her death.’
‘And no one visited her?’
‘Not even this young man here?’ Athelstan pointed at Sir Maurice.
‘He was in the taproom,’ Margaret replied. ‘Cradling a blackjack of ale and looking very woebegone but, to my knowledge, he never came up here.’
‘Nor asked to see Anna Triveter?’ Athelstan asked.
Margaret shook her head.
‘Very well.’ Sir John drew himself up. ‘Master Taverner, this is the corpse of the young woman who came here?’
‘It is, my lord coroner.’
‘And you have taken nothing from the corpse or her belongings?’
‘No!’
‘Very well.’ Sir John turned to Sir Maurice. ‘Sir Maurice Maltravers, knight banneret of His Grace the Duke of Lancaster, do you recognise this corpse?’
‘No, sir, I do not.’
‘Have you, or did you, have dealings with her?’
‘I did not.’
‘On your oath?’
‘On my oath, Sir John, I had nothing to do with her in life and I certainly had nothing to do with her in death.’
‘Then this is my verdict,’ the coroner declared. ‘Anna Triveter, supposed inhabitant of Dover, did feloniously kill herself on Saturday evening, 29th August in the year of Our Lord 1380. Right!’ He clapped his hands. ‘Now we’ve got that over. Master Taverner, you may keep all the woman’s possessions, including her clothing, her horse and silver. When the Harrower of the Dead collects her corpse, you must arrange for honourable burial in the paupers’ graveyard at St Mary-Le-Bow and pay for a chantry priest to sing five Masses before the Feast of the Epiphany next. On your oath do you accept?’
‘I do, my lord coroner. But…’
‘What’s the matter, sir?’
Athelstan trusted the taverner, who had a broad, honest face, a family man who’d acted honourably. Many an innkeeper would have filched the silver and claimed the horse had been stolen. The taverner wet his lips.
‘Well, Brother. I now recognise you. You are Athelstan, aren’t you, from St Erconwald’s in Southwark? Watkin the dung-collector sometimes comes here!’
‘I am 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 wash-house.’
‘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 corner. 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 finger-nails, 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 and red, but among the roots you will find the traces of dye. Her body is marked, small cuts on her back. Welts which healed some time ago. I suspect she has been whipped or received the end of a birch, whether in punishment or pleasure,’ Athelstan continued dryly, ‘I do not know. Suffice to say, Sir John, Sir Maurice, this is not some young gentlewoman.’
‘But why?’ Sir John asked. ‘What did happen?’
‘She’s a whore. And brought here to act the part. She’s given a change of clothing, a set of saddlebags and some silver. She arrived at the Golden Cresset and, following instructions, has her clothes taken down to the wash-house while she wipes her boots.’
‘But why?’ Sir John again asked.
