'Brother, I take your warning. Mistress Vestler stands in great danger of being hanged. If that happens…'

'The tavern and all its moveables,' Sir John interrupted, 'are forfeit to the Crown,'

Athelstan cradled his tankard; his deep friendship with Sir John, whatever his troubles in Southwark, committed him to this matter. In conscience he must do all he could to prove Mistress Vestler's innocence.

'Has anything untoward occurred?' he asked. 'Is there anyone with a grievance against Mistress Vestler?'

The lawyer shook his head.

'Does anyone desire the tavern? Or its properties?'

'Mistress Vestler was very fortunate,' Hengan replied. 'She and Stephen bought this when prices throughout the city had fallen after the great pestilence. The tavern was not what it is now. These gardens, the carp pond, the chambers are all their doing. Mistress Vestler is a skilled cook. Her venison pies, baked in spices, are famous through the city. Now, to answer your question bluntly: about eighteen months ago a member of the Guild of Licensed Victuallers, Edmund Coddington, did offer a price for the tavern. Mistress Vestler refused.'

'And where is this Coddington now?' Sir John asked.

'Oh, Sir Jack, he died of some ailment or other. Apart from him, no one else.'

Athelstan recalled the Four Gospels and repressed a shiver. They looked and acted fey-witted but what if their smiles concealed some secret purpose? They would not be the first so-called witnesses to truth who masked their nefarious practices under the guise of religion. He finished his ale and got to his feet.

'Sir Jack!'

He gave the surprised coroner his empty tankard.

'I shall be with you shortly.'

Athelstan strode into Black Meadow. He paused at the pit where the bailiffs were now sheeting the skeletons and two corpses.

'Can I help you, Brother?' One of the bailiffs leaned on his mattock. 'Dark deeds, eh?'