock on the door.
    'Come in!' Athelstan shouted.
    Joscelyn, the one-armed tavern-keeper, staggered in, his face wreathed in smiles. Under his arm he carried a small tun of wine which he lowered on to the table.
    'Sir Jack,' he slurred. 'This is the best cask of Bordeaux claret, held in the cellars of the Piebald for such an occasion. It's only right that you and