‘Oh, Sir John, you’ve travelled many a day between Dover and Canterbury.’
‘Of course. In summer the Pilgrims’ Way is white chalk. It clings to your cloak. I’ve seen the travellers look so dusty you’d think they were covered in snow.’
‘Precisely, Sir John. She has her clothes washed and her boots cleaned.’
He glanced at Sir Maurice. The young knight was just staring, open-mouthed; now and again his gaze would shift to the corpse stiffening on the bed.
‘Now this is a busy tavern,’ Athelstan continued. ‘People coming and going, particularly on a Saturday. Poor Anna, who thinks she’s never earned so much money so easily, lies down on the bed. She has done what she has been ordered to and waits for further instructions. The assassin enters. He locks and bolts the door behind him and crosses to the bed. Poor Anna is asleep, she struggles awake but the assassin’s hand or probably a garrotte string is round her throat. She is dead before she can really gather her wits. The assassin’s clever. He doesn’t steal any of the silver but takes the knife she carried and cuts some of the rope. One part goes round the rafters, the other round the poor dead girl’s neck. She’s left hanging there. The rope is thick, harsh: the bruising and discoloration of death hides the real cause of death, strangulation by the garrotte string.’
‘And the assassin?’ Sir Maurice asked.
‘Oh, he’d be cowled in some disguise. He’d wait for the tavern yard below to be empty. He then went to the window.’
‘But the shutters were closed!’
Athelstan walked over. ‘I know from Sir John that this is one of the easiest tricks of the guild of housebreakers. The assassin closed one side of the shutter, climbed out on to the sill, pulling the other behind him, then dropped to the ground.’
‘But he could have been seen, even seized?’
‘Sir John, it would only take a few seconds to flee and be lost in some city side street. Anyway, who’d be brave enough to challenge him?’
‘And the letter?’
‘Oh, before the murderer left, the love note was placed near the corpse. One final thing. Sir Maurice, you know a great deal about horses. Go down to the stables, carefully check the palfrey this young woman is supposed to have ridden all the way from Dover, then come back and tell us what you have found.’
The knight hurried off.
‘It’s the first time I’ve seen any life in him,’ Sir John remarked, closing the door. ‘Do you really believe, Athelstan, this poor woman was murdered?’
‘See for yourself, Sir John. Look at the hair, the nails, the neck.’
‘Yes, I see it,’ he said, holding the fingers. ‘Just near the quick of the thumb, traces of paint.’
He examined the woman’s hair and then looked carefully at the neck, scarred horribly by the rope. He’d barely finished when Sir Maurice reentered the room. It was the first time Athelstan had really seen him smile.
‘Brother, I tell you this.’ The knight rubbed his hands. ‘The palfrey’s a sturdy little cob but it has no more travelled from Dover than I have. The hooves are freshly shod.’
‘That could have been done when they reached London,’ Sir John said.
‘I don’t think so, Sir John,’ Athelstan replied. ‘I suspect poor Anna Triveter travelled no more than a mile.’
‘Parr!’ Sir Maurice cried. ‘This is the work of Sir Thomas Parr!’
‘But it’s clumsy.’ Sir John spoke up. ‘Sir Thomas is a man who can call on an army of retainers and indulge in the most subtle stratagems.’
‘It is clumsy,’ Athelstan said. ‘Young man.’ He walked towards the knight. ‘We have questions for you and a lot depends on your answers. This was an evil and cunning trick. True, Sir John and I can prove that Anna Triveter no more travelled from Dover, than we have journeyed from Jerusalem. But that’s because both of us are trained in the art of observation, logic and deduction. We are skilled hunters,’ Athelstan continued, ‘of the sons of Cain: those who kill in the darkness and then step out into the light, wipe their lips and say they’ve done no wrong.’ He pointed to the corpse. ‘However, to the untrained eye, here is a young woman who claims to be handfast to you. She has travelled from Dover and, because of your rejection, took her own life. So, a few questions and some are repetitious. Have you ever met this woman before?’
‘No, Brother, on my soul!’
‘But you consorted with a girl called Anna in Dover?’
‘Yes, Brother, a whore. I’ve been shriven of my sin and done penance.’ Sir Maurice licked his lips. ‘I beg you to keep that as a matter for the confessional. It was before I met the Lady Angelica. Since then I have had eyes for no other woman. My life has been chaste, my mind and soul pure.’
He spoke so passionately, Athelstan accepted the knight was telling the truth.
‘Very well.’ Athelstan tightened the cord round his waist, fingering the three knots there, each a reminder of his vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. ‘We now have Anna Triveter who walks into this play unannounced. We know she is a whore. However, she comes here and pretends to be your common-law wife who has travelled all the way from Dover. She cleans her boots and has her travelling smock washed because she wishes to hide the fact that she has probably travelled no further than from one of the wards in the city. She has been hired by someone who kills her, hoists her corpse up on the end of that rope and leaves a letter for the world to read. The assassin then slips out of the window. Agreed?’
Sir Maurice nodded.
‘So, why did you come to this tavern yesterday?’ The Dominican held up a hand. ‘No, let me tell you: a messenger came to the Savoy Palace and asked for you?’
‘One of the oldest tricks in the book,’ Sir John observed.
‘It was a beggar boy,’ Sir Maurice replied. ‘He arrived at the Savoy about two hours after I left you. The guards stopped him but he said he had an important message. I came down, and the boy, a little street urchin, said that, at the Golden Cresset, there was a messenger waiting for me from the Lady Angelica.’
‘Ah!’ Athelstan exclaimed. ‘That would confirm my suspicions. Go on!’
‘I didn’t think twice. I came here, bought a blackjack of ale and stayed for over an hour.’
‘Didn’t you bother to ask anyone?’ Sir John asked.
‘By the time I reached the Golden Cresset, my ardour had cooled. I wondered if I had been deceived. Was it a trap? I told the tavern wench my name and said I expected someone. Time passed. I finished the ale and I left, angry at such trickery.’ He scratched his head. ‘I didn’t know whom to blame. Such pettiness was beneath Sir Thomas Parr. I thought it might be one of my companions in the Lord Regent’s household inventing a jest, a jape to while away the time.’
Sir John came across and, moving the blankets, began to cover up the corpse.
‘But you can see I’m innocent!’ Sir Maurice cried.
‘Oh, I’ll change my verdict. But don’t you understand, Sir Maurice? Brother Athelstan and I know the truth but what will the world think? A woman lies here dead! The letter! The gossip will seep out like wine from a cracked vat. Sir Thomas Parr will hear about it.’ The coroner gazed sadly at him. ‘Worse still, the Lady Angelica too.’
‘Sir John has the truth of it,’ Athelstan agreed. ‘Even if we change the verdict, they’ll accuse us of covering up a crime of one of Gaunt’s henchmen. Can’t you see, Sir Maurice, the assassin probably knew we’d discover the truth but the damage is done. If you throw enough mud, some always sticks!’
Sir Maurice’s hand went to his dagger, his face white with fury. ‘I’ll kill any man who accuses me! I’ll call him out!’
‘Oh, for the love of God!’ Sir John cried. ‘What are you going to do, Sir Maurice, fight every man in London?’
‘Sir Thomas Parr knows the truth,’ Sir Maurice spat back. ‘He arranged all this.’
‘Sir Maurice! Sir Maurice!’ Athelstan grabbed his hand. ‘I could prove in a court of law that this young woman was murdered and did not commit suicide but we still don’t know who she is or where she came from.’ Athelstan paused. ‘We have no proof that Parr or anyone else is guilty of her death. The finger of suspicion still points at you. It blemishes your reputation and tarnishes your honour.’
‘It creates a doubt,’ Sir John said. ‘And that was the whole purpose of this terrible crime. Is Sir Maurice Maltravers who he claims to be? It could take months to comb the records of Dover, and even longer to find out where this young woman actually comes from. And in the end the gossip will be through the city. Sir Maurice
