Field of Blood

morning, but he kept it to one side. He recalled Master Whittock's questions, the line of witnesses he had summoned. Athelstan searched out the old accounts book. He sat at the table and leafed through the pages. Yes, it all made sense. Mistress Vestler was a good householder. She and her husband had kept meticulous accounts. Items purchased; guests who had called; alms given to beggars. He noticed the name of Biddlecombe the chapman, a regular visitor, often given a fresh bed of straw in the outhouse. Athelstan's eyes grew heavy and he was about to turn the page when one entry, a purchase by Kathryn's husband, caught his eye.

Chapter 14
    Athelstan went through the ledger very carefully noting that there were other entries beside the two he had already discovered. He secretly admired their detail. No wonder the serjeant-at-law had been able to present such a compelling case. The suspicions which had nagged his mind now grew and took shape. Athelstan sadly reflected on the power of love: the damage, as well as the good, it could do. Time and again he went through the journal, only wishing he had the others to inspect. As the evening drew on Bonaventure came back and pestered him for food and milk.
    'You are a riffler. Do you know that?' Athelstan lectured him. 'You prowl the alleyways and you come back in a bad temper.' He got to his feet. 'Bad-tempered cats, Bonaventure, will never enter the kingdom of heaven. If you are not a Jesus cat what hope is there for you?'
    Bonaventure just rubbed himself against the friar's legs, arching his back, persisting in his demands until Athelstan fetched him a dish of milk. Huddle brought the key across and Athelstan went out to check that all was well. He was too tired to study the stars but retired early and fell asleep thinking about Kathryn Vestler manacled in the condemned cell and said a quick prayer for her.
    The next morning Athelstan surprised Crim by taking out the special red vestments reserved for the feast of Pentecost: a beautiful chasuble with gold and silver crosses sewn on the back and front.
    'We need God's help,' he told the heavy-eyed altar boy. 'I doubt if many of my parishioners are here this morning. It will take some time for the effects of all that revelry to wear off.'
    Athelstan celebrated his Mass, praying that God would make him as innocent as a dove and as cunning as a serpent.
    'Because, Lord,' he concluded, 'today justice must be done.'
    Athelstan finished his Mass, hastily broke his fast then locked up the house and church. He hurried through the streets down to the riverside. Although he passed the occasional parishioner he kept his eyes lowered, unwilling to be distracted or drawn into conversation. The river mist still hung heavy but a taciturn Moleskin soon rowed him across the other side. The fish market was preparing to open as Athelstan landed on the quayside and hastened up through Petty Wales to the Paradise Tree.
    The ale-master came out to meet him; he looked rather sheepish and rubbed his hands.
    'I am sorry, Brother,' he mumbled as he led the friar into the taproom still not yet cleaned from the previous evening. 'But I had no choice. Master Whittock was most insistent.'
    Athelstan took a seat near the window and looked out across the garden, savouring the early morning freshness. Sparrows squabbled in the trees; house martins dived and swooped over the flower beds, still covered with a crystal-white morning frost. Then he turned to the ale-master.
    'Please bring me a cup of watered wine and some bread and cheese.'
    The man hurried away. Now and again servants popped their heads round the door of the kitchen to study this little friar who had become so immersed in their mistress's affairs. Athelstan hoped Sir John would not be late. Before he had celebrated Mass, he'd despatched Godbless with an urgent message for the coroner to meet him here.
    'The tavern will be closed on Monday,' the ale-master mournfully informed him. 'And what will happen then, eh, Brother?'
    'I don't know. Was Master Hengan here yesterday?'
    'Oh yes, sir, conducting the most scrupulous of searches.'
    Athelstan thanked him and turned away. He heard a dog bark and Sir John's bell-like voice.
    'For the love of God, Henry, keep that bloody dog away from me!'
    Sir John, followed by Flaxwith and the ever-slavering Samson, walked into the taproom. The coroner clapped his hands and beamed around, but Athelstan could see he was pretending: he looked heavy-eyed,