you, Sir Jack, for old friendship's sake.'
'If you find it,' Sir John replied, lowering the blackjack, 'I'll seek an immediate audience with my Lord of Gaunt. I'll do that anyway. A stay of execution, a pardon? Who knows, they may even agree to Kathryn being hanged by the purse and leave it at that.'
'But you don't think so, do you?' Athelstan asked. Sir John shook his head. 'The murder was malice aforethought. Mistress Vestler refused to plead guilty, while Bartholomew was a royal clerk. The Crown will not listen to pleas of mitigation.'
'How did Whittock know all that?' Athelstan asked.
Hengan was staring into his tankard. 'Ralph?'
'I'm sorry. I was thinking how the Crown must be pleased that Brokestreet is dead. After all, she was a condemned felon who killed a man with a firkin opener. Rumour will now place her death at Mistress Vestler's door. The gossips will argue that it was in her interests for Mistress Brokestreet to be killed; Kathryn had relationships with outlaws or smugglers and they did the bloody deed. I am sorry, Brother, I am confused. What I am really saying is any real plea for pardon will be turned down; Mistress Vestler will be regarded as a murderess on many counts. I must find that treasure.' He paused. 'Thesaurus in ecclesia prope turrem: I wonder what that means?' He smiled at Athelstan. 'I'm sorry, Brother, you asked a question?'
'How did Master Whittock know to call all those witnesses?'
'Oh, quite easy,' Sir John said. 'I've been thinking of that myself. The accounts books, eh Master Ralph?'
The lawyer nodded. 'The accounts books, Sir Jack, have a great deal to answer for. They'll show all the monies spent by Kathryn Vestler on Margot Haden, including pennies given to chapmen to deliver messages to her sister. The same will be true of the tree pruner and Master Biddlecombe. Whittock's clerks searched all these out.' He finished his tankard and got to his feet. 'Sir Jack, Brother Athelstan, today is Thursday: in three days' time Mistress Vestler hangs. I will see what I can do.'
Athelstan watched him go then became distracted by a beggarman who brought in a weasel for sale. Sir John threw the fellow a coin and told him to go away.
'There's little we can do, is there, Brother?'
'Sir Jack.' Athelstan got to his feet. 'You can pray and we can think.'
And, giving the most absentminded of farewells, Athelstan left. Sir John was so bemused, he had to call for a further blackjack of ale to clear his wits.
Meanwhile the little friar trudged down Cheapside. As he went he pulled his cowl over his head, pushing his hands up his sleeves.
'Isn't it strange?' he asked himself. 'Sir Jack and I.' He paused. Yes, that's why he was confused! He and the coroner hunted murderers down, sent assassins to their just deserts. Now he was desperately trying to free one.
Athelstan crossed London Bridge. He stopped halfway and went into the chapel of St Thomas a Becket where he sat in the cool darkness staring up at the sanctuary lamp. He found it hard to pray. His mind was all a-jumble: scenes from the court, the witnesses being called, raising their hands; Whittock's persistent questions; Brabazon's smile; the lowering looks of the jury men; Mistress Vestler standing poised but defiant. Athelstan crossed himself and left.
When he reached St Erconwald's the churchyard was empty but the door was open so Athelstan slipped inside. Huddle the painter was sitting dreamily on a stool. This self-appointed artist of the parish was determined, given Brother Athelstan's patronage, to cover every bare expanse of wall in the church.
'What's on your mind, Huddle?'
'The marriage feast at Cana. I have Eleanor and Oswald. Joscelyn can be the wine-taster. Benedicta can be Our Lady, Sir Jack would be one of the guests. Just think of it, Brother.'
'And what will Pike the ditcher's wife be?'
'Why, she will be Herod's wife.'
'Herod's wife didn't attend the marriage feast at Cana.'
'How do we know, Brother?'
Athelstan patted him on the shoulder.
'You have the key to the church?'
'Benedicta left it with me. She gave me a pot of the rabbit stew she made for you. It's in the kitchen. I also took some of the ale.'
'We are a truly sharing community,' Athelstan remarked.
He went and checked on Philomel. The horse lay so silently Athelstan wondered if it had died but it was only sleeping. In the cemetery Godbless was lying on one of the tombstones sunning himself, Thaddeus quietly cropping the grass beside him.
Athelstan tiptoed back. He found the house in order. Bonaventure was out and Athelstan sat in his chair next to the empty grate. Something troubled him. Something he had seen and heard this morning, but he kept it to one side. He recalled Master Whittock's questions, the line of witnesses he had summoned. Athelstan searched out the old accounts book. He sat at the table and leafed through the pages. Yes, it all made sense. Mistress Vestler was a good householder. She and her husband had kept meticulous accounts. Items purchased; guests who had called; alms given to beggars. He noticed the name of Biddlecombe the chapman, a regular visitor, often given a fresh bed of straw in the outhouse. Athelstan's eyes grew heavy and he was about to turn the page when one entry, a purchase by Kathryn's husband, caught his eye.
Chapter 14
Athelstan went through the ledger very carefully noting that there were other entries beside the two he had already discovered. He secretly admired their detail. No wonder the serjeant-at-law had been able to present such a compelling case. The suspicions which had nagged his mind now grew and took shape. Athelstan sadly reflected on the power of love: the damage, as well as the good, it could do. Time and again he went through the journal, only wishing he had the others to inspect. As the evening drew on Bonaventure came back and pestered him for food and milk.
'You are a riffler. Do you know that?' Athelstan lectured him. 'You prowl the alleyways and you come back in a bad temper.' He got to his feet. 'Bad-tempered cats, Bonaventure, will never enter the kingdom of heaven. If you are not a Jesus cat what hope is there for you?'
Bonaventure just rubbed himself against the friar's legs, arching his back, persisting in his demands until Athelstan fetched him a dish of milk. Huddle brought the key across and Athelstan went out to check that all was well. He was too tired to study the stars but retired early and fell asleep thinking about Kathryn Vestler manacled in the condemned cell and said a quick prayer for her.
The next morning Athelstan surprised Crim by taking out the special red vestments reserved for the feast of Pentecost: a beautiful chasuble with gold and silver crosses sewn on the back and front.
'We need God's help,' he told the heavy-eyed altar boy. 'I doubt if many of my parishioners are here this morning. It will take some time for the effects of all that revelry to wear off.'
Athelstan celebrated his Mass, praying that God would make him as innocent as a dove and as cunning as a serpent.
'Because, Lord,' he concluded, 'today justice must be done.'
Athelstan finished his Mass, hastily broke his fast then locked up the house and church. He hurried through the streets down to the riverside. Although he passed the occasional parishioner he kept his eyes lowered, unwilling to be distracted or drawn into conversation. The river mist still hung heavy but a taciturn Moleskin soon rowed him across the other side. The fish market was preparing to open as Athelstan landed on the quayside and hastened up through Petty Wales to the Paradise Tree.
The ale-master came out to meet him; he looked rather sheepish and rubbed his hands.
'I am sorry, Brother,' he mumbled as he led the friar into the taproom still not yet cleaned from the previous evening. 'But I had no choice. Master Whittock was most insistent.'
Athelstan took a seat near the window and looked out across the garden, savouring the early morning
