pardon for what she has done.'
'Brother, I take your warning. Mistress Vestler stands in great danger of being hanged. If that happens…'
'The tavern and all its moveables,' Sir John interrupted, 'are forfeit to the Crown,'
Athelstan cradled his tankard; his deep friendship with Sir John, whatever his troubles in Southwark, committed him to this matter. In conscience he must do all he could to prove Mistress Vestler's innocence.
'Has anything untoward occurred?' he asked. 'Is there anyone with a grievance against Mistress Vestler?'
The lawyer shook his head.
'Does anyone desire the tavern? Or its properties?'
'Mistress Vestler was very fortunate,' Hengan replied. 'She and Stephen bought this when prices throughout the city had fallen after the great pestilence. The tavern was not what it is now. These gardens, the carp pond, the chambers are all their doing. Mistress Vestler is a skilled cook. Her venison pies, baked in spices, are famous through the city. Now, to answer your question bluntly: about eighteen months ago a member of the Guild of Licensed Victuallers, Edmund Coddington, did offer a price for the tavern. Mistress Vestler refused.'
'And where is this Coddington now?' Sir John asked.
'Oh, Sir Jack, he died of some ailment or other. Apart from him, no one else.'
Athelstan recalled the Four Gospels and repressed a shiver. They looked and acted fey-witted but what if their smiles concealed some secret purpose? They would not be the first so-called witnesses to truth who masked their nefarious practices under the guise of religion. He finished his ale and got to his feet.
'Sir Jack!'
He gave the surprised coroner his empty tankard.
'I shall be with you shortly.'
Athelstan strode into Black Meadow. He paused at the pit where the bailiffs were now sheeting the skeletons and two corpses.
'Can I help you, Brother?' One of the bailiffs leaned on his mattock. 'Dark deeds, eh?'
'Dark deeds certainly. Tell me, sir, where did you find the two corpses? The man and the woman?'
The bailiff scratched a cut on his unshaven chin.
'Ah, that's right.' The fellow pointed. 'Over there, Brother.'
Athelstan went to the spot indicated and looked back towards the lych gate. The bailiff came over, his mattock resting against his shoulder like a spear.
'What's the problem, Brother?'
'Let's pretend I'm a murderer.' Athelstan smiled. 'Or we are both murderers. We have corpses to dispose of. So, when do we bury them?'
'Why, Brother,' the surprised bailiff replied, 'at the dead of night.'
'Now we can't be seen,' Athelstan said, 'from the bottom of the meadow.'
'Ah, you mean where that strange group live? Yes, you're right, Brother, the swell of the hill hides all view.'
'And if we dig this side of the oak tree?' Athelstan asked. 'We are hidden from any view of people in the tavern. Correct?'
'Agreed.' The fellow, now enjoying himself, was preening at being patronised by this friend of the powerful lord coroner.
'So, how would you bring the corpses here?' Athelstan continued. 'If they're taken from the tavern, chambermaids, servants might see us.'
'Ah yes, Brother, but, at the dead of night, everyone's asleep. And look.' He walked away, gesturing with his hand. 'We can see the tavern, its roofs and gables but, have you noticed, the trees hide the view from most of the windows?'
'Sharp-eyed.' Athelstan smiled, dug into his purse and gave the man a coin. The bailiff almost danced with embarrassed pride.
'So, it's possible the corpses were brought from the tavern at night, loaded on to a handcart, or barrow, its axles newly oiled, the wheels covered in straw?'
'Yes, that's what we do in the city, when we take a cart out at the dead of night. Otherwise, it's a complaint to the mayor.'
'But let's suppose that they didn't come from the tavern. It's too dangerous to bring them from the river because, as you say, those strange people are there, waiting for St Michael.' The bailiff looked mystified. 'Come on, Sharp Eyes,' Athelstan joked. 'Where else could the murderers have come from?'
'From the east.' The bailiff pointed to the hedge at the far end of the field. 'That leads to common land and the great city ditch. While to the west, what is there now?' He scratched his head. 'Yes, there's another field which stretches down to a hedgerow and, beyond that, Brother, lie the alleyways of Petty Wales.'
Athelstan dug with his sandalled foot at the earth beneath the oak tree.
'Wouldn't this be hard to dig?' he asked.
'Not really, Brother. My father was a peasant owning land in Woodford. As long as you avoid the roots, the ground under the branches of a tree like this is always softer. The leaves shade it from being baked by the sun while, when it rains, the branches collect the water and drench the ground beneath.'
'Of course.' Athelstan recalled his father's small farm. How he and his brother Francis would dig around the small pear trees in the orchard to strengthen the roots. 'But wouldn't someone notice?' Athelstan asked. 'Let's say we brought two corpses here at the dead of night, sometime in midsummer, so it must be well after midnight.'
'Don't forget, Brother, it was a very wet summer. The ground was truly soaked and the sod easy to break.'
'How deep was the pit in which they were found?'
'The two corpses?' The bailiff lowered his mattock and dug it into the ground. 'No more than half a yard.'
'And the two were thrown together?'
'Yes, lovers in life, lovers in death, if the gossips are to be believed.'
'So, we put the corpses in,' Athclstan continued. 'But, surely, next morning someone is going to notice.'
'Not really, Brother. First, if we were burying…' The bailiff grinned. 'My lord coroner, God forbid!'
'God forbid!' Athelstan echoed.
'I'd remove the top layer followed by the rest of the soil, put his magnificent corpse in, cover it up, place the sods on top and stamp down. Then I'd go into the field.' He pointed to the long grass. 'I'd cut some of that and sprinkle it over the grave.'
'True, true,' Athelstan murmured. 'And this is a lonely place. Unless you made careful scrutiny.'
'While in full summer, Brother, the grass soon grows again…'
'And the secret's kept,' Athelstan finished the sentence for him.
He thanked the bailiff and walked across the field. The sheep scattered at his approach, bleating at this further disturbance to their grazing. Athelstan examined the thick privet hedge which divided the field from the common land which stretched down to the city ditch. In most places it was thick and prickly, in others there were gaps, probably forced over the years by travellers, lovers or people seeking a short cut between Petty Wales and the fortress. The same was true of the hedge on the other side. Athelstan heard shouts and turned; the bailiffs were finishing, the corpses sheeted. They were now taking them up to the tavern and the waiting cart. Athelstan waved farewell and walked down towards the Four Gospels. This time they were not so friendly; they were sitting by the fire eating cheese and sliced vegetables piled on makeshift platters.
'We lost our rabbit,' First Gospel moaned. 'That bloody dog has the mark of Cain upon it!'
Athelstan apologised, dug into his purse and handed over a coin. Their mood changed at the sight of the twinkling piece of silver.
'Thank you very much, Brother. Remember that!' First Gospel lifted a hand, fingers extended. 'When St Michael comes along the Thames, let Brother Athelstan's name be inscribed in the Book of Life. May he be taken by the angels into their camp.'
'Quite, quite,' the friar broke in. 'But I've come to ask you some more questions.'
'About the corpses found beneath the great oak tree?' First Gospel asked, his long face solemn. 'Oh yes, we've heard of bloody murder and hideous crime.'
He was about to launch into another paean of praise about what would happen when St Michael came but Athelstan cut him short.
