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‘Then this is my verdict,’ the coroner declared. ‘A
‘I do, my lord coroner. But…’
‘What’s the matter, sir?’
Athelstan trusted the taverner, who had a broad, honest face, a family man who’d acted honourably. Many an i
‘Well, Brother. I now recognise you. You are Athelstan, aren’t you, from St Erconwald’s in Southwark? Watkin the dung-collector sometimes comes here!’
‘I am sure he does,’ Athelstan replied dryly. ‘He’s well known in many of the taverns in the city.’
‘As I am,’ Sir John added warningly. ‘But what’s the matter, fellow?’
‘She’s a suicide,’ the taverner blurted out. ‘She should be buried at midnight at a crossroads outside the city!’
‘She’s a poor girl,’ Athelstan replied. ‘Who probably killed herself while her wits were fuddled.’ He picked up the corpse’s hand and looked at the fingernails carefully. ‘And we don’t know whether it’s suicide or not, do we?’
‘The coroner has pronounced his verdict.’
‘The coroner has pronounced his verdict on what is obvious. However, the more I stand here, the greater a niggling doubt grows.’
He moved to the bed and began to study the young woman’s hair most carefully, parting it, letting the strands run through his fingers. He reminded Sir John of Lady Maude examining the two poppets’ heads for lice.
‘Can I go?’ the taverner asked.
‘Yes, but stay downstairs until the Harrower of the Dead arrives and we are finished.’
Cranston leaned against the wall, mopping his brow while Sir Maurice stood, arms folded. Athelstan continued his examination of the woman’s corpse: the hair, the nails, then he lifted the skirt and began to examine her torso.
‘Should you do that?’ Sir Maurice asked.
‘A corpse is a corpse. The soul has gone, all beauty of the body is dead.’
He examined the woman’s belly carefully. The skin of the thighs was covered in pimples and blotches. He shifted the corpse to look along the back.
‘What are you searching for, Athelstan?’
The Dominican made the body decent.
‘Are you going to say she was hanged?’
‘Here we have a young woman,’ Athelstan said. He clicked his tongue against his lower lip. ‘She calls herself A
‘I am not sulking,’ Maltravers retorted. ‘Brother, I am furious! I did not know this woman. And until Sir John here sent a message to the Savoy Palace, I didn’t know…’
‘Of course you didn’t,’ Athelstan interrupted cheerfully.
‘What’s that?’ Sir John lowered the half-raised wineskin.
‘It’s a matter of logic,’ said Athelstan. ‘A
Cranston did so; they were small, rather fashionable, made of leather with silver buckles.
‘Look at the heels and soles.’
The coroner did so.
‘They are clean, aren’t they?’
‘She could have done that herself.’
‘Oh, she did.’
Athelstan walked over to the wooden lavarium which bore a bowl, a jug and, on the floor beneath, a pile of rags. He picked one up. It was dirty and wet.
‘Brother.’ Sir John glowered at the Dominican. ‘Don’t let’s dance round the mulberry bush. It stands to reason the woman was tired and exhausted after her journey. She cleaned her boots as many a traveller would. She changed her garb and sent it to the wash-house.’
‘And then she’d just commit suicide.’ Athelstan pointed to the rope. ‘Where did she get that from?’
‘There’s a coil left in every room.’ Sir Maurice spoke up. ‘In case of fire.’ He pointed to what was left of the rope still lying in a corner. He went over and picked up the knife still lying there. ‘She cut some of this, put one end round the beam, formed a noose and put that round her neck.’
‘But,’ Athelstan objected, ‘why should a young woman who is desirous of seeing you, Sir Maurice, come into this chamber, change her clothing, wash her boots, bolt and lock the door and then hang herself? Above all, where did she get the writing material?’ Athelstan asked. ‘For that last lovelorn letter?’
‘I see what you mean,’ Sir John breathed.
‘I don’t think she committed suicide. I doubt if her name’s A
‘Continue!’ the coroner barked.
‘A
‘But why?’ Sir John asked. ‘What did happen?’
‘She’s a whore. And brought here to act the part. She’s given a change of clothing, a set of saddlebags and some silver. She arrived at the Golden Cresset and, following instructions, has her clothes taken down to the wash-house while she wipes her boots.’
‘But why?’ Sir John again asked.
‘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 A
‘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.’