‘You have no proof of this, no evidence. I have always been honest …’
Mistress Cheyne glared around. Athelstan could detect little sympathy or support for this grasping woman.
‘We will come to proof in a moment, won’t we, Sir John?’
Cranston nodded approvingly even though he secretly wondered what real evidence the little friar could lay against this cunning killer.
‘You knew about Whitfield’s note of desperation,’ Athelstan continued. ‘You left that out. Above all, you removed his fat, bulging money belt. No wonder Master Foxley thought Whitfield looked slimmer in death than in life.’ Athelstan paused. ‘All is how you want it. You and Joycelina slip out, lock the door behind you and take the key. No one else has access to that chamber.’
‘Whitfield would have struggled, surely?’ Stretton asked.
‘No,’ Athelstan retorted, ‘he was deep in his cups when he left here that night. We know from another source that he intended to go out in the early hours, but of course, he was never given that choice. He was drunk, wasn’t he?’ A murmur of agreement confirmed this. ‘A potion or a powder may have been added, but above all, Master Stretton, Whitfield did not view Mistress Cheyne and Joycelina as dangerous – why should he? He had come here to be entertained, to be pampered and cosseted by them. I suspect he babbled like a babe about his fears, his madcap schemes to vanish, the letter he planned to leave. In Whitfield’s eyes, Mistress Cheyne and Joycelina were his lovers, his friends and allies.’ Athelstan smiled bleakly. ‘As you know, as we all now know, he viewed others sitting here as the real threat.’ Stretton glanced away. ‘We now come to the events of the following morning. Most of this household, guests and servants, are in or around the refectory. Lebarge had woken all mawmsy and dry-mouthed after the previous night’s drinking. He was roused by Griffin and hurried down to eat his favourite simnel cakes. Whitfield does not. So …’
‘Strange.’ Anna the maid sprang all hot-eyed to her feet.
‘What is strange?’
‘Well, Brother. Joycelina was all important here, high and mighty. I cannot recall her ever going up to the top gallery to rouse guests.’
‘Shut up, you stupid bitch!’ Mistress Cheyne exclaimed.
‘Whitfield was most partial to Joycelina,’ another called.
‘And those simnel cakes!’ Anna shouted. Athelstan could see there was little love lost between Mistress Cheyne and her servant. ‘Whenever have you made simnel cakes so early in the morning?’ she asked accusingly.
‘I did it because Lebarge wanted them.’
‘No matter,’ Athelstan intervened. ‘Lebarge was down here. You, Mistress Cheyne, decided to act. Joycelina, whether it was her duty or not, went up to that chamber and returned claiming Whitfield could not be roused. You, Mistress Cheyne, acted decisively and swiftly: those in the refectory are instructed to stay. Foxley is sent to bring the labourers and the battering ram. Joycelina is despatched, ostensibly to inform the other servants about what is about to happen. In truth, she climbs swiftly to Whitfield’s chamber, unlocks the door and goes inside where she ensures the eyelet is blocked, the key turned and the bolts pulled across; she then locks herself in with that dangling corpse. Tell me,’ Athelstan glanced around, ‘does anyone here recall Joycelina seeking them out that morning?’ Silence greeted his words. A thin-faced slattern, wiping greasy fingers on her grubby gown, got off the bench, hands fluttering.
‘I passed her on the stairs. My task is to empty chamber pots …’
Her words were greeted with laughter which the slattern dismissed with a flick of her rat-tailed hair. ‘She told me to go immediately down to the refectory. I …’ She shrugged and sat down.
‘Does anyone else?’
‘We were all here,’ Anna, who could sense blood, called out.
‘Hawisa might have helped us about what happened but we will come to her by and by.’ Athelstan cleared his throat. ‘All is now set. Mistress Cheyne supervises the breakdown of the door whilst calling for Joycelina as if her accomplice is still below stairs. Of course she isn’t. The door is forced. The labourers are immediately dismissed. Master Foxley is sent to open the window. You, Sir, are shocked by the sight of Whitfield’s swaying corpse. The chamber is cloaked in darkness, even so you only have eyes for that ghastly sight. You have to pass it and reach the window to pull back the shutters. Your eyes, ears, all your senses are taken up with the terrible tragedy confronting you. You would never dream that someone else was in the room. When you turned from the window you saw two people who must have been with you on the gallery. What else would you think? Before you battered the door down, you knew it was locked and bolted, and remember, you were mawmsy with ale fumes after being deep in your cups the night before. I played the same trick just now with Tiptoft and I convinced you even though you are more sober and alert. Now, to go back to that morning. Joycelina simply moved ever so softly in her buskins, from one place to another, all in the space of a few breaths. So, Master Foxley, think! When you were out on the gallery, whilst the door to Whitfield’s chamber was being broken down, can you recall actually seeing Joycelina?’
Athelstan walked over to where the Master of Horse lounged against a wooden pillar listening intently to what the friar had been saying.
‘Brother,’ Foxley looked past Athelstan at Mistress Cheyne, ‘for the life of me …’ Athelstan tensed. Foxley’s testimony would be vital. ‘I cannot recall precisely either way.’
‘Would you go on oath and swear that?’ Cranston demanded.
‘Yes, I would. Indeed, the more I reflect, the more certain I become that I did not see Joycelina. I never considered her not being there, it would just never occur to me.’
‘Nor to me,’ Athelstan replied, taking his seat, ‘until I spoke to Lebarge. He left the refectory, didn’t he, Master Griffin?’
‘Yes, I couldn’t stop him.’
‘He went up the stairs, but paused on the stairwell leading to the top gallery. He never mentioned anyone passing him, though he remembered the door being pounded and Mistress Cheyne calling for Joycelina. He stayed there until the chamber was forced, sheltering in that small recess or enclave. He heard the labourers going down and the clamour above about Whitfield being dead. Sir John took up the same position when Tiptoft was hiding in the chamber I forced. Of course, despite all my calling, he never saw Tiptoft pass him. Lebarge said the same, no one passed him on that staircase. He certainly never mentioned Joycelina running up. I am not too sure whether Lebarge realized the full implications of what he was saying. Perhaps in time he would have done, which could well be one of the reasons you decided to murder him, Mistress Cheyne.’
‘Nonsense!’ Elizabeth Cheyne leapt to her feet. ‘This is all a lie. A farrago of lies. You have no …’ Flaxwith, pressing on her shoulders, forced the woman to sit down.
‘Lebarge,’ Athelstan continued, ‘was truly frightened and confused. His master was dead, he did not know who to trust except for one person, young Hawisa. He hid his relationship with her behind a mask of diffidence, publicly dismissing her as just another whore. But I know, as you do, Mistress Cheyne, that secretly he was much taken with her. Strange that you never provided such information to me when I first questioned you. Whitfield wanted to flee, Lebarge also, and the scrivener intended to take little Hawisa with him. The moppet may already have been hiding Lebarge’s baggage; she had a chamber here, or certainly some place where she could stow away his possessions. I admit I have little proof for what I say, but, to continue. On that particular morning after Lebarge had visited the death chamber, he had a few swift words with his sweetheart then fled to St Erconwald’s for sanctuary. He went there because he was confused and frightened. He’d committed no crime but at least he would be safe in sanctuary against Thibault and any other adversary. Eventually he would be granted permission to leave London by the nearest port, which is what he wanted in the first place. Above all, safe in my church, he could think, plan and plot. Hawisa would know where he was, a place nearby, and, in time, easily join him. Lebarge decided to shelter there, determined only to take sustenance from myself or the widow woman …’