‘How did you know that?’ the Benedictine intervened. ‘I thought you’d lay his death at my door.’
‘No, no, Malachi. You knew what had happened. The knights, Master Rolles and Mother Veritable had taken careful counsel over the murders of Chandler and Broomhill. If one of them was not responsible, and the Judas Man was elsewhere hunting the Misericord, it must have been another of their number. The logical conclusion was the pious Brother Malachi, so devoted to the memory of his brother. Rolles tried to kill you in St Erconwald’s. You realised that, so you fled this tavern and sheltered with me. Your departure so frightened Davenport, terrifying him out of his wits, that he took his own life.’
‘I danced when I heard the news,’ Malachi jibed.
‘Undoubtedly,’ Athelstan retorted. ‘But suicide is the only logical solution. Sir Thomas was sealed in that chamber. He ate the sweetmeats, drank some wine, then drove the pricket in whilst seated in the chair, which is why the blood splashed out on to his lap. Rolles and Clinton didn’t want me to discover the truth, so they confused matters to make it look like murder. Why not? We hadn’t resolved the killings of Chandler or Broomhill; Davenport’s supposed murder not only removed the suspicion of suicide but tangled matters further. Naturally they could only go so far, as the chamber had been visited by the fair Rosamund, whom I later questioned. You made one mistake, Sir Maurice. When Davenport drove that pricket into his heart, he must have kept his hands clenched on it. His fingers, sticky from the sweetmeat, would have been drenched in blood. You or Rolles wiped both the blood and the sugar off. Sir Thomas went to God with clean hands but a stained soul.’
‘If it had been suicide,’ Cranston spoke up, ‘if we had established that immediately, we would have wondered what could have frightened Sir Thomas Davenport so much that he took his own life.’
‘How did you,’ Athelstan pointed at Malachi, ‘eventually realise what truly happened twenty years ago?’
‘How did I realise?’ the Benedictine mimicked. ‘How does anyone know? Oh, it was the passing of the years, a crumb here, a crumb there. My brother would never have disappeared, not like that.’ He shook his head. ‘Not like smoke on a spring day, and the same goes for Mortimer. He truly loved his sister. I heard reports about Guinevere being seen here or there, but I dismissed them as lies. Then these,’ he gestured around, ‘these reunions, every year. Why were five knights of Kent, powerful Lords of the Soil, so eager to meet up with the likes of Master Rolles and Mother Veritable? Every year they came together, and I began to wonder. It was like the weather, little signs, but you know there’s a change. I used to wander this tavern, that’s how I discovered the mantrap. Like you, Brother Athelstan, I noticed the high-backed cart, the tavern’s many entrances, then the ring was found.’ He smiled dreamily at Athelstan. ‘I showed it to them and they didn’t even recognise it. The only thing I had from my brother; that’s why I gave it to you, in fulfilment of a vow. I wanted it to be kept in a sacred place.’
He leaned over and pulled the small coffer closer to him, gently caressing the top.
‘On the night of the Great Ratting, when those two whores were killed and the Misericord was being hunted, I made my decision. Oh yes, I had been to see His Grace the Regent. I wanted to clarify something. He knew who I was. Perhaps he suspected what I planned. He didn’t call me by my monkish name, but “Master Culpepper”. What passed between us is a matter for you and Sir John to find out. Yes, I did what I did, because I was compelled to. Innocent blood demands justice.’ He scraped back his chair. ‘No, Sir John, I’m not leaving. I want to view my dead.’
Cranston and Athelstan followed him out of the solar. The coroner ordered the two knights to be guarded and shouted at the throng of servants and maids to stay in the tap room. They all retreated fearfully, stepping around the gruesome remains of their former master wrapped in their blood-stained cloth. Followed by Brother Malachi, Cranston and Athelstan went out into the garden, now ruined by the digging of the bailiffs: mounds of hard clay where the lawn had been ripped apart, flower beds and herb patches roughly dug up. To the left of the arbour stretched a long, deep pit. Flaxwith went over and pointed into it. Athelstan gazed down and closed his eyes at the pitiful scene.
‘The corpses must have been stripped,’ Cranston whispered. ‘Not even a burial shroud.’
The skeletons lay like a collection of bones in a charnel house, one tossed on another, all flesh and hair rotted away. Athelstan could see no trace of clothing belt or boot, nothing to distinguish these five people sent to their deaths in such a hideous fashion.
‘I’ll make a full confession.’ Brother Malachi knelt down beside the pit, hands clasped. ‘I know my brother; whatever they have done, I’ll still know my brother.’
He lifted his head, tears spilling down his cheeks, an old man stricken to the heart by what he had seen and heard, no longer any smiles or taunting, just the heart-stopping pain of loss and grief.
‘In a way I thank you, Brother Athelstan. God’s judgement has been done. Don’t worry about me, I won’t flee. I am a priest. I will demand to be handed over to the church courts. Until then I will mourn for my brother.’
Athelstan quickly blessed the pit and stepped away. Cranston ordered Flaxwith and his bailiffs to remove the skeletons and have them coffined.
‘Take them to St Mary-le-Bow,’ he ordered, and gestured at the Benedictine. ‘He may go with you but under strict guard. Brother Athelstan?’
They returned to the solar. Sir Maurice and Sir Reginald had demanded a jug of wine and now sat cradling their goblets. Branson looked as if he was ill, but Sir Maurice was steely-eyed and determined.
‘You and Rolles,’ Athelstan reflected, studying that grim face. ‘You and Rolles must have been the prime movers. You have no pity, no conscience.’
‘I demand my rights.’ Sir Maurice spoke up. ‘Both Sir Reginald and I are knights of the shire. We demand to see His Grace the Regent.’
Athelstan paused as he heard the sound of a horse leaving the stable yard. Going to the door, he asked what had happened, only to discover the head ostler had left on some urgent errand. Athelstan smiled to himself and came back into the room.
‘You have no authority!’ Sir Maurice yelled at Sir John.
‘I have every authority.’ Cranston walked down the room. He gripped Clinton’s shoulder and forced him back in his seat. ‘Sir Maurice Clinton, Sir Reginald Branson, I arrest you for high treason, for foul murder, for robbery, for breaking the King’s peace. You are my prisoners and will await the King’s pleasure.’ He prised the goblets from their hands, throwing each to the floor, allowing the metal cups to spill their contents and roll into a corner, then he walked to the door, gesturing for Athelstan to join him. He ushered the friar out and closed the door behind him, shouting for more guards. He ordered two to go into the room and told the others to allow no one in or out. Then he took Athelstan by the shoulder and led him into the great tap room, now deserted.