‘I didn’t…’ Master Rolles raised a hand. ‘Sir John,’ he gasped, ‘this is nonsense.’
‘Hush now,’ Athelstan soothed. ‘On the night in question you pretended you were all revelling and carousing in a chamber here at the Night in Jerusalem. No one would mark the hours, not even the Misericord, who was serving as a pot boy, or the other heavy-eyed servants and maids, only too eager to slip exhausted into their narrow beds. Now, Master Rolles, you owned a great high-sided cart, the perfect place to hide a group of men under a leather awning. You had the cart hitched, its wheels covered in straw and sacking to hide the sound, and slipped away, leaving probably only two of the knights to continue the sound of revelling and carousing so as to distract the attention of others. You knew, thanks to Guinevere, where Culpepper and Mortimer would be waiting for the treasure. You came upon them suddenly and silently. All of you are trained bowmen, skilled archers. You arrived at the moment Culpepper and Mortimer took possession of the barge.’
Athelstan paused.
‘The attack would be swift, the shafts hissing through air.’ The friar glanced quickly at Malachi, now so pale his eyes seemed like dark pools, his lips thin, bloodless lines. ‘Four corpses,’ Athelstan continued, ‘transfixed by arrows. You quickly carried them to the waiting cart, together with the treasure chest. The location was secret. The river water would soon wash away any signs of violence. You pushed the barge out into mid-stream, having cleared it of any possessions.’
‘And Guinevere the Golden?’ Cranston asked, his gaze still intent on Master Rolles.
‘Ah, Guinevere the Golden,’ Athelstan sighed. ‘She whom fortune didn’t favour. Poor Culpepper died thinking she loved him and him only. The men she betrayed him to encouraged her to maintain this illusion. I suppose she was told to wait for Culpepper somewhere lonely and dark; what better place than their usual love tryst, the cemetery at St Erconwald’s, near to the river but far enough away from the Night in Jerusalem. She was to wait there until it was all over. Of course, if you betray one person, it’s only a matter of time before you betray someone else. Guinevere had to be silenced. I have no proof that it was at St Erconwald’s, but I do know that Mother Veritable took care of her. The cart containing the four other corpses would stop to pick up her body as well. In the dead of night that cart, its wheels muffled, slipped back into the Night in Jerusalem.’
‘Master Rolles on his cart,’ Cranston intervened, ‘was a common enough sight at all hours of the day and night. Slatterns and servants, the Misericord included, slept in the tap room, under the tables. There’d be enough of you to keep watch in the dead of night…’
‘There was also another way in.’ Athelstan spoke quickly, fearful lest Cranston be carried away by his excitement at what was being revealed. ‘The small postern gate to the garden.’ The friar stared down the table. ‘Master Rolles, I must study your accounts. I believe you were having the garden laid out then, weren’t you? The ground all dug up? A beautiful place now, but an ideal one at the time for hiding five corpses and all their possessions. They were brought through the postern gate that night.’ Athelstan gestured at window. ‘No wonder you had mantraps to protect such a place.’
‘This is preposterous,’ Sir Maurice broke in. ‘You have no proof.’
‘You don’t deny it,’ Cranston barked, ‘you simply ask for evidence.’
‘I’ll supply that soon enough.’ Athelstan pointed to the window. ‘We’ll find the corpses, then there’s Mother Veritable: she’ll be about to take the oath now, provide the Crown and its lawyers with all the proof they need.’
‘But this treasure…’ Sir Reginald Branson spoke up.
‘You know the answer to that,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘We’ll come to it by and by. What were you planning to do with that treasure? Break it up, hide it away until you returned?’ Athelstan’s face creased into a smile. ‘But you couldn’t do that, could you? In the end all you had to do was hide the corpses, and let those poor men take the blame. The perfect crime, except for Mother Veritable. She has already confessed to killing Guinevere the Golden. She was supposed to destroy all that poor woman’s possessions, make it look as though she had packed all her bags and vanished without a trace, but she was greedy. She kept a small coffer owned by Guinevere.’ Athelstan leaned under the table, brought out the small casket and placed it carefully in front of him. ‘The years passed, the casket became tawdry. Mother Veritable grew careless or her conscience pricked her. She gave the casket to Beatrice and Clarice, not realising the terrible mistake she was making.’ Athelstan tapped the broken clasps. ‘Look at that, gentlemen, do you see the insignia? Dark blue Celtic crosses on a tawny background. Don’t you remember whose insignia it was?’
‘In God’s name!’ Sir Maurice leaned forward, hands shaking.
‘Ah, Sir Maurice, you have reached the same conclusion as I have, hasn’t he, Brother Malachi?’ Athelstan glanced quickly at the Benedictine. ‘Aren’t those the personal insignia of your brother, as opposed to your family escutcheon? A dark blue Celtic cross on a tawny background. I noticed that in the Tower when I scrutinised the indenture. Your brother Richard always signed a cross like this next to his name, while Mortimer used a lion, the heraldic device of his family. You had forgotten that, but the Misericord didn’t. He became very friendly with Beatrice and Clarice. One day he saw this coffer and, being keen of eye and sharp of wit, realised it must have been a personal gift from Sir Richard, a fact Mother Veritable had overlooked. The Misericord would wonder why their mother Guinevere, supposedly so devoted to Sir Richard, would vanish but
