Field of Blood

Brother Athelstan are the first to broach it.'
    Cranston scooped it up like a mother would a favourite child. He examined the markings on the side, drew his dagger and began to cut at the twine which held the lid securely on. Then he paused, put the dagger down and held the cask up, inspecting it carefully.
    Joscelyn's smile faded. 'What's the matter, Sir John?'
    'You know full well, sir. I am the King's officer.'
    Joscelyn licked his lips nervously and lowered himself on to a stool at the far end of the table.
    'Sir Jack?' Athelstan asked. 'Is there a problem?'
    'Yes there is, Brother.' Sir John tapped the top of the cask. 'This is rich claret brought from Bordeaux.' He pointed out the markings on the side. 'This tells you the year and the vineyard. But, Joscelyn,' he added sweetly, 'would you like to tell your priest what is wrong?'
    'Why should I, my lord coroner? You are the King's officer.'
    'The good tavern-master here,' Sir John said, 'has very generously brought a cask of wine to broach but one thing's missing: all wine from Bordeaux brought into this realm must pay duty. Each cask is marked with a brand saying it has come through customs. It is then sealed showing the port of entry. Such marks are very hard to forge.'
    'Oh, Joscelyn, no!' Athelstan groaned. 'You haven't been involved in smuggling along the river?'
    'Sir John, Brother, I brought it as a gift. Such casks are common among the victuallers and tavern-masters of London.'
    'True.' Sir John smacked his lips. 'I am only here to celebrate and I am not a customs official.'
    'Joscelyn, you should be careful,' Athelstan warned. A memory stirred. 'Where did you buy it from? Come on, Joscelyn. If you were involved in smuggling, my precious parish council would be involved up to their necks: Moleskin, Watkin and Pike. Are they? I don't want to see them dance on the end of a rope.'
    Joscelyn swallowed hard.
    'You bought this from someone else, didn't you? Your son talked about the Paradise Tree and Mistress Vestler.'
    Sir John opened the cask with his dagger and groaned with pleasure.
    'Don't lie to your priest!' Athelstan stood over the tavern-keeper.
    'Yes, Brother, I bought it from Mistress Vestler. There are a number of tavern-keepers in Southwark…'
    'Enough said.' Athelstan patted him on the shoulder. 'Go on, Joscelyn, thank you for the wine. Join the revellers, your secret's safe with us.'
    Joscelyn, all sobered up, sped out the door.
    Sir John had broached the cask and was now filling two cups.
    'Is it a sin to drink it, monk?'
    'Friar, Sir John. No, I don't think it is. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Moreover, the mood I am in, I recall St Paul's words: "Use a little wine for thy stomach's sake", even if the customs duty has not been paid!' Athelstan sat opposite his friend and sipped the wine.
    Sir John closed his eyes, smacked his lips and sighed. 'Oh this is truly a gift from heaven.'
    'Well, we've solved one mystery,' Athelstan said. 'We now know who Mistress Vestler's midnight visitors are: river smugglers. They take their barges out to the wine ships before their cargo is unloaded, pay the captain a good price, then it's along to the Paradise Tree and other riverside taverns. Mistress Vestler must have done a roaring trade.' He thought of that lonely stretch along the mud flats and laughed. 'It also explains her charity, Sir John.'
    The coroner, more interested in the wine, looked puzzled.
    'The Four Gospels,' Athelstan explained. 'That's why she let them camp there. Do you remember what they told us? How they lit a fire on the mud flats in case St Michael came by night? The fisher of men referred to it as a beacon.'
    'Of course! And, on a moonless night with a river mist swirling in, there's nothing like a fire to draw a smuggler in. I wager a cup of wine to a cup of wine that Master Whittock knows something of this. No wonder Kathryn wouldn't tell us.'
    Athelstan turned as the door opened.
    'Yes, Benedicta?'
    'Brother, you have a visitor.'
    She stood aside and Hengan, cloak about him, swept into the house.
    'I will leave you,' Benedicta called out and closed the door.
    The lawyer sat down, unhitched his cloak and tossed it on the floor. He put his face in his hands. 'Master Ralph, what's the matter?' 'Alice Brokestreet's been murdered!' 'What!' Sir John exclaimed.
    'Someone took a flask of poisoned wine and a pastry to the gatehouse. Now, because Brokestreet was a prisoner of the Crown, her gaolers treat her tenderly. All they