Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle (15 page)

‘Or there are two assassins?’

‘Very good, my Clerk of the Green Wax. God knows what’s happening here? Taverner’s might not be connected to the other deaths.’

‘But why kill him?’ Ranulf demanded. ‘He was just a trickster.’

‘I think he was more than that,’ Corbett breathed. ‘Do you know, Ranulf, when I was questioning him, just for a moment, I thought I heard someone outside. I assumed it was Chanson returning with the books but, of course, we met him after with Perditus.’

‘So, what are we searching for now?’

‘I’m not sure, Ranulf-atte-Newgate. You knew the dead man better than I. I think he did not tell us the full truth.’

‘He wouldn’t know what that was if it jumped up and bit him on the arse!’

‘Precisely,’ Corbett replied. ‘I find it difficult to believe that Taverner simply turned up at St Martin’s with this farrago of nonsense. True, like any wandering sailor, he may have looked for a quiet port to shelter in, but put yourself in his place, Ranulf. If you came to this grand abbey with all its wealth, what would you do?’

Ranulf, at a half-crouch, turned.

‘I’d sit, wait and watch.’

‘Taverner did the same.’ Corbett opened a battered leather saddlebag and fished around inside. ‘Taverner would demand some surety, just in case his trickery went wrong. I have never yet known a villain who hasn’t got a bolt hole ready, should his villainy turn awry.’

‘Does the abbey hold bows and arrows?’

‘Probably more than a castle. They have to hunt, don’t they? Defend themselves. When we went into the storerooms I glimpsed baskets full of arrows as well as stacks of bow shafts.’

‘And the skill to use them?’

‘Most men can use a bow,’ Corbett declared absentmindedly. ‘Many of these monks were former soldiers. I wager a few were royal clerks. They would have been trained to stand in the battle line. I am truly intrigued by Taverner’s death. His assassin wanted him out of the way as quickly as possible. I wonder why?’

Ranulf watched as Corbett grasped one of Taverner’s boots and searched carefully inside.

‘You don’t think . . .?’

‘Yes, I do.’ Corbett pushed his hand further down. ‘Do you remember when Taverner was about to lead us down to the cellars? He said he wanted to change his sandals?’

‘He did.’

‘I also think that he was busy hiding documents: Taverner knew I would be back. Ah, here we have it.’

Corbett drew out a small ledger bound by a red cord, as well as a thin, battered leather wallet, worn with age and covered in dark patches of mildew.

‘I thought as much.’

Corbett finished his search and went and sat on a stool, his back to the window so he could use the light.

‘Ha!’

‘What is it?’

‘Licences, warrants, letters of permission: some old, some new, some genuine, others probably forged.’

‘Why didn’t you persist with Taverner?’ Ranulf murmured. ‘Let me take him by the neck and shake him?’

‘Taverner had told us enough for one day. Like any cunning man he’d wait to find out the lie of the land, see what arrangements he could reach, what he might garner. A man like Taverner, Ranulf, as you know, doesn’t chatter like a squirrel.’

Corbett was about to continue when he heard the sound of running footsteps; a brief conversation outside and Chanson burst into the room.

‘Master, you are needed in what they call the Star Chamber – one of these monks has died!’

Corbett grasped the manuscripts he’d found in Taverner’s room and pushed them inside his jerkin. The old lay brother outside was deeply agitated and scurried off, shouting over his shoulder to follow hastily. When they reached the Star Chamber, Hamo’s corpse has already been laid out in a more composed fashion on the floor. Someone had brought a blanket and draped it over him. Ignoring Prior Cuthbert and the rest; Corbett went across and pulled the blanket back. One look was enough. Hamo’s popping eyes, gaping mouth and discoloured swollen tongue, the strange pallor of his face and the hard tension of his muscles, showed he’d been poisoned.

‘God save him!’

Corbett threw the sheet back over the face and got to his feet. He quickly muttered a requiem.

‘Poisoned!’ he exclaimed. ‘No man should die like that, certainly not a priest, a man dedicated to the work of Christ.’ He stared round at each member of the Concilium. ‘There is no brand mark on his forehead,’ Corbett declared. ‘But,’ he chewed the corner of his lip, ‘I suspect it’s the work of the same bloody-handed assassin!’

He paused as Brother Perditus brought Archdeacon Adrian, and both stood in the doorway.

‘What do you want?’ Corbett demanded.

‘I heard about the death,’ the Archdeacon replied. ‘I was talking to Brother Perditus about Abbot Stephen’s writings when the message arrived . . .’ He swallowed hard. ‘I wish to be away from here. Prior Cuthbert, there’s no need for me to delay.’

‘Oh, there’s every reason.’

Corbett came across and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. The Archdeacon’s face was no longer jovial. A deeply frightened man, so agitated he couldn’t keep still, he tried to avert his gaze from the corpse sprawled beneath the blanket.

‘No one will leave here,’ Corbett declared, ‘until I say. Especially you,’ he added in a whisper, ‘Archdeacon Adrian.’

The Archdeacon’s head came back. He tried to speak but Corbett turned away.

‘Brother Perditus, you can stay as well.’

Corbett rested against a chair at the end of the table.

‘I suggest we all sit down. Prior Cuthbert,’ he gazed round the chamber, ‘you all gathered here after Taverner’s death?’

‘Of course, there were matters to discuss.’

‘Good!’ Corbett smiled. ‘Then you can discuss them with me.’

Brother Dunstan was about to protest but Corbett smacked the table with his fist. Ranulf went across, kicked the door shut and stood with his back to it. Chanson sat on a stool on the far side. Corbett clasped his hands and gestured at the table. The monks and Archdeacon Adrian dutifully took their seats. Corbett could tell, by the way they pushed the tankards away, what had been the source of the poison.

‘Brother Hamo lies dead,’ Corbett began. ‘His corpse lies sprawled over there, his soul has gone to God. The source of the poison?’

‘It wasn’t in the jug of ale or the bread and cheese,’ Aelfric replied, ‘but in Hamo’s tankard.’

‘And who served these?’

‘I did,’ Dunstan replied meekly, raising his hand. ‘But my colleagues saw me. I held the tray in both hands. The brothers could take whatever tankard they wanted.’

‘Shouldn’t we have the corpse removed?’ Prior Cuthbert demanded.

‘Read your history,’ Corbett replied. ‘Years ago, after a man was murdered, the questioning took place in the presence of his corpse. They claimed that his ghost would stay to help find the truth, though I suspect this will take a little longer. I mean no disrespect but Hamo can wait a while. So,’ Corbett rubbed his hands, ‘Brother Dunstan took the tray and went round the table? You each took a tankard?’

Again nods of agreement.

‘I then put the jug on the table. The bread and cheese were passed round.’

‘And Brother Hamo’s ale was poisoned?’ Corbett asked. ‘But no one knew which tankard Hamo would take?’

‘Of course not,’ the almoner replied. ‘They are all the same. No one gave it a second thought.’

‘And when was this tray brought up?’ Corbett demanded. ‘Before the Concilium met or during it?’

‘Just after we’d begun,’ Prior Cuthbert replied. ‘We were busy taking our seats when Brother Oswald brought it in.’

Corbett nodded at Chanson who scurried away. They sat in silence. Corbett deliberately wanted that. The pool is being stirred, he reflected, yet its calm surface still hides a lot. One of these men was an assassin but which? Prior Cuthbert, now looking so worried? Aelfric, preening himself as if pleased at the way things were going? Francis the librarian, who kept glancing over his shoulder at Corbett? Richard the almoner, hands clasped together as if reciting his beads? Brother Dunstan, with that faraway look in his eyes as if he couldn’t believe what was happening? Archdeacon Adrian sat with his head down, moving backwards and forwards in his chair. Beside him Perditus, his eyes screwed up, stared across at the corpse as if fascinated by it. There was a knock on the door: a grey-haired, ashen-faced lay brother was ushered in. He immediately fell to his knees, hands clasped.

‘Father Prior! Father Prior!’ he wailed. ‘I brought the ale and tankards up.’

‘Speak to me,’ Corbett said gently.

The man turned, still on his knees.

‘You are Oswald the scullion?’

The man blinked through rheumy eyes and nodded, clearly terrified out of his wits.

‘You have nothing to worry about,’ Corbett reassured him. ‘Who told you there was a meeting of the Concilium?’

‘Hamo. He came down to the kitchen. I laid out the usual platter of bread and cheese, tankards and a jug of ale. I covered the jug with a napkin and left them there. I sent up one of the kitchen boys, a lad from the village. He came back and reported that the meeting had begun, so I brought up the tray.’

‘And no one stopped you?’

A shake of the head.

‘Father Prior and the others were just getting ready. The meeting hadn’t really begun. I placed the tray on the table and left immediately.’

‘Prior Cuthbert,’ Corbett demanded, ‘did anyone go across to the table whilst the meeting was taking place?’

‘Not till I did,’ Brother Dunstan answered.

‘In which case,’ Corbett turned to Oswald, ‘when the tray was in the kitchen, who came in?’

The lay brother waved his arms in exasperation.

‘Sir, how can I say?’

‘Try and think,’ Corbett urged. ‘Look around this chamber. Study each face carefully.’

Oswald moved restlessly on his knees.

‘There were some strangers,’ he declared. ‘Well, visitors. Talbot the taverner from the Lantern-in-the-Woods, with that saucy-eyed daughter of his. What’s her name?’

‘Blanche,’ Prior Cuthbert provided the name. ‘They often come here to buy provisions. Talbot is a good customer.’

‘He is,’ Oswald said abruptly. ‘But she’s bold-eyed and sniggers too much.’

‘Did they go near the table?’ Corbett asked.

‘I can’t tell you. Anyway, why would they do something like that?’ Oswald’s eyes were now shifting about the chamber. ‘We had brothers coming in and out, a stack of wood was brought for the ovens but none of the Concilium entered.’ Oswald licked his lips. ‘Though he did!’ He shifted and pointed to Archdeacon Adrian.

‘God’s teeth!’ Wallasby bellowed. ‘I was hungry, I wanted some ale, something to eat. I was preparing to leave.’

‘But now you’re not,’ Corbett smiled.

‘Yes, he came in,’ Oswald clambered to his feet, fingers shaking, ‘demanding this and demanding that. He had words with Taverner Talbot, asked if he could stay at the inn for the night on his journey back to London.’

Archdeacon Adrian simply waved his hand. Corbett could tell he was furious.

‘I will not deign to answer this. I am a priest, Sir Hugh, a high-ranking official of the Church. I was only here at Abbot Stephen’s insistence and that of the Dominican Order.’

‘Were you?’ Corbett asked. ‘Were you really?’ He turned. ‘Brother Oswald, you may go.’

Ranulf let him out and closed the door. He leaned against it, arms crossed, head back, staring at these assembled notables under heavy-lidded eyes. Ranulf watched Corbett like a cat: sometimes old Master Long Face infuriated him with his brooding ways and taciturn speech. Ranulf had never met a man so self-contained. Corbett was closer than any brother but, over the years, Ranulf had learnt little about this enigmatic clerk. The only passion he showed was when he was with his beautiful wife Maeve. Ranulf smiled to himself. Lady Maeve, with those piercing blue eyes, always frightened Ranulf. It was as if she could stare directly into his soul, and read his thoughts, his secret desires. Oh yes, Corbett’s only passions were Lady Maeve, his children and the law. Always the law! Corbett had once told him that he had seen the work of wolf’s-heads in Wales, an entire hamlet destroyed: women gutted from crotch to neck; men hanging from trees; children butchered. He had never forgotten the sight and learnt a bitter lesson.

‘If the law is removed,’ Corbett declared, ‘that’s what we become, Ranulf: animals in the dark tearing at each other.’

Corbett loved the King but this was tinged with a deep cynicism and wariness, and that was the difference between them. In Ranulf’s eyes whatever the King wanted was the law. Ranulf recalled Taverner and the cunning man’s description of his early days. Ranulf-atte-Newgate was determined on one thing: he would never go back to that. Corbett was his friend and companion but he was also his master and mentor. Ranulf studied Corbett like a hunting dog did its quarry. He glanced at Corbett who sat, elbows on the table, hands clasped over the lower part of his face: a favourite trick, to sit in silence and make the guilty nervous.

‘Murderers always talk,’ Corbett had once remarked. ‘They begin by being secretive but, after a while, the power they have grasped goes to their heads. When they talk, they make mistakes.’

Ranulf also liked to see the powerful ones, the great and the so-called good, squirm before his master’s gaze.

‘Sir Hugh, are you praying?’

‘Yes, Brother Aelfric, I am.’

A bell began to toll.

‘It is time for divine office,’ Brother Dunstan declared, his hand against the table as if ready to rise.

‘Sit down,’ Corbett ordered. ‘I have read the rule of St Benedict. In times of danger and crisis, the office of the day can be suspended. This is the divine office we must address: the matins of murder, the prime of malice, the vespers of death, the nones of justice, the compline of law. I don’t think God wants to hear your prayers. He wants to see justice done. Prior Cuthbert, I suggest you hold a chapter meeting and tell your community that, until these matters are resolved, everyone should walk warily with an eye to his own safety.’