Hugh Corbett 17 - The Mysterium (32 page)

‘I was about to make a posset,’ Beatrice snapped peevishly from where she stood next to the door to the small scullery.

‘Why waste such good wine on a posset?’ Corbett picked up one of the goblets and thrust it at the priest. ‘Drink.’ His smile faded. ‘Drink!’ he repeated.

Parson John, face all tense, just stared back.

‘Drink,’ whispered Ranulf, bringing up the dagger concealed in his hand. He pricked the priest under the chin with its point, and Beatrice gave a small scream of protest, which died as Parson John pushed the goblet away.

‘I don’t feel like wine, Sir Hugh, not now. I should leave . . .’

Again Ranulf’s dagger came up.

‘Mistress,’ Corbett warned, ‘do not even think of drinking such a gift. I am sure it’s poisoned, death-bearing.’ He clapped Parson John on the shoulder. ‘You are in so many ways your father’s true son. You came here as a wolf in sheep’s clothing to finish the game, to kill the last person on your murderous list.’

‘Lapwing is the murderer.’ Parson John retorted. ‘Lapwing is in the Tower for his crimes?’

‘And he can stay there,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Master Escolier has a great deal to answer for, unless his grace the King decides otherwise, and I think he might. Certain questions about the riot in Newgate have to be put to him, but as for what happened recently in St Botulph’s, that, in the main, was mummery. I recognised that something was wrong. Lapwing always denied he was the writer from the Land of Cockaigne.’

‘What?’

‘Oh don’t act the innocent. There are so many unresolved questions. I never really understood why Lapwing should kill Mistress Clarice and her lover Richard Fink.’

‘I don’t—’

‘I asked myself one constant question,’ Corbett continued softly. ‘Who knew the truth about Evesham’s evil doings? Most likely Mistress Beatrice. She, in turn, admitted that the only person she ever told was her son, the clerk who calls himself Lapwing. She was not lying. She simply overlooked one important fact, a sin that has haunted her over the years.’ Corbett glanced at Beatrice. ‘Isn’t that true, mistress?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned back to the priest, watching those eyes dart and shift like those of all murderers did when they searched for a path out of the trap opening before them. ‘She was with your mother the night she was murdered. Only a slip of a girl, Mistress Beatrice fled, your mother died. She was always haunted by a deep sense of guilt, which harrowed her soul. Now last Advent, in preparation for Christmas, Beatrice made a full confession. You recall the occasion, surely, Parson John? The Dean of St Paul’s, as is customary, invites the citizens of London to receive absolution. Priests gather from all over the city. They sit the length and breadth of the nave behind curtained screens so that penitents, ashamed of what they have to confess, can whisper their sins anonymously. Now, as often in life, chance or God’s own grace can create the most extraordinary coincidences. Mistress Beatrice went to confess her sins at St Paul’s. She did so in great detail and told the priest everything: the murder of Emma Evesham, her own flight, her suspicions about Sir Walter, his possible connivance in his wife’s death, his evil alliance with the likes of Waldene and Hubert the Monk. Most importantly, she still felt she was a coward who’d betrayed her mistress.’

‘She did not confess to me.’

‘Oh Parson John, I think she did. There’s no evidence for that,’ Corbett tapped the wine, ‘except this, your one and only terrible mistake. True?’ He pulled himself up in the chair. ‘I did suspect you, despite your fearful, tremulous way. You always had a story, an excuse for being elsewhere when these hideous deeds were committed.’ He lifted a hand. ‘Except for one, which was too glib, too smooth.’

‘What do you mean?’ Parson John protested.

‘That attack on you in St Botulph’s.’ Corbett paused as Beatrice went into the scullery and brought back a stool to sit on and watch fascinated. ‘According to you, Parson John, your attacker entered the sacristy by the outside door. You were struck down and bound.’

‘Sir Hugh, I was bruised, you saw the marks on my face.’

‘No, no,’ Corbett countered, ‘they were caused during your struggle with Master Fink. We’ll leave that for a while. You were not struck down. You did not wander into St Botulph’s. You went into that church as a murderer with the severed heads of your victims Clarice and Master Fink. You placed those in that font as a rejection of everything you once believed in. You then went back into the sacristy and waited for Master Fleschner. You’d invited him at a certain time to act as your witness; he was as much your victim as anyone else. You had the ropes ready in a tangle to slip over your ankles and wrists. It’s easily done. When Master Fleschner came to your rescue, he would not notice, not poor, nervous Fleschner in that cold, desolate sacristy, desperate to free the hapless Parson John. You certainly prepared well.’ Corbett leaned over and touched the small, fading scar on Parson John’s forehead. ‘You’d even cut yourself, as if the assassin had marked you down for death and was about to carve the letter M.

‘Of course it was all a charade, based on false logic. First, Master Fleschner claimed that as he entered the church, the assassin came out of the sacristy door, then fled back in. Why should he do that? His best path of escape was through the outer door and into the tangled, overgrown cemetery. Why come into the church except to create the illusion that there were two people in the sacristy? You, the victim, and your supposed assailant. Master Fleschner was a nervous man, you described him as such. He would take his time to cross and creep up the sanctuary steps into the sacristy. Time enough for you to pose as the victim. You wrapped the tangle of ropes around your ankles and wrists.’ Corbett paused. ‘What did it matter anyway? Master Fleschner didn’t notice anything untoward. Yet your account was further flawed. Fleschner found you bound, the letter M about to be carved on your forehead. Why didn’t the assassin take the next logical step and kill you, draw a knife across your throat in a heartbeat of breath? Why did this ruthless killer spare his victim, Evesham’s own son, all trussed up for the killing? Why leave you as a possible witness against him?’ Corbett shrugged. ‘Except, of course, that you were providing a subtle defence against any allegation levelled about yourself.’

Parson John didn’t answer. He sat more relaxed, lips parted eyes half closed, staring into the fire. Corbett wondered about the man’s wits. Did he care about what was happening? Had the revelations about his father murdering his mother crushed his soul?

‘Then there’s Mistress Adelicia’s midnight visitor out in the woods at Syon; more of that later, though it must have been you. Again a matter of logic. You asked after a woman called Beatrice. You demanded to know if Evesham had sought such information from Adelicia twenty years ago, just after Boniface’s disappearance. ’

‘I am sorry?’ interrupted Parson John, his face all haughty. ‘What do you mean, clerk?’

‘Why, priest, when I held court in St Botulph’s, I looked around and quietly asked myself who would pose such a question. Staunton or Blandeford? No, they fish in other stew ponds. Parson Cuthbert? Why should he dissimulate? Adelicia would soon have recognised him. Master Lapwing? But he knew all about Beatrice. That left you, a murderer wondering if your list of victims was complete. Sometime after you heard Mistress Beatrice’s confession, you must have visited the Guildhall and read the coroner’s roll, Master’s Fleschner’s entry regarding your mother’s death and her maid’s disappearance. You must have wondered, as I did, about Beatrice’s role in that hideous affair. Was she an accomplice? How had she escaped? Where was she? Above all, did she have any guilt regarding your mother’s death?’ Corbett paused. ‘Oh yes, you certainly heard Beatrice’s confession. By the way, where was your mother buried?’

Parson John just swallowed hard, staring unflinchingly into the fire.

‘Let me tell you,’ Corbett continued. He glanced across at Ranulf, who gazed curiously back. The clerk had been busy about his own enquiries, whilst his master had kept what he was plotting very close to his heart. All Corbett had asked him to do was to keep Mistress Beatrice’s house under tight scrutiny and immediately alert him, at a nearby tavern, if she received any visitors.

‘You know where my mother lies buried,’ Parson John broke in harshly.

‘Of course I do.’ Corbett replied. ‘In St Botulph’s, beneath the flagstones leading to the Lady Chapel. I am sure Walter Evesham placed a stone there extolling your mother’s virtues whilst lamenting his own sad loss. Once you’d heard Beatrice’s confession, you regarded that carving as a devilish lie. You had the stone pulled up and replaced with something smoother. No one would really notice. After all, grave memorials are soon forgotten, but not by you, not with memories fresh with the truth about your mother’s gruesome fate. Oh yes, you removed that stone. In your mind, it represented everything you hated about your father.’ Corbett paused, gathering his thoughts.

‘You constantly protested that you knew nothing about your father’s affairs, but that was a lie. You knew everything, which was why you became a priest, wasn’t it? You rejected your father’s world. You knew the filth he waded through, his friends, his double-dealing, his duplicity, his treachery, perhaps his love of disorder. A father knows a son, a son knows a father. It wouldn’t be hard for you to bring your father under scrutiny, to visit him in the guise of a friendly, loving son whilst keeping your eyes and ears alert. You found out about his meetings with the likes of Waldene and Hubert the Monk. You heard rumours about the way he favoured members of their covens, and so you posed as the writer from the Land of Cockaigne. A suitable choice, the world turned upside down.’ Corbett leaned across and touched the priest. ‘Parson John, I fully understand your anger, your hatred, your desire for revenge. It was what you did that makes me your adversary. At first you struck at your father’s reputation. You sent those letters to Staunton and Blandeford, one piece of evidence after another so the King was forced to act and your father was caught red-handed with Waldene and Hubert the Monk. That must have been a great source of satisfaction to you.’

Parson John grinned, as if savouring some secret joke.

‘Waldene and Hubert the Monk were lodged in Newgate, but your father surprised everyone. He didn’t try to defend his reputation; he simply threw himself on the King’s mercy. He underwent a Damascus road conversion and became the tired, broken recluse of Syon Abbey. In truth, you knew your father, as did Brother Cuthbert. Walter Evesham simply wanted time and space to reflect, to plot, to seek a way back. You were determined that he would never walk that path. You went to Syon Abbey. You visited Brother Cuthbert and Adelicia in your pastoral guise, but then you returned to spy out the land. You discovered, as I did, that the two of them would often meet at night. Brother Cuthbert would leave the Chapel of St Lazarus and go into the woods to be with the one true love of his life. They would sit and discuss the past, revelling in each other’s company. You simply waited for your opportunity, and then you struck.’

Holm-gang:
a fight to the death between two adversaries on a small island

‘My visits to Syon Abbey are well recorded,’ Parson John protested.

‘No, priest. I am not talking about you entering the main gate, talking to the prior, the abbot, the guest master or the almoner, but about other times. How you came back hooded and visored, armed for war in the dead of night, bringing a ladder, scaling those walls, hiding in the undergrowth.’

‘Brother Cuthbert is sharp enough, as is his war dog.’

‘Nonsense. Ogadon is an old dog who would recognise you and offer no challenge. Just in case, you’d bring some delicacy laced with an opiate so that Ogadon would flop down and sink into the deepest slumber. That’s what happened the night you murdered your father.’

‘I was at St Botulph’s,’ Parson John declared. ‘Remember, clerk, the riot at Newgate? My church was sacked and pillaged, my parishioners slaughtered.’

‘Were you really?’ Corbett countered. ‘Who says? All was chaos and confusion. I recall meeting you the following morning – nothing more. Indeed, what happened at St Botulph’s would only intensify your determination to mete out justice. As far as everyone else was concerned, Parson John, shocked and distraught at what was happening, was sheltering in his priest’s house or had sought sanctuary elsewhere. You were in fact hastening through the dark to Syon Abbey. You entered the grounds. Brother Cuthbert was gone, Ogadon sleeping, and you helped him to remain so. You entered the mortuary chapel, going down the steps to your father’s cell. He would greet you, curious, perhaps even surprised, but not threatened, not by his son who‘d given up the world of arms to be a priest. I can only imagine his arrogance, his mocking condescension. He invited you into his cell. You simply waited for him to sit down and then you struck, a blade across his throat, cutting it open, letting the blood splash out. On that night you helped yourself to the jewellery, the few possessions your father had taken with him. You were searching for a certain ring, weren’t you?’

‘How would I know about that?’

‘Oh come, priest, the story about what happened at St Botulph’s is well known. It’s something you could have learnt over the years, I mean about Adelicia’s ring. It would certainly be an item your father would keep close. Once you’d killed Sir Walter, you took the ring and left. Sometimes circumstances conspire against us, other times in our favour. Brother Cuthbert returned to find Sir Walter murdered and became involved in a great deal of mummery to cloak the murder in deep mystery in order to protect himself, so that he wouldn’t have to answer questions about where he was when Sir Walter was slain.’

‘I did all this?’ Parson John jibed. ‘And no one noticed?’

‘I have walked the grounds of Syon Abbey, they’re deserted. The curtain wall is very close to the river. Someone like yourself, young, able and strong, could hire a small boat, go along the bank, remove the ladder you’ve concealed there and climb over the wall. Sentries don’t patrol. Ogadon knows you. Brother Cuthbert often leaves the Chapel of St Lazarus to visit Adelicia. You did the same the night you went to see Adelicia, slipping through the woods determined to establish who this Beatrice was. However, to return to the night your father was murdered.’ Corbett glanced quickly back at the doorway. Chanson stood on guard, the arbalest primed. Ranulf was as vigilant as ever. Beatrice sat on her stool, gaping in astonishment at what she was hearing. ‘You also struck at Engleat. He was a much easier quarry. Engleat was in his cups. He’d been to a brothel. Tired and drunk, he sat slumped in that taproom. You entered, hooded and masked. The tavern was busy, who would notice, who would care? Engleat, drunk and fuddled in his wits, was helped through the door, down to that lonely, filthy alleyway, where he was prepared for execution, lashed to the hanged man, before being rolled into the river.’