The Meadows of Murder, page 14
‘Ah, you mentioned something which has not really been resolved. Where did William get the money from to repay the Ishmaelite? You are implying, aren’t you, that William handed over information to someone and that someone paid for it? Enough money to settle the loan?’
‘In a word, yes.’
Athelstan got to his feet, pulling his cloak more firmly about him.
‘Santiago. I thank you for the information. We never knew how the list of perpetrators involved in Massimo’s murder was drawn up. Did William and his family act on the list? Were they given money for supplying it? Or for carrying out judgement? Or both? Did they act on behalf of a Castilian who had no kith and kin to invoke the blood feud?’
‘Brother Athelstan, I cannot say. You could of course question Theodoro but that would be futile. Had he wanted to, he could have informed you already. He does not want to get involved. He would simply become evasive and turn tight-lipped. I do ask you, Brother, to keep what I have told you confidential.’
‘Until I resolve this mystery, I certainly will.’ Athelstan paused. ‘Now it is time to bid you farewell.’
‘Brother Athelstan, do you have any more questions?’
‘Oh, there is the great mystery – well, one amongst many …’
‘And that is?’
‘Why was retribution delayed for a year?’
‘I cannot help you with that, Brother. Anything else?’
‘One more thing.’ Athelstan drew a deep breath and repressed a shiver as a cold breeze swept across the tower.
‘Brother?’
‘Why does St Osyth, a Saxon saint, a noblewoman of these parts, figure so prominently in the comings and goings of the Castilian community? I mean, our secret assassin even invokes her name on those chilling proclamations issued across the city.’
‘Quite logical, Brother. Firstly, St Osyth is a legendary figure but one who left these parts to make pilgrimage to the great shrine at Compostela, or so legend has it. Secondly, the deep-water inlet so close to it is the first landfall for cogs beating up from Castilian ports. The Galicia is a frequent visitor. It imports all kinds of purveyance for my Lord of Gaunt and his cohort of Castilian mercenaries. I will be honest: I too have used it. Thirdly, the priory and its inlet are under the direct control of Lord Gaunt; its community have strong ties with Castile through people such as Chaplain John, whilst the leading nuns have always been most welcoming. It’s also a place where the Castilian crews can relax, refresh and feel comfortable, whilst London is only a brief ride away. St Osyth’s has been described as a little Castile.’
‘Yes, yes, it is,’ Athelstan replied. ‘No wonder poor Massimo was determined to reach it. Anyway, I believe we are finished’
‘Yes, Brother, we are. I bid you farewell.’
Peering through the dark, Athelstan saw shadows flit followed by the slither of booted feet and a faint clatter of someone going swiftly down the tower steps. Athelstan waited a while and then followed suit.
PART SEVEN
‘Worthless are my prayers and sighing’
– ‘Dies irae’ by Thomas de Celano
Despite going to sleep at such a late hour, Athelstan woke early to celebrate his Jesus Mass the following morning. He then checked everything in his little house before breaking his fast on water and dry bread, promising himself a tastier dish as his main meal of the day. He put on his winter robe, grabbed his chancery satchel and left the house.
The sky was still dark, the weather bracing cold, but already the parish was stirring. Mauger stood on guard at the corpse door, which had been left off the latch so the faithful could slip in to make their devotions, light candles or just gather near the baptismal font to have a good gossip about parish affairs. Athelstan glimpsed Benedicta, all shrouded in her dark robe, and raised a hand in greeting. Athelstan walked on, following the coffin path which wound round the House of Abode and down to the rather battered lychgate. In the enclosure beyond this, Bladdersniff the Beadle and his bailiffs were busy punishing nightwalkers, drunks, revellers and fornicators, who had wandered into the parish seeking both free ale and mischief. Two young men caught vomiting and urinating outside The Piebald were, despite their muted protests, being doused in the freezing water of the tavern horse-trough, their cries of protest stifled by the thick gags pushed into their mouths. Close by were three whores, who’d wandered from the shadows of the bridge to solicit custom along the main coffin path into the parish; all three trespassers had been stretched across the tail of a bailiff’s cart, their skirts raised and their dirty buttocks whipped to bleeding. The entire proceedings were being watched by those two parish worthies, Cecily the Courtesan and her sister Clarissa. Both women passionately believed that all matters of a sexual nature fell within their remit and no one else’s. Athelstan was sure that both sisters would be thanking Bladdersniff in the usual fashion for not allowing any other streetwalkers to trespass on their domain. Athelstan crossed himself and hurried on. He passed The Piebald and went down Ruttle Lane to Crispin the Carpenter’s abode.
Athelstan had not forgotten his midnight visitor; he was determined to make the tower more secure, and for that he needed Crispin. He passed Michael the Minstrel, all smartly attired, pushing his covered barrow down to the bridge. The minstrel raised his hand in greeting and hurried on, as if he was late for some important meeting. Athelstan reached Crispin’s house. Like many of his parishioners, Crispin had his workshop and jakes closet on the ground floor, with his living quarters on the storey above. Crispin was already up preparing for a day’s trading. However, as soon as he glimpsed Athelstan, he hurried out of his shop, closing the door behind him. He and Athelstan exchanged the kiss of peace. Athelstan gestured at the door.
‘You seem in great haste, Crispin, my friend?’
‘I am rather late, Father. You know the old saying, “The early bird catches the worm”? In this case the possibility of a good sale of a table and two stools. So, Father, what can I do for you?’
Athelstan told him how he needed two good bolts with clasps for the inside of the door leading into the tower. Crispin, now dabbing at his sweaty forehead, hastily agreed, almost ushering Athelstan away. Athelstan smiled and thanked him with a blessing then turned away. However, as he did, he glimpsed a shiny splinter of wood with a scrap of blue cloth pinned to it. A child’s toy, probably. Part of a flag or pennant perhaps? Athelstan picked this up and handed it to Crispin. Again, the forced smile, as the carpenter almost snatched it from Athelstan. The friar murmured a blessing, turned and walked quickly back to his church.
He celebrated the daily Mass, welcoming into the church the line of parishioners, as well as a few visitors. Once the Mass was over and he’d conferred with different parishioners, Athelstan returned to his house. As soon as he entered, he whispered a prayer of thanks for Benedicta who had, as usual, swept through the house putting everything in order: folding, sweeping, washing what was needed. Thomas the Toad came wandering over to ask the friar to bless his box of frogs, which Athelstan duly did. Satisfied, Thomas staggered off, singing the Dominican’s praises. Athelstan watched him go, then laid out the contents of his chancery satchel. He sat down to reflect, as he murmured, on the mystery of William’s death.
‘William the Weaver was a most skilled man who fell mortally ill,’ Athelstan began. ‘He had lost his trade so he took a loan from the Ishmaelite. On the day, the loan merchant was killed. He had visited William and demanded payment, if not in cash, then in kind. The Ishmaelite wanted to take his pleasure with William’s wife Leonora, and his most comely daughter, Marisa. However, William had suddenly and just as mysteriously come into enough money to repay the loan. Nonetheless, the Ishmaelite, probably malmsey with ale, still insisted he had his evil way, so that fatal quarrel erupted.’
Athelstan breathed out. He was still not sure just who had been present for that encounter, because Leonora had adjourned to her solar upstairs where she may have been joined by others who were present that day: the Castilian Theodoro, the Ishmaelite’s henchman Harold Harefoot, as well as Marisa. Athelstan resumed his murmurings. ‘Matters between the Ishmaelite and William turned nasty and violent. Hot words were exchanged and, according to the accepted story, William grabbed a knife and struck a mortal blow to the Ishmaelite’s ink-black heart. Now was that the truth? The Ishmaelite was a tough street fighter. He would certainly be skilled in dagger play. A man who’d seen battle in all its horrors. William, on the other hand, was an ageing and very sick man. Would he have had the strength to thrust and kill as he did? According to Benedicta, William was bleeding profusely from the anus, soaking and staining the sheets and blankets stored in the sanctuary enclave. Anyway, the Ishmaelite fell to the ground. Again, didn’t anyone intervene? More specifically, Harold Harefoot, the Ishmaelite’s bodyguard? Harold was another roaring boy. Again, a veteran from the royal array, Harold was a daggerman who had honed his fighting skills in the countless affrays along the runnels and alleyways of the city. Where was he when all this happened? What did he do? And the same applied to Leonora, Marisa and Theodoro. The only certainty was that William certainly fled his shop and sought sanctuary at St Erconwald’s because he had committed murder.’ Athelstan closed his eyes and murmured a prayer. ‘That was one mystery, and what about the other? A matter of growing importance. Where did William get the money to pay the Ishmaelite off? According to all the evidence, William was impoverished, and yet suddenly, on that day, he had produced enough money to repay the loan. He still had no trade, whilst both Leonora and Marisa were dependent solely on him. So where did that money come from? Was it connected to the turbulence surrounding the death of Massimo Servini?’ Athelstan abruptly paused, quill pen raised, as he took a gulp of wine to curb his excitement. ‘Oh Lord,’ he whispered, ‘the question of where the money came from conceals an equally important question. Where did it go to? According to the evidence, the Ishmaelite had little on him, so what happened to the monies handed over by William, and likewise what happened to all the monies the Ishmaelite had collected before he reached William’s workshop?’ Athelstan whistled beneath his breath. Harold Harefoot claimed he had helped himself, taken monies the Ishmaelite owed him, but this must have been part of something else, an agreement reached over the Ishmaelite’s corpse. Athelstan returned to his scribbling and – as he did so – he wondered what Cranston was doing. ‘Probably dealing with the most recent murder,’ he murmured to himself. ‘Not that he’ll find much.’
Athelstan paused at a scratching on the door. He rose and opened it. Bonaventure padded in, going straight across to his favourite place along the hearthstone. ‘Oh yes,’ Athelstan declared, ‘the murders in the city and all the mystery surrounding that priory.’ He would wait for Cranston to summon him and, when he did, Athelstan was determined that they return to St Osyth’s to carry out a more rigorous search. To dig and obtain better evidence. Some sort of indication of how things truly were. In the meantime, he would deal with matters here in Southwark.
Athelstan swiftly scribbled what he believed to be the truth then studied what he had written. William had been kept in sanctuary. The church which housed him was locked and bolted with no other entrance of any sort, be it some secret passage or tunnel. Nevertheless, someone entered that church, murdered William, then just as mysteriously disappeared. Whoever the assassin was, he left no trace. He must have entered the church with a blade or dagger but then used William’s own blade to commit the murder. Or was the truth more complicated? Had the assassin entered the church unarmed to discuss matters with William? Only then had events turned sour, the assassin grasping William’s pike blade and using it to slay its owner? And who could that be? Who would have needed urgent conversation with William? Could it be his wife or daughter? Or perhaps Harold Harefoot? Or maybe even Theodoro? Athelstan shook his head. ‘So many loose threads,’ he murmured. ‘And there are other questions just as important, such as the petition to John of Gaunt that the attack on Massimo be investigated. William had certainly written it, but why? Massimo was an acquaintance but not kith or kin. Why would he be so interested in seeking justice for him? And, if William wasn’t the real author of the petition, who was?’ Athelstan paused in his reflections at a knock on the door. He moved a sheet of parchment which concealed a small handheld arbalest, already primed and ready for use. Again, the knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ Athelstan called.
The door opened and Tiptoft, Cranston’s courier and herald, slipped into the house. As usual Tiptoft was clad in a Lincoln green tunic and hose, his red hair all spiked with a heavy nard which perfumed the air. Tiptoft carried a small herald’s baton in one hand: he raised this to salute the friar. Athelstan replied with a blessing and gestured the courier to sit in the chair opposite.
‘Good morrow, Brother Athelstan.’
‘God’s grace be with you, Master Tiptoft. You carry messages from the Lord High Coroner of London?’
‘I certainly do, Brother. So, it’s best if I swiftly deliver them.’
‘By all means.’
Athelstan sat back in the chair as Tiptoft, baton gripped in one hand, closed his eyes and began to recite the message he had committed so carefully to his excellent memory.
‘Sir John sends his good wishes. He recently met with Sir Giles Argentine, the royal physician. He learned that Sir Giles assured the Lord High Coroner that the infection which swept St Osyth’s has now gone, as you also thought it was, Brother. Consequently, the contagion poses no further threat. Indeed,’ Tiptoft moved in his chair, ‘you are more at danger from infection here at St Erconwald’s than a lonely, secluded priory.’
‘Lonely and secluded most of the time.’
‘Precisely, Brother. I have further information about the priory. Sir Giles has the highest regard for St Osyth’s infirmarian, Veronica de Vere. Sir Giles knows both her and her esteemed father Roderigo de Vere. Sir Giles was with both of them when an English expeditionary force landed on the Cherbourg peninsula. They held it fast during a long and violent siege by the French. Both father and daughter distinguished themselves during the fighting.’ Tiptoft opened his eyes. ‘That ends the first part of the message.’ He closed his eyes.
‘The second part is as follows: Sir John is busy on Guildhall affairs, particularly the death of a fourth victim, Simon Crutchley, slain whilst returning from Fishmongers’ Hall to his own mansion in Cheapside. Sir John cannot find any witnesses or a shred of evidence to explain the murder, except that the usual proclamation was found gripped in the dead fishmonger’s hand.’
Tiptoft paused, gulping for breath. ‘And now the third part of Sir John’s message. He is busy going through the accounts of the Ishmaelite. Apparently certain monies kept in his house have disappeared. Sir John intends to have close words with Master Harold Harefoot. The missing sum is not too great, but the Keeper of the Exchequer is intent on seizing everything for the Crown. The Ishmaelite was highly unpopular when alive but, now dead, he is a source of wealth for the Royal Treasury.’ Tiptoft fell silent.
Athelstan raised a hand to speak. ‘Tell Sir John to leave Master Harefoot to me. Yes?’
Tiptoft nodded.
‘Also be kind enough to inform Sir John that I have come across references to a book or folio entitled the Mappae Mundi, which may well be in the possession of Adam the Anchorite. This manuscript apparently provides detailed descriptions of expeditions across the great Western Ocean, but I have yet to have sight of it. You will do that?’
Tiptoft nodded. ‘Brother Athelstan,’ he declared, ‘I have finished Sir John’s message to you except that he hopes you are well and you will meet him very soon. Until then, he prays that God keeps you in his love.’
Tiptoft then made his farewells, politely refusing any offer of refreshment.
Athelstan sat listening to him go. ‘Oh yes,’ he murmured to himself, ‘Master Harefoot and the rest must be left to me.’
The friar closed his eyes as he reflected on Sir John’s message. He was falling asleep but startled awake as Benedicta knocked on the door calling his name. Rubbing his eyes, Athelstan opened the door. The widow-woman entered, gently guiding an old lady into the house. Benedicta smiled her welcome at Athelstan, then helped their unexpected visitor to the chair opposite the friar before making herself comfortable on a stool beside him.
‘Benedicta, who is—’
‘My name is Tabitha Wimpole, Father.’ The old lady pushed back her deep hood to reveal a pasty-white face, her eyes like two black holes in the snow. Tabitha shrugged off her cloak so Athelstan could see she was dressed in the earth-coloured gown of a minoress, her hair and forehead almost hidden by the tight coif fastened beneath her chin. She didn’t seem at all cowed or subdued by Athelstan, being more concerned about the leather bag she had placed on the floor beside her. Tabitha glanced up and smiled at the friar before wagging a bony finger at him. ‘Brother Athelstan, Dominican friar and parish priest of St Erconwald’s.’
‘Very true,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘and what can I do for you?’
‘No, Father, please listen. Twenty years ago, I was a parish-ioner of St Erconwald’s.’
‘And now?’
‘Due to the good offices of my blood cousin, Beatrice, I was given a benefice at the House of the Minoresses near Aldgate. Very good, is Beatrice. We are very close.’ The woman rattled on, totally impervious to Athelstan’s look of exasperation.
‘Mistress,’ Benedicta intervened, seizing a gap in Tabitha’s monologue. ‘Mistress,’ Benedicta repeated firmly, ‘tell us why you are here?’
‘Picard!’ The old woman exclaimed. ‘I believe Picard the Pickpocket has now been invited into Heaven! The relics I have here prove it. You see …’ Tabitha leaned down, grabbed the bag, opened it and eased its contents onto the table. Two polished wooden caskets, each with a handle in the centre of their concave lids. Tabitha pulled the lids up then pushed the caskets closer so Athelstan could see what was inside.
