The Devil's Domain

sure he does,’ Athelstan replied dryly. ’He’s well known in many of the taverns in the city.’
    ’As I am,’ Sir John added warningly. ’But what’s the matter, fellow?’
    ’She’s a suicide,’ the taverner blurted out. ’She should be buried at midnight at a crossroads outside the city!’
    ’She’s a poor girl,’ Athelstan replied. ’Who probably killed herself while her wits were fuddled.’ He picked up the corpse’s hand and looked at the fingernails carefully. ’And we don’t know whether it’s suicide or not, do we?’
    ’The coroner has pronounced his verdict.’
    ’The coroner has pronounced his verdict on what is obvious. However, the more I stand here, the greater a niggling doubt grows.’ He moved to the bed and began to study the young woman’s hair most carefully, parting it, letting the strands run through his fingers. He reminded Sir John of Lady Maude examining the two poppets’ heads for lice.
    ’Can I go?’ the taverner asked.
    ’Yes, but stay downstairs until the Harrower of the Dead arrives and we are finished.’
    Cranston leaned against the wall, mopping his brow while Sir Maurice stood, arms folded. Athelstan continued his examination of the woman’s corpse: the hair, the nails, then he lifted the skirt and began to examine her torso.
    ’Should you do that?’ Sir Maurice asked.
    ’A corpse is a corpse. The soul has gone, all beauty of the body is dead.’
    He examined the woman’s belly carefully. The skin of the thighs was covered in pimples and blotches. He shifted the corpse to look along the back.
    ’What are you searching for, Athelstan?’
    The Dominican made the body decent.
    ’Are you going to say she was hanged?’
    ’Here we have a young woman,’ Athelstan said. He clicked his tongue against his lower lip. ’She calls herself Anna Triveter and travels from Dover to London . Her one desire is to see her beloved Sir Maurice Maltravers. Young man! You can lean against that wall and sulk or you can co-operate with us.’
    ’I am not sulking,’ Maltravers retorted. ’Brother, I am furious! I did not know this woman. And until Sir John here sent a message to the Savoy Palace , I didn’t know...’
    ’Of course you didn’t,’ Athelstan interrupted cheerfully.
    ’What’s that?’ Sir John lowered the half-raised wineskin.
    ’It’s a matter of logic,’ said Athelstan. ’Anna here arrives at the Golden Cresset.’ He pointed to her boots which lay just within the doorway. ’Pick those up, Sir John.’
    Cranston did so; they were small, rather fashionable, made of leather with silver buckles.
    ’Look at the heels and soles.’
    The coroner did so.
    ’They are clean, aren’t they?’
    ’She could have done that herself.’
    ’Oh, she did.’
    Athelstan walked over to the wooden lavarium which bore a bowl, a jug and, on the floor beneath, a pile of rags. He picked one up. It was dirty and wet.
    ’Brother.’ Sir John glowered at the Dominican. ’Don’t let’s dance round the mulberry bush. It stands to reason the woman was tired and exhausted after her journey. She cleaned her boots as many a traveller would. She changed her garb and sent it to the washhouse.’
    ’And then she’d just commit suicide.’ Athelstan pointed to the rope. ’Where did she get that from?’
    ’There’s a coil left in every room.’ Sir Maurice spoke up. ’In case of fire.’ He pointed to what was left of the rope still lying in a comer. He went over and picked up the knife still lying there. ’She cut some of this, put one end round the beam, formed a noose and put that round her neck.’
    ’But,’ Athelstan objected, ’why should a young woman who is desirous of seeing you, Sir Maurice, come into this chamber, change her clothing, wash her boots, bolt and lock the door and then hang herself? Above all, where did she get the writing material?’ Athelstan asked. ’For that last lovelorn letter?’
    ’I see what you mean,’ Sir John breathed.
    ’I don’t think she committed suicide. I doubt if her name’s Anna Triveter and I don’t think she came from Dover .’ Athelstan smiled apologetically at Cranston . ’I am sorry to upset your verdict so soon, but it’s best if these matters are kept secret!’
    ’Continue!’ the coroner barked.
    ’Anna Triveter is probably a whore. If you examine her fingernails, Sir John, down near the rim around the skin, you’ll see the traces of paint. If you examine her hair it is beautiful, lustrous