Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle (7 page)

‘Brother Hamo, I thought you would never ask that.

You are here for three reasons. First, you are all members of the Concilium. You had direct dealings with the Abbot, whilst the other brothers did not. Secondly, I understand you all have your own bed-chambers? So, if you went missing during the night, it would not be noticed, as it would in the cells and dormitories of the other monks. Finally,’ Corbett continued remorselessly, ‘the Abbot’s quarters are approached by a staircase. The door to the outside courtyard is always locked at night. Brother Perditus, I believe that was your responsibility?’

The lay brother nodded.

‘The only people who have keys to that door are the Abbot’s manservant and members of the Concilium.’

‘So, you are accusing one of us?’ the Prior demanded.

‘I am not accusing anyone. I am simply answering your sub-prior’s question. So, let’s return to your relationship with the Father Abbot. There was no disagreement?’

Brother Richard the almoner now became agitated. He was glaring along the table at Prior Cuthbert.

‘There was something, wasn’t there, Brother Richard? Please, tell me!’

‘There is no need to,’ the Prior declared. ‘We had one disagreement with Father Abbot. We own a field called Bloody Meadow, which has a tumulus or burial mound in the centre. According to local lore, many centuries ago, one of the first Christian Kings, Sigbert, was martyred and buried there. We, the members of the Concilium, believed the meadow would have been an ideal site for an enlarged guesthouse. Abbot Stephen disagreed. He said the meadow and the burial mound were sacred and should not be disturbed.’

Corbett studied the Prior closely. You speak so quickly, he thought, as if it was a minor matter. Yet I suspect it was very important to you but would it lead to murder? He glanced sideways, to where Archdeacon Adrian Wallasby sat bored, picking at his teeth.

‘And you?’ Corbett pointed to him. ‘You had been in the abbey days before the murder took place? You met with Abbot Stephen? He gave you a key to his lodgings?’

Archdeacon Adrian was no longer bored. He scratched his cheek nervously.

‘Abbot Stephen was well known as an exorcist,’ Wallasby replied. ‘He carried out exorcisms both here and in London witnessed by scholars and theologians.’ He paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘As you know, Sir Hugh, the Dominican Order are the papal inquisitors. They are used to root out heresy and magic. Many Dominicans now agree with me: the so-called possessed are either sick in their souls, counterfeit or simply madcaps.’

‘And Abbot Stephen challenged that?’

‘The challenge was scholarly, an exchange of letters. A few weeks ago Abbot Stephen wrote to me about a man called Taverner who had come to St Martin’s asking for his help. Taverner claims that he is possessed by the demon spirit of Geoffrey Mandeville.’

Corbett started in surprise.

‘The robber baron who plagued this area?’

‘The same.’

‘And how does Taverner express this?’ Ranulf asked curiously.

‘I have questioned him,’ Prior Cuthbert replied. ‘He is a man of no learning but he can lapse into Norman French or Latin. He also seems to know a great deal about Mandeville’s life. He is, in fact, two people in one.’

‘This man I must meet,’ Corbett declared. ‘Is he safe?’

‘He’s kept in a chamber near the infirmary,’ Prior Cuthbert declared. ‘He is given good lodgings, food and drink. Abbot Stephen was particularly interested in him.’

‘And what do you think?’ Corbett asked.

The Prior pulled a face. ‘Sir Hugh, I am a Benedictine monk, I have my duties and tasks.’

‘So, you don’t see the devil peeping round corners or hiding in the shadows?’

‘Neither did Father Abbot.’ Perditus had lost his nervousness. He was hard-faced and defiant. ‘Father Abbot didn’t see demons and imps lurking in trees or hiding in pools. He truly believed that demons were lords of the air and were given the authority to enter certain people.’

‘Abbot Stephen doesn’t need your defence,’ Cuthbert snapped. ‘The gospels talk of demons. Didn’t the Gadarene claim to have a legion of devils possessing him?’

Corbett pointed at the Archdeacon.

‘And what were your thoughts on Taverner?’

‘A remarkable case.’ The Archdeacon rubbed his hands together. ‘Sir Hugh, in London I have met counterfeit men, cunning deceivers, but I must admit Taverner half convinced me.’

‘Half convinced?’

‘I don’t deny the existence of Satan and his legions,’ the Archdeacon simpered. ‘It’s just that I don’t accept they have power to interfere in our lives. After all, human will can perpetrate enough wickedness without those our learned lay brother calls lords of the air. My discussions with Abbot Stephen were over the writings of the Fathers such as Ambrose and Augustine. Yet it is rather strange,’ he mused.

‘What?’ Corbett demanded.

‘The sorcerers and necromancers, those who study the Kabbala, believe in powerful spells and incantations. Sir Hugh, have you heard about the College of the Invisibles?’

Corbett shook his head.

‘It’s a belief that a sorcerer, by certain spells, can make himself invisible for a matter of hours and pass through matter such as wood and stone.’

Corbett caught his meaning.

‘You are referring to the murder of Abbot Stephen?’

‘I have listened to you carefully, Sir Hugh. How else, except through the black arts, could the Abbot be stabbed to death in his own chamber? The door at the foot of the stairs was unlocked, the lay brother Perditus heard no one come up. The Abbot’s windows and doors were firmly closed. There are no secret passageways. There appears to have been no struggle yet our Abbot was found murdered. I wonder—’

Corbett interrupted. ‘Before we move to matters celestial, to quote you, Archdeacon Adrian, the human will can perpetrate evil enough.’

‘But it’s still a mystery,’ the Archdeacon insisted.

Corbett beat his fingers on the table.

‘For the moment it is. Tell me, Prior Cuthbert, did anything extraordinary happen, in or around the abbey, in the days preceding Abbot Stephen’s death?’

‘Our abbey is a place of calm and harmony, Sir Hugh. Beyond the walls, however, you’ve seen the countryside; marshes, swamps, fields, thick copses of woods. Outlaws such as Scaribrick prowl there.’

‘But they are no threat to the abbey?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘And Lady Margaret Harcourt?’

‘The dislike between her and the Abbot was well known. They never met or corresponded.’

‘Falcon Brook,’ Dunstan the treasurer intervened. He saw Corbett’s look of surprise. ‘Falcon Brook,’ he explained, ‘is a stream which runs at the foot of Bloody Meadow. Lady Margaret and our Father Abbot disputed its true ownership.’

‘But I managed the dispute,’ Prior Cuthbert intervened. ‘That’s how Father Abbot wanted it.’

Corbett stared across at a painting on the wall, a piece of canvas stretched across a block of wood. Its colours were brilliantly vivid, the brushwork vigorous. He narrowed his eyes. At first the figures it contained meant nothing: he glimpsed a tower in the background all a-fire. A young man in armour was leading an older one whose eyes were bandaged. Corbett at last recognised the scene: Aeneas leading his father from Troy. He gazed round the room. Other paintings had similar motifs. He recognised the story of Romulus and Remus, Caesar and other themes from the history and legends of ancient Rome. Prior Cuthbert had followed his gaze.

‘An idiosyncrasy of Father Abbot,’ he explained. ‘He liked all things Roman. I understand that, both as a knight-banneret and as a monk, he often served on embassies to the Holy Father in Rome. He was much taken by the ruins there and collected ancient histories.’

‘Abbot Stephen was, in all things, a lover of ancient Rome.’ Brother Francis the librarian spoke up. ‘He collected books and manuscripts about it.’

‘Why?’ Corbett queried.

‘I asked him that once myself,’ the librarian replied. ‘Abbot Stephen answered that he admired the gravitas of ancient Rome, its honour, its love of order and discipline. We even have a copy of the “Acts of Pilate”. He was a great scholar,’ the librarian added wistfully. ‘He lived a good life and deserved a better death.’

Corbett glanced quickly at Ranulf who was busily writing. He found it difficult to hide his disappointment and frustration. Here was an Abbot foully murdered but, apart from the issue of Bloody Meadow, Corbett could sense no antipathy or hatred towards the dead man, certainly not enough to cause murder. And just how had it been perpetrated? He closed his eyes and suddenly felt the weariness of his rushed journey here. The King had been so insistent that they leave immediately. Corbett wished he could lie on his bed and pull the coverlets over his head to sleep and dream.

‘Sir Hugh?’

He opened his eyes quickly.

‘Sir Hugh.’ Prior Cuthbert smiled placatingly. ‘If there are no other questions? The daily business of the abbey demands our attention and we do have the requiem Mass?’

Corbett apologised and agreed. The Concilium left, followed by Archdeacon Adrian and Perditus. Corbett waited until Chanson had closed the door behind them. Ranulf threw his quill down on the desk and buried his face in his hands.

‘Nothing, Master, nothing at all! Here we have an abbot, a scholar, a theologian with an interest in antiquities, well loved and respected by his community.’

‘But is that only the surface?’ Corbett asked. ‘Or is there something else?’

He banged the desk in frustration. He was about to continue when there was a knock on the door. Archdeacon Adrian stepped into the chamber.

‘There is one thing, Sir Hugh, that the brothers never mentioned.’ He took the seat Ranulf offered. ‘I have only been here a few days . . .’

‘And how do you find the community?’ Corbett asked. ‘After all, Master Wallasby, you are an archdeacon, a sniffer-out of scandal and sin.’

Wallasby took this in good heart.

‘I’ll be honest, Sir Hugh, the abbey is well managed. If I was making an official visitation . . .’ He shook his head. ‘The divine office is orderly and well sung. The brothers work assiduously in the library, scriptorium, kitchen and fields. No women are allowed within the enclosures. There are the usual petty rivalries but nothing significant except . . .’

‘And that’s why you’ve come back?’

‘It’s the huntsman,’ the Archdeacon explained. ‘Two nights before the Abbot died I couldn’t sleep. I went for a walk in the grounds. At first I thought I imagined the first blast but two more followed, similar to that heard in a hunt before the hounds are released. I understand, from talking to some of the older brothers, that Lady Margaret Harcourt’s husband, the one who disappeared, used to sound a hunting horn at night as a jest, pretending to be the ghost of Sir Geoffrey Mandeville. I have also learnt that the horn has been heard frequently over the last four or five months.’ He got to his feet. ‘But more than that I cannot say.’

‘What will happen to Taverner?’ Corbett asked.

The Archdeacon shrugged. ‘I suppose the good brothers will give him some money, food, a change of clothing and he’ll be sent on his way. However, I understand from Brother Richard that Taverner has asked to stay for a while, and our good Prior is inclined to permit this.’

He left quietly. Corbett turned to his companions.

‘Ranulf, Chanson, I want you to wander the abbey.’ He grinned. ‘Act, if you can, like wide-eyed innocents.’

‘You mean snout amongst the rubbish?’ Ranulf retorted.

‘Yes, to be blunt.’

Ranulf and Chanson left. Corbett stared round the chamber and got to his feet. It was well furnished, with paintings and crucifixes on the wall, statues of the Virgin and saints in small niches. The floor was of polished wood, and the many beeswax candles exuded their own special fragrance. In a small recess stood the bed, a narrow four-poster with curtains, testers and blankets. Woollen carpets, dyed different colours, covered some of the floor. Corbett moved these aside and began to look for any secret entrances or trap door but there was none. The walls were of hard stone, the floor of unbroken, shiny planks of wood. He moved the bed, desk and tables but could detect nothing.

Corbett then moved to the chests and coffers but these only confirmed Abbot Stephen’s ascetic nature. There were very few rings or trinkets; the large chest contained pieces of armour, a surcoat, war belt, relics of the Abbot’s days as a knight. Nothing remarkable or significant. Corbett gathered up the papers and books and placed these on the desk and slowly began to go through them. He could find nothing untoward: letters, bills, treatises, most of these concerned the government of the abbey, Abbot Stephen’s journeys abroad and, of course, his work as an exorcist. Some of the books were histories of ancient Rome or tracts by Fathers of the Church on demonology and possession. There was a Book of Remembrance listing those individuals Abbot Stephen would pray for at Mass but this too was unremarkable. Corbett picked up the sheet of vellum containing the quotation from St Paul about seeing through a glass darkly, the reference to corpse candles and that enigmatic quotation from the Roman philosopher Seneca. What did all these mean? Corbett studied the doodle or diagram at the bottom. He’d seen it on other scraps of parchment: a wheel sketched in ink with a hub, spokes and rim. Did this hold any special significance?

Corbett pushed the parchment away and stared at the door. Here was a man, he reflected, a churchman, between fifty-three and fifty-five summers old, with very little to show concerning his past. Corbett, exasperated, left the chamber and went down to the spacious abbey kitchens for some bread, meat and ale. The brothers there were kindly but distant and Corbett realised that the abbey was now preparing for the solemn requiem Mass. He met Ranulf and Chanson wandering like lost souls along the corridors and galleries. They, too, reported that the brothers were friendly enough but they had learnt nothing from them. Corbett sent them back to the guesthouse and returned to the abbot’s chamber. Going through letters and books, he could find no clue, no reason why this saintly abbot’s life ended so brutally.