‘That’s no surprise,’ Athelstan declared. ‘The real mystery is how it was administered to a man so terrified that he would only eat what Benedicta brought and tasted.’
‘And more trouble!’ Cranston had unrolled the other parchment. ‘It’s back to the Golden Oliphant. Joycelina, Mistress Cheyne’s principal helpmate, has taken a tumble downstairs and lies dead of a broken neck.’
They found the Golden Oliphant strangely quiet. The violent deaths which had occurred there seemed to have turned the brothel, as Athelstan remarked, into a place of deep shadow. Mistress Cheyne, face cleaned of paint, and garbed in a simple, dark brown gown, a veil covering her hair, ushered them across the Golden Hall into the refectory where all the guests and household retainers were assembled.
‘When can we leave?’ Stretton immediately shouted.
‘Keep quiet,’ Cranston snarled. ‘Another death has occurred. You, sir, are a suspect.’
‘And where is Mistress Hawisa?’ Athelstan looked round. ‘Hawisa?’ he repeated.
‘She is gone.’ Mistress Cheyne, red-eyed and wiping her hands on the apron she’d swiftly donned, gestured around. ‘People are very afraid.’
‘What about Hawisa’s belongings?’
‘Gone. I will show you her chamber.’
‘And Lebarge’s baggage? You know he is dead.’
‘So we heard,’ Foxley spoke up. ‘Slain in sanctuary, they said.’
‘And his baggage?’ Athelstan insisted.
‘Also gone,’ Mistress Cheyne replied. ‘Sir John, Brother Athelstan, I do not know why Lebarge fled and died, or where his baggage has been taken.’
Athelstan nodded as if in agreement. He gazed round. The guests, household moppets and servants sat on benches along each table littered with the remains of their morning meal. The friar sensed their deep anxiety. Outside one of the mastiffs howled, an eerie, blood-tingling sound on the early summer morning. Stretton sat head down, playing with the hilt of his dagger. Odo Gray was fashioning a knot with a piece of rope. Matthias Camoys doodled with his finger in the drops of ale on the table top. Foxley sat back, staring up at the roof beam in patent exasperation. Master Griffin slouched beside him, eyes closed as if catching up on lost sleep. Whatever you appear, Athelstan reflected, you are all frightened. You wish to be gone. But … He clapped his hands.
‘I ask you to stay here a little longer.’ Athelstan ignored their groans and grumbles. ‘Sir John and I will soon finish our business. Mistress Cheyne, if you could show us Joycelina’s corpse?’
She took them out across the stable yard, glistening after it had been sluiced clean by water from the great well, sunk in the middle of the yard beneath its tarred, red-tiled roof. She led them past the stable where Stretton’s destrier lunged, head back, lips curled as it banged sharpened hooves against the door.
‘Keep well clear of that one,’ Mistress Cheyne murmured. ‘A killer like its master.’
‘You know Master Stretton?’
‘I certainly know of him, Sir John.’
‘As you do Master Odo Gray, who was preparing to spirit away you, your moppets and all you hold dear?’
Mistress Cheyne turned, her hand on the latch of the door to one of the outhouses. ‘I wondered when you would learn that, but so what? Has not your own wife fled London?’ She waved around. ‘I have removed furniture and heavy goods to Master Mephistopheles’ warehouses. Other movables are in the hold of the Leaping Horse.’
‘But you won’t be leaving now?’
‘No, Sir John, as you say, not until this business is finished.’
‘Why did Whitfield hire a chamber on the top gallery?’
‘I don’t know, Brother Athelstan, I asked him that myself. I believe I’ve told you, he just wanted it that way.’
‘Was Whitfield wealthy?’
‘He had coins. Whitfield was not the most generous of men.’
‘And his favourite moppet?’
‘Why, Joycelina. She had certain skills.’
‘Did Whitfield need these?’
Mistress Cheyne smiled coldly. ‘Most men do. Whitfield had problems with potency. He was fat and drank too much.’
‘Were you party to his plot to fake his own death?’
‘Sir John, all I know is that Odo Gray made a great deal of money. He offered to take us to foreign parts. Whitfield and Lebarge were part of that, but why they wanted to flee from London, where they were going and what they were planning to do is not my business. I had troubles of my own.’
‘Did you know that Whitfield was a holder of great secrets?’
‘You mean just like us whores?’ Mistress Cheyne pulled a face. ‘What was that to us?’
‘And Lebarge?’
‘Whitfield’s shadow? Or so it seemed to young Hawisa. A greedy man. He had a passion for my simnel cakes.’
‘What about Hawisa?’
‘As I said, she has fled, taking her baggage and probably Lebarge’s with her. Now, gentlemen, Joycelina awaits you.’
They entered the outhouse. Joycelina’s corpse lay on a battered table covered by a canvas cloth; candles glowed at head and foot. Out of fear of fire all straw had been cleared from the mud-packed floor and some heavy herbal concoction poured out to provide a pleasant odour. Mistress Cheyne pulled back the cloth. Joycelina lay head strangely askew, her face a mass of bruises. Athelstan blessed the corpse, took out his phial of anointing oil and administered the last rites with Cranston reciting the refrain. Once finished, Cranston and Athelstan inspected the corpse. The broken neck, the cause of death, was easily identified, as well as the mass of bruising from the fall down those very steep, sharp-edged stairs leading to the top gallery.
‘What actually happened?’ Athelstan asked.
‘I was baking bread. I went out into the yard to collect some sheets left over the stand close to the well. One of the moppets, Anna, the one Thibault almost hanged, came with me. She went back into the kitchen to fetch something and noticed the bread was burning. She ran out and told me. I ordered her to fetch Joycelina. She went back inside and I could hear her calling. Joycelina was on the top gallery cleaning Whitfield’s chamber. Anna went up and shouted for her. She was on the stairs leading to the third gallery when she heard Joycelina’s answer followed by a scream, a yell and a hideous crash. Anna ran up and found Joycelina had tumbled down. She realized it was very serious and came calling for me. The rest of the household, together with the guests, were having their meal in the refectory. I ran.’ She crossed herself. ‘Joycelina was dead. That was obvious. Anna and I went to the top of the stairs but we could see no reason why Joycelina had slipped, except I noticed one of her sandals had become loose. Now,’ she spread her hands, ‘whether this was due to the fall or not …?’
Athelstan walked to the foot of the makeshift bier and picked up the sandals. Each was supposedly held in place by a thong which went around the ankle to be clasped in a strap on the other side. The right sandal strap was broken, pulled away from its stitching. The sandals jolted Athelstan’s memory about something but, for the moment, he could not recall it.
‘It looks an accident,’ Cranston observed. ‘The sandal could have snapped due to the fall.’
‘I would agree,’ Mistress Cheyne declared. ‘Joycelina would never wear a broken sandal. It would be too uncomfortable.’
‘True, true,’ Athelstan murmured. ‘Mistress Cheyne, when you and Anna were out in the yard, most of the household were supposedly dining in the refectory?’
‘Yes, but before you ask, Brother, people would go to our taproom to fetch more food from the common table or fill their tankards at one of the butts.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
‘Brother, virtually everyone who was there; they all had to eat and drink.’
Athelstan blessed the corpse again, pulled back the sheet and returned to the main building. They climbed the staircase to the top gallery, Athelstan in the lead. He studied each step carefully. On some of the lower ones he detected flecks of blood, but nothing else. At the top he paused to examine the two newel posts, one at the end of a narrow balustrade running along the gallery, the other opposite, slightly jutting out from the wall. Both felt very secure, whilst the top of the staircase was clear and firm – nothing to explain why Joycelina had fallen.