Hugh Corbett 14 - The Magician's Death (27 page)

‘And the door at the top?’ he asked.

‘Also locked,’ the guard conceded. ‘Sir Edmund doesn’t like us creeping in there and falling asleep.’

Corbett walked to and fro, staring up at the wall so dizzyingly high above him. The entrance to the tower was so well concealed it would have been easy for anyone to slip through. Yet that was locked, and according to the guard, so was the one at the top, whilst there had been no one on the parapet walk except Vervins and the sentry. Another unfortunate accident? Had the Frenchman slipped? Or had the dizzying height been too much for him? Corbett recognised why Sir Edmund had to be so strict. Doors to towers were often locked and sentries had to be kept in full view; many a castle had fallen because its guards had left their post.

‘There’s only one thing for it,’ Corbett sighed.

‘You are going up, sir? You should be careful! Even Sir Edmund only puts on sentry duty those who are used to such heights. I volunteer because it’s better than digging latrine pits.’

‘What precisely happened,’ Ranulf asked, ‘when Vervins fell?’

‘I’ve told you and Sir Edmund,’ the guard said. ‘The Frenchman came up, he leaned against the wall, now and again he turned to greet me. He decided to go down. He tried the door to the tower but it was locked. He came towards me, very careful he was, carrying his cane. He took off his gauntlet to warm his fingers on the coals. I crouched against the wall to give him as much room as possible. I pulled the brazier away, he went to pass, he cried out, then slipped. I saw his body fall, it bounced on the cobbles, rolling, spinning like a top. I best go with you, Sir.’

Preceded by the guard, and ignoring Sir Edmund’s shouts, Corbett and Ranulf gingerly climbed the steps, which were carefully sanded against the slippery ice. Corbett tried to remain calm and not look down, concentrating on the soldier in front. When they reached the top, the coals in the small brazier had turned a dusty grey, and the wind was strong and cutting. Corbett grasped the rope which ran the length of this outer wall. He edged along and turned, staring out over the battlements at the winter countryside. He understood why a man like Vervins would come here, away from the noise, smells and bustle of the castle; an opportunity to drink in the fresh air, and if the guard was right, Vervins was a man used to such heights. Edward, the King, was similar. On one occasion he had actually held a council meeting on the top of a tower, much to the horror of some of his advisers. Gripping the guide rope, Corbett carefully turned and stared down into the castle yard. A dizzyingly sickening drop which made his stomach clench in fear.

‘Best not look down, sir,’ the guard warned.

Corbett walked carefully along the parapet. From below it looked narrow, but it was in fact a broad thoroughfare, at least two yards wide. It stretched from the steps which bisected it to the tower at the far end and, more importantly, the door to the tower which Vervins had tried to open. Corbett gingerly walked towards this door. Of stout oak, it was strengthened with a thick tarry substance as protection against the weather, and reinforced with rusty iron studs. He grasped the cold ring; it held firm, so he walked back carefully. Ranulf had flattened himself against one of the crenellations. The guard squatted where Vervins had suffered his fatal fall.

‘He was here, just where you are standing, sir, then he fell away.’

‘And where were you?’

‘As I am now, sir.’

Corbett crouched down and felt the parapet walk, sifting the grit and sand between his fingers. There was no ice here, no crack or crumbling which could explain Vervins’ accident. He looked back towards the door. Something he’d glimpsed there intrigued him.

‘So, Vervins . . .’ Corbett quickly pulled up his cowl as a gust of freezing wind stung his face and made his eyes water. ‘So, Vervins had his back to the tower, as did you. He was holding his cane?’

‘Suddenly he gives a cry, sir, and falls to his death.’

Corbett returned to the tower, turning a deaf ear to Ranulf, who was already regretting following his master up to this soaring, freezing parapet wall. He examined the door. He’d noticed the spyhole just above eye level, a square of wood about a foot across on stiff leather hinges. He pushed at this but it held firm. He had seen the type before, a squint which could be opened from the inside so that the guard could see who demanded entrance, or who was walking along the parapet walk.

‘It can only be opened from inside, sir. Two pegs keep it in place, rather stiff it is,’ the guard called out.

Corbett thanked him and, followed by a grateful Ranulf, walked down the steps into the castle yard. Vervins’ body had been removed. Sir Edmund, in his cloak, was in deep conversation with the leech.

‘Another accident, Sir Hugh?’ Corbett could tell from the Constable’s eyes that something was wrong.

‘You don’t believe it was an accident, do you?’ Corbett replied.

Sir Edmund shook his head, his lips twisted in a bitter grimace.

‘I’d like to say, Sir Hugh,’ he edged closer to Corbett, ‘that an old man missed his footing, but de Craon tells me Vervins was used to such heights, in fact he revelled in them, while my soldiers tell me it was quite common for him to climb up on to the walls. He seemed to like it. You’ve been up there; the parapet walk is broad, firm and sanded.’

Corbett turned to the leech.

‘Did you find any other wound?’ he asked him.

‘Nothing,’ the man replied. ‘His head is a maze of cracks, splinters, like a dropped pot.’

‘But no arrow or dagger mark?’

‘No,’ the leech protested. ‘Nothing like that! He could have been struck by a pole, the flat of a sword, or even a rock hurled by someone. Yet the guard reported nothing wrong. All I can say,’ the leech concluded, ‘is that the Frenchman’s skull is a mass of bruises and cracks.’

‘But all of them could have been the result of the fall, not the cause,’ Corbett added.

‘Exactly, sir. Now, I’m freezing and I have another corpse to strip.’ The leech hurried off. Corbett pointed to the tower door.

‘I have the keys,’ the Constable declared. ‘As the guard has probably told you, I keep both doors firmly locked. There’s only one set.’

Sir Edmund called for a steward to bring the keys and a short while later the man came hurrying up, a large jangling ring in his hand. At Corbett’s bidding he unlocked the tower door. Corbett, followed by Sir Edmund, Bolingbroke and Ranulf, stepped into the musty darkness. It seemed even colder inside than out. The Constable took a tinder from the ledge, lit a sconce torch and carefully led them up the steps, Corbett walking just behind him. In the poor light he could detect nothing amiss. One hand gripping the guide rope, they passed stairwells leading to deserted rooms and eventually reached the small passageway at the top, where they all stopped, gasping. Sir Edmund fitted the torch into one of the clasps on the wall, and the flame, catching the draughts, flared up, illuminating the door. Corbett noticed how this door was not only locked but kept secure by clasps at top and bottom. He stared down at the hard paved stone; again, there was nothing out of place. He could see the faint glimpse of light around the squint hole, and he released the pegs, caught hold of the leather strap and pulled down the squint to provide a clear view of the parapet walk.

‘Sir Edmund, if you could?’ Corbett gestured for the rest to stand back, whilst he adopted the stance of a man armed with a crossbow.

‘What are you thinking, Sir Hugh?’

‘I have no evidence,’ Corbett gazed through the gap, ‘but this squint folds away quietly. The hinges are leather, I loosened it with barely a sound. Is it possible that someone, armed with a crossbow and a blunted bolt, was watching Vervins from here? It would be easy to hit a man on the back of his head. Ranulf, wouldn’t you agree?’ He stepped aside as his henchman also pretended to be a crossbowman.

‘An easy target.’ Ranulf closed the squint then opened it again; the wood came away without a sound.

‘It’s possible,’ Corbett declared, ‘for the killer to have been here. Every so often he could open that slat and glimpse where Vervins was. Hiding behind this door, he would hear the Frenchman walking up and down.’

‘But that’s impossible!’ the Constable protested. ‘The door at the bottom is locked, there is only one key and my steward would never give it up, not even to you, Sir Hugh, without my permission.’

Corbett absentmindedly agreed. He thanked Sir Edmund and asked him to keep the bottom door open so that he could continue his investigation.

‘Go down into the yard,’ he told Bolingbroke. ‘Search the cobbles, see if you can find anything suspicious.’

‘But they are encrusted with mud,’ Bolingbroke replied. ‘Sir Hugh, it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

‘Look anyway, you may be fortunate.’ Corbett returned to examine the squint, opening and shutting the wooden slat. He asked Ranulf to go down and order the guard to resume his watch on the parapet wall, and when he did so, Corbett began to play with the squint, opening and shutting it, shouting at the guard to tell him if he noticed anything amiss. After a while the soldier came to the door, pushing his face up against the gap.

‘Sir Hugh,’ he called out, ‘I’m hardly aware of you being there. You could open and shut the squint and I would hardly notice. The door lies in a shadowy recess away from the light.’

Corbett thanked him, closed the slat and, crouching down, sat in the corner of the stairwell, blowing on his fingers. Ranulf, leaning against the wall, kicked the toe of his boot against the brickwork.

‘Sir Hugh, you don’t believe the assassin came up here?’

‘I will tell you what I believe, Ranulf: we are lost in a forest where the mist hangs heavy and the trees cluster thick, and when they thin, it is only to expose some marsh or morass. I don’t believe these deaths were accidental, I don’t believe Destaples died of a seizure or Louis slipped on a sharp stairwell. Why should Monsieur Vervins, so used to heights, who came up on the parapet walk to relax and enjoy himself, a man who was very careful, why should such a man cry out and fall to his death? Very clever, mind you.’ Corbett bit his lip in anger. ‘Vervins’ head has more bruises than he has hair and I am certain de Craon will assure Sir Edmund it wasn’t his fault, that Vervins shouldn’t have been up on the castle walls on an icy day.’ He leaned across, plucking at Ranulf’s cloak. ‘Something is amiss, I don’t know what. De Craon is secretly laughing at us.’

‘If we tell him what we’ve found,’ Ranulf declared, ‘he will laugh even harder. One thing, Master, he cannot blame any of us for Vervins’s death; we were with you in your chamber when he fell.’

‘Aye,’ Corbett retorted, ‘but I wonder where Monsier de Craon and that silent retainer of his were?’

‘They can’t have been here.’ Ranulf helped Corbett to his feet. ‘The tower door was locked, you keep forgetting that.’

He and Corbett returned to the yard, where Bolingbroke was still sifting with his boot amongst the straw, dirt and ice. ‘There’s nothing here,’ he grumbled, ‘nothing at all.’ He rubbed his hands together, blowing on his fingers.

‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh!’ The Constable came running across and handed Corbett a small scroll. ‘Mother Feyner’s corpse was stripped; we found this in the pocket of her gown.’

Corbett unrolled the parchment, a neatly cut rectangle, on it inscribed a few lines. The hand was clerkly, the words English:
And enough bread to fill the largest stomach, and damsons which a Pope could eat before singing his dawn Mass
.

‘In God’s name,’ Corbett muttered, ‘what on earth is this?’ He handed it to Ranulf, who repeated the words loudly.

‘It wasn’t written by us, Sir Edmund,’ Ranulf explained.

‘I’ve shown it to de Craon, he claims to have no knowledge of it either. Apparently Mistress Feyner may have been taking it down to the Tavern in the Forest. It looks as if someone was trying to buy food from Master Reginald, but why so flowery?’

Corbett plucked the manuscript out of Ranulf’s fingers and read it again. He felt a prickle of fear; he’d read enough ciphers to detect a secret message.

‘We also found two freshly minted coins,’ Sir Edmund replied. ‘I can only deduce that Mistress Feyner was paid to take that parchment to Master Reginald, but the message is strange enough. I understand the reference to bread, but damsons in December?’

Corbett folded the parchment up and slipped it into his purse.

‘And Vervins?’ he asked.

Sir Edmund sighed in exasperation. ‘The victim of an unfortunate fall. What more can be said?’

Corbett and the two clerks returned to his chamber. Chanson had built up the fire. For a while they discussed Vervins’ death and the strange piece of parchment Sir Edmund had found. The day wore on. Corbett returned to his studies; at least he had solved one mystery and had shared it with his colleagues just before the tocsin sounded.

‘Is that really why the King has sent us here?’ Chanson had followed the proceedings carefully; he now sat opposite Corbett, who was comparing the two manuscripts on his lap.

‘In the
Opus Tertium
,’ Corbett explained, ‘Friar Roger makes a very strange confession. Listen: “During the last twenty years I have worked hard in the pursuit of wisdom”.’ Corbett looked up. ‘Then he goes on, “I have spent more than two thousand pounds on secret books and various experiments.” Now this is what’s written in the French copy of the
Opus Tertium
. However,’ Corbett was aware how silent the chamber had fallen; Ranulf and Bolingbroke walked over, ‘as I was about to explain fully, before Vervins’ fall, in our noble King’s version, Friar Roger claims it was only twenty pounds.’ Ranulf whistled under his breath.

‘Which is correct?’ Bolingbroke asked

‘The French version, it must be. Our King has tried to interfere with the manuscript. He’s rubbed out two of the noughts.’

‘Are you sure it’s not French pounds?’ Bolingbroke demanded. ‘The
livre tournis
is only a quarter of the value of sterling.’