Free The Field of Blood by Paul Doherty

Justice Brabazon will demand. Why should Alice Brokestreet and this mysterious accomplice kill these two people? Why should they take them out and bury them in Black Meadow where they could have been seen by anyone in the tavern or that motley crew, the Four Gospels, whom I’ve just met?’
    Hengan’s face creased into a smile.
    ‘Mistress Vestler let them stay here out of the kindness of her heart,’ he countered. ‘Perhaps they can be of assistance? They must have seen something, surely? Corpses cannot be trundled out and buried in such a place without someone noticing!’
    ‘Precisely,’ Sir John confirmed, taking a swig from his wineskin. ‘And the justices will ask the same question.’ He looked up at the white plaster ceiling. ‘Master Ralph, you will defend Mistress Vestler?’
    ‘Of course!’
    ‘Then let me speak to you privately.
    Sir John strode to the top of the stairs and bawled for Flaxwith, who came lumbering up. Sir John told him to guard Mistress Vestler then gestured at Hengan and Athelstan to follow him. They went down through the taproom and out into the garden. A small, flowery arbour built out of trellis wood stood at the far side, a cool, secretive place with a quilted bench round its curving sides. They took their seats, Sir John bawling for tankards of ale. While they waited till these were served, Athelstan studied the different plants and herbs: matted sea lavender, bog bean, pea flower, fairy flax; bees buzzed above them, butterflies, white and deep coloured, flitted from plant to plant. A mallard from the small stew pond at the other end of the garden strutted around. Swallows swooped across the grass and out over Black Meadow, somewhere a woodpecker rattled noisily against the bark of a tree. Athelstan could scarcely believe that this peaceful, pleasant place masked bloody murder and hasty burial.
    ‘You’ll represent Mistress Vestler?’ Sir John asked again.
    The lawyer stroked the tip of his sharp nose, lower lip coming up.
    ‘I am not skilled in such legal matters, Sir John. I only advise Mistress Vestler on her business affairs. However, I will prove her innocence in this matter.’
    ‘She has no children?’ Athelstan asked.
    ‘None whatsoever, nor kith or kin.’
    ‘But she must have a will?’
    Hengan sipped from the tankard and wiped the white foam from his lips.
    ‘She brews the best ale on this side of the Thames,’ he said. ‘She’s no murderess. Yes, she has drawn up a will and I am her executor. Mistress Vestler has laid down clear provision. On her death the tavern is to be sold for the best possible price and all proceeds are to be sent to the Knights Hospitallers at their Priory of St John’s in Clerkenwell.’
    ‘Of course,’ Sir John trumpeted, his good humour returning. ‘Stephen, her late husband, was a bit of a noddle-pate. He maintained that, if Kathryn died before him, he’d journey east and join the Hospitallers in their struggle against the Turks.’
    ‘The will is very short and terse,’ Hengan confirmed. ‘And cannot be denied. I even tease Mistress Vestler that she hasn’t left one penny to me.’
    Athelstan looked at him sharply.
    ‘A jest, Brother. I have sufficient riches.’
    ‘She is a widow woman,’ Athelstan pointed out.
    Comely and wealthy. Surely she had suitors? After all, Master Ralph, you are a lusty bachelor yourself.’
    Hengan put his tankard down. ‘Oh, suitors came and went: adventurers, profiteers, Kathryn would have none of them. There’s a chamber in the tavern, Brother, used by her late husband, Stephen. She has turned it into a shrine to her husband’s memory with his writing-desk, his sword, his shield and armour, the pennant he carried at Poitiers. Mistress Vestler is a comfortable woman, happy in what she does. She has vowed never to remarry.’ He held the tankard up in a mock toast. ‘And, as for me, Brother.’ He sighed. ‘I speak in confidence?’
    ‘Of course, Master Ralph.’
    ‘I am a man,