The Waxman Murders

Chapter 10

Corbett ordered Ranulf to stay while he and Chanson, followed by Desroches, went out into the icy passageway. Castledene led them through the back of the house and outside. It was bitingly cold and a ring of torches glowed at the far end of the garden. Wendover came hurrying up.

‘Sir Hugh, one of our city guards has been killed.’

Desroches hastened ahead. Corbett followed and reached the group of men gathered round the corpse sprawled face down in the snow. Desroches glanced up, shaking his head.

‘Dead!’ He pointed to the heavy crossbow quarrel embedded deep between the man’s shoulder blades. ‘A fatal wound.’ He turned the corpse over.

As Corbett stared down at the victim — a young man, sandy-haired, his eyes staring unseeingly, his face slightly unshaven and pockmarked — he noticed something amiss: the guard wasn’t wearing the ordinary liveried cloak, but a light blue one usually worn by Wendover.

‘What happened?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oseric, that’s his name.’ One of the men spoke up. ‘He’d been with us only a few months.’

‘What happened?’ Corbett insisted.

‘He went out to relieve himself,’ the man replied. ‘He was in a hurry so he took Wendover’s cloak. He was gone for some time. We were all in the buttery, drinking and chatting. I became concerned.’

Corbett snapped his fingers, ordering the torch-bearers to move closer to the speaker. The man, small and squat, glared angrily at him.

‘Why should someone kill one of us?’ he asked.

Corbett shook his head and stared round the snow-covered garden, the bushes and trees, the high curtain wall. Once again the Angel of Death had swept in, soft and silent, invisible yet menacing, like some formidable hawk floating over the fields of this world, keen to grasp a living soul in its greedy claws. But why now? How? Who had guided it in, selected its prey? He walked back towards the rear door and noticed the shuttered windows on either side; he tried both of these but they held fast.

‘Sir Hugh, what is happening here?’ Castledene came hurrying up.

Corbett turned. ‘Sir Walter, I do not know. What I suspect is that the assassin thought he was killing Wendover; instead poor Oseric met his death, but how?’ He gestured at the back of the house. ‘I can’t say.’

‘Is it true?’

Corbett turned. Wendover stood dancing from foot to foot, his blue cloak now draped over one arm.

‘I am not sure,’ Corbett replied. ‘He was wearing your cloak and he was killed. You know as much as I do, Master Wendover.’ He took a step forward. ‘Or do you know something more?’

Wendover, crestfallen, shook his head.

‘Then I suggest you and your companions look to Oseric’s corpse.’

Wendover glared at Corbett, swung the torn cloak round his shoulders and stamped off.

‘Sir Hugh?’

‘Yes, Sir Walter.’

‘The manuscript you took from Paulents’ coffer: have you broken the cipher?’

Corbett walked over to him. ‘No, Sir Walter, I have not. Indeed, I deeply suspect it is a farrago of nonsense.’ He rubbed his arms, increasingly aware of how raw and biting the night had turned, then led Castledene back into the house and summoned Desroches to join them. Once inside the chancery chamber, Corbett warmed his hands in front of the fire.

‘I have questioned enough. We shall return to Maubisson. I know,’ he straightened up, ‘the hour is late, but you, Sir Walter, and you, Master Desroches, must accompany me. We’ll walk that manor house again. Wendover will accompany us. We’ll see if there is anything we have missed.’

Corbett issued instructions for the city guard to be placed around Sweetmead. He informed Lady Adelicia, who received him icily, that she would not be returning to the Guildhall, but that she would remain under house arrest and not leave without his written permission. She agreed coolly. He also added that Berengaria and Lechlade could stay with her if they wished. He then thanked Parson Warfeld, and a short while later, hooded and cowled, cloaks wrapped firmly about them, they led their horses out of Sweetmead and took the road back into the city. It was bone-chillingly cold, black as a malkin. The bells of the city were calling for evening Vespers, booming like a death knell through the darkness.

Once out of Sweetmead, Ranulf rode in front. Castledene urged his horse forward, its hooves slithering on the freezing ground, and tugged at Corbett’s cloak.

‘We’ll not go through the city,’ he advised, ‘but take the road to the postern gate and down Warslock Lane. It will be easier.’

Corbett agreed. In the end it was a strange journey. The horses were nervous and slithered on the ice. A piercing breeze blew under a cloud-free sky. Dark shapes came and went: tinkers and chapmen, carters travelling back into the countryside. The occasional torch shuddered in the dark. Here and there a lantern glowed, casting its reflection on banks of snow or pools of frozen water. They had to pull aside to quieten their horses as a group of Crutched Friars, led by a crucifer, processed by with two biers on their shoulders carrying the corpses of beggars found frozen near Schepescotes mill. The air became strangely sweet with the fragrance of incense. The awesome words of the funeral dirge, ‘My soul is longing for the Lord, more than the watchman for daybreak’, rolled through the air like a sombre tambour beat and caught an echo in Corbett’s mind. He longed for daybreak; not just for a fresh new day, but for an end to this frozen darkness around him, the sense of menace and the spine-chilling dread and fear which cloaked the mysteries now gripping him fast in their vice-like grip. He wanted to be home, to be with Maeve. He took a deep breath and blinked his watering eyes.

‘Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,’ he muttered, and forced himself to hum the tune of a Goliard song, ‘Fas et nefas ambulant’. He waited until the funeral cortege had disappeared into the gloom, then, much to the surprise of his companions, burst into song. Ranulf decided to accompany him. The Latin words of the merry chant rang out like a challenge to the darkness about them. When they had finished, Corbett felt more settled and calm. They were now following a secure path, cleared by the constant traffic around the city walls. Castledene pointed out certain buildings: St Mary Northgate to their right, and in the far distance to their left, the dark mass of St Gregory’s priory.

At last, after an hour’s ride, they reached Maubisson. Its gates, walls and grounds were still patrolled by the city guard. Doors and window shutters had been sealed with the insignia of the city. These were now broken and opened. Castledene ordered Wendover to go into the house to light torches, lamps and candles as well as rekindle fires in the hearth. Inside it was winter-cold and dank. Corbett walked into the ill-lit hall. He still found it a harrowing place. Even though the corpses had been removed to a nearby church, his eyes were drawn to those grim iron brackets fastened to the wall, those terrible branches which had sprouted such gruesome fruit. He shook himself from the hideous reverie and ordered his companions to search the manor. Accompanied by Chanson, he carried out his own search, whilst Ranulf followed the others, vigilant for anything untoward. They found nothing.

Corbett was glad to leave, to be free of a place which seemed to reek of evil. He went down the steps, mounted his horse and, gathering his reins, stared down at Castledene and Desroches.

‘We have finished for the day,’ he declared. ‘I need to reflect.’

‘Sir Hugh?’

‘Yes, Master Desroches.’

‘May I accompany you?’

‘Why, Physician,’ Corbett joked, leaning forward and stroking his horse’s neck, ‘are you not tired of our company?’

Desroches stepped closer, grasping the bridle of Corbett’s horse. He forced a smile, but then quickly winked as if communicating a secret.

‘I could do with some company.’ He let the bridle go and stepped back.

Corbett shrugged. ‘We are returning to St Augustine’s Abbey; you can be our guest at supper.’

Desroches agreed and clambered gingerly on to his own palfrey. Corbett could see he was a poor horseman. They said farewell to Castledene and the others and made their way out on to the main thoroughfare. Desroches pushed his horse alongside Corbett’s. ‘Sir Hugh, I am glad of the company. I must tell you two things. First, when poor Oseric was killed, Wendover was not in the buttery.’ He noticed Corbett’s surprise. ‘Lechlade told me that.’

‘And second?’

‘From the little I gather, Lady Adelicia knew more of her husband’s dealings than she pretends.’

‘How so?’

‘Sir Hugh, she saw her hated husband bury that corpse and did not use it against him.’

‘Master Physician,’ Corbett edged his horse closer, ‘you’ve earned your supper.’

Once back at the abbey, Corbett went to his own chamber, leaving Ranulf, Chanson and Desroches to wait in the refectory below for the guest master to serve some food. On the table outside his chamber a lay brother had left two jugs of wine, red and white, covered with a napkin. Corbett opened his door and went in. He took a tinder, lit the candle on its stand in the centre of the table and then the other capped candles. As he rekindled the brazier, warming his hands over it, he heard a soft footfall on the gallery outside and whirled around, hand going to his dagger. There was a knock on the half-opened door.

‘Come in!’ Corbett shouted.

The guest master stepped in, his face all concerned.

‘Sir Hugh, I learnt you were back,’ he gabbled. ‘I came up to see if all was well. I mean, I told your companions-’

‘Yes, yes,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘If some supper could be served we’d be grateful. Perhaps more braziers? The night is chillingly cold.’

The guest master nodded. He was about to turn away when he paused, peering at the wine jugs Corbett had placed on the table beside the candle.

‘Sir Hugh?’

‘Yes, Brother?’

‘You brought your own jugs?’

Corbett felt a tingle of fear curdle his stomach. ‘Brother, what are you talking about?’

The guest master walked across and picked up the napkin. He held this up and peered at the stitching along its hem, then crouched down and moved the jugs.

‘I know every jug and cup in this guesthouse.’ He straightened up. ‘That napkin was not fashioned by us, whilst the jugs certainly do not come from our kitchen.’ He picked up one of the jugs and went to sip from it.

‘Don’t!’ Corbett urged. He walked across, took the jug from the surprised monk’s hand, sniffed and caught a rather faint bitter smell, as if some herb had been crushed and mingled with the red wine. He picked up the white and detected a similar odour.

‘Brother, do you have rats?’

‘Does a cat have fleas?’ the guest master replied. ‘Of course we do, we are plagued by them.’

‘Then give them a feast,’ Corbett urged. ‘Take some fresh bread and cheese, mingle them together, soak the mix in this wine, and put it in the cellars where no one else will see it. Tomorrow morning, or maybe even later tonight, come back and tell me what you found, but I urge you, Brother, do not drink this wine. I believe it is tainted.’

‘Tainted?’ The guest master’s wrinkled face became all fearful. ‘Sir Hugh, someone wishes to do you evil.’

‘Yes, Brother, they do. I’m the King’s messenger in Canterbury and perhaps not everyone welcomes me as they should. I ask you to keep this matter close, even from your own abbot, as well as from my companions downstairs. Brother, how easy would it be for a stranger to enter this guesthouse?’

The monk stepped away from the table, wiping his hands on his robe, gazing suspiciously at the jugs. ‘Why, Sir Hugh, it’s very easy to enter the guesthouse itself. But as for your chamber, they would have to hold either your key or mine.’

‘So it’s quite possible,’ Corbett asked, ‘for someone to have brought those two jugs in and left them outside my chamber?’

‘Oh yes, Sir Hugh. I mean, people are going to and fro all the time, very rarely is any mischief caused.’

Corbett thanked him. The guest master gingerly picked up both jugs and napkin and left the room, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. Corbett waited until he’d gone, then slumped down on the edge of the bed. He unbuckled his sword belt and cloak, letting them fall around him, pulled off his boots and put on his buskins. Then he went to the top of the stairs and shouted for Ranulf. When his manservant came, Corbett met him halfway down the stairs.

‘Ranulf,’ he patted his companion on the shoulder, ‘I’m tired and worn out. I have eaten and drunk enough. Give my apologies to Master Desroches. You and Chanson entertain him; I intend to sleep.’

He went back to the chamber and checked it most carefully. Nothing had been disturbed. He doused the candles, except those glowing under their bronze caps, and climbed into bed, wrapping the blankets around him. Then he pushed his head hard against the bolster, closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

He woke early, long before dawn, and left the guesthouse. He crossed the frozen yard, braving the winter darkness, until he reached the prior’s kitchen, which served visitors to the abbey. He knocked hard on the door. A sleepy-faced servant opened it and ushered him into the warm, fragrant bakehouse. Corbett told him what he wanted, and a short while later he left carrying a pannier of hot water from the pot dangling on a tripod above the hearth.

Once back in his own chamber, he stripped, washed and shaved. He put on fresh linen undergarments, choosing dark brown hose, a white cambric shirt and a thick fleece jerkin for protection against the cold. He built the braziers up, then drank a cup of water and went across to the writing desk. Once ready, he opened the leather pannier resting beside the leg of the table, pulled out a sheaf of parchment and sharpened a quill pen.

‘Now I will impose order,’ he murmured. ‘Now I will establish a pattern.’

Corbett steeled himself to ignore the growing sounds from the abbey as the monks rose and prepared for the first office of the day. He was tempted to go down and stand in the great oaken stalls and join them in their chanting of Matins, but that would have to wait. He dipped his pen into the green ink and wrote: Primo: The Brothers.

Corbett tried to marshal everything he’d learnt about Adam Blackstock and his half-brother Hubert the Monk, or Hubert son of Fitzurse, ‘The Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze’. His pen raced across the parchment. Blackstock, according to the documents in the Guildhall, had been the pirate’s family name, so why did Hubert use the ‘son of Fitzurse’, his mother’s maiden name? Was he just emphasising that two sons had survived that dreadful massacre? And why did he proclaim himself ‘The Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze’? Was that a reference to his planning and plotting these murders? Had he waited and bided his time? But where did this all begin? Corbett wrote the date 1272, then glanced up and stared at the crucifix on the wall. He remembered how the old King had died gasping at Westminster and the London mob had taken to rioting in the streets. There had been a breakdown in law and order, the king’s peace being openly violated in the shires. The same thing had happened in Kent. According to what he’d learnt, Adam and Hubert’s parents had been wealthy farmers; their manor house had probably been a fine building with vegetable gardens, herb plots, flowerbeds, stables, fertile fields for corn and lush pasture for sheep. Attacks by armed gangs on such manors became commonplace. Usually the rifflers plundered the house and drove away cattle and other livestock, but this attack had been different. Had people from the city of Canterbury been involved? Royal justices had investigated, but no culprits had been produced. Fortune had then turned her wheel again. Adam was put to trade as an apprentice, while Hubert had continued his schooling here in St Augustine’s Abbey. Corbett made a note on a scrap of parchment beside him. He must look out for the magister scholorum, Brother Fulbert, and ask him what he knew.

Apparently Adam had been an industrious worker, and if he’d followed the usual path, he would have finished his apprenticeship, becoming a tradesman and eventually a merchant, a member of the Guild. Instead he had left Canterbury, finding his true calling as a sailor, working in the various ports along the east and south coasts of the kingdom before moving to the more exciting fleshpots in the coastal ports of Hainault, Flanders and Brabant. There he consorted with pirates and privateers, eventually becoming one himself, and securing swift promotion to command a redoubtable pirate cog, The Waxman, a veritable plague on shipping along the Narrow Seas and the wine routes to Bordeaux.

Corbett paused. His own childhood had been warm and loving, but he’d met others, at court and camp, brutalised by barbaric events in their early lives. Was this true of Adam Blackstock? Could he not forget the images he’d seen that hideous night, the screams of his mother, the futile attempts to resist by his father and others? Blackstock had later waged war against English ships, in particular those of Sir Walter Castledene. Was that because the mayor was a prominent merchant of Canterbury, or were there more secret reasons? Corbett had searched the official documents scrupulously, but now he quietly promised himself that he would return to the Guildhall manuscripts and study them more closely.

Hubert the Monk had acted in a similar fashion. Highly intelligent, he might well have graduated to becoming a magister in the schools. He finished his education at St Augustine’s and in the Halls of Cambridge, took the solemn vows of a Benedictine monk, entered the community at Westminster under Abbot Wenlock, then he too had changed, swiftly and abruptly. According to the prior at Westminster, a mysterious visitor had visited Hubert and imparted certain information which had radically changed that young man’s life. He had fled his monastery, renounced his vows and become a venator hominum, tracking down outlaws and wolfsheads, and handing them over to sheriffs, port reeves or town bailiffs in return for a reward. Hubert had certainly kept his distance from Canterbury. Why? Because he hated the city, or was there some other reason? He had plied his bloody trade in the south-eastern shires of the kingdom, keeping himself visored and hooded, a careful enough precaution by a man who did not wish his face to be known to the thieves and villains he pursued along the byways and country lanes of various shires.

Apparently the two brothers had lived separate lives until their paths had crossed, possibly about four years ago. Again it was the city of Canterbury which proved to be the cause and catalyst. Blackstock had intercepted a Hanseatic ship carrying the precious manuscript from Paulents which described in great detail an ancient, very rich treasure buried somewhere in Suffolk. Corbett had heard stories of such buried treasure up and down the kingdom. On one occasion he had even been commissioned by Edward himself to search for the lost hoard of King John allegedly engulfed in the Wash towards the end of that king’s reign. Tales of the Suffolk treasure were common in the folklore of that shire, but Paulents had managed to establish its exact location and hoped to find the treasure along with his business colleague and fellow trader Castledene. However, Blackstock had seized the ship, stolen the manuscript and planned to meet with his brother to discover this ancient precious trove himself. In turn, Castledene and Paulents, with the help of the Crown, had decided to trap Blackstock.

The story of the ambush of The Waxman and Blackstock’s death was familiar now to Corbett, but what of Hubert? Undoubtedly he had sworn revenge and disappeared from the world of men, but where was he now? The Cloister Map had also disappeared. Had Stonecrop stolen it from Blackstock’s cabin? Corbett could imagine a ship preparing for battle. Had Stonecrop used the confusion to take the map, hoping to use it to negotiate with Sir Walter Castledene and Paulents? Instead, with the fury of battle still upon him, Castledene had meted out rough justice and thrown Stonecrop overboard. Had that treacherous lieutenant managed to reach the shore, hide and make his way to Canterbury, that would certainly fit with the tally of dates. Then what? Corbett paused in his writing. ‘Yes, yes,’ he murmured. Sir Rauf Decontet had been a powerful merchant. Evidence that he had secretly subsidised The Waxman was not hard to find. Had Stonecrop arrived in Canterbury to threaten, to blackmail, to wheedle support? Had he brought that precious map? And had Sir Rauf Decontet, a man of few scruples, decided to keep the map and deal with any threats by crushing Stonecrop’s skull in the dead of night and burying his corpse in that lonely, overgrown garden?

Corbett took a sip of water and returned to his writing: Secondo: The Present Time. Hubert the Monk had disappeared. Were he and Servinus one and the same? Had Hubert decided to travel to Germany and negotiate himself into Paulents’ household? It was a possibility. Mercenaries wandered the face of Europe being hired by this merchant or that princely household. Hubert was a highly intelligent man, possibly with a command of languages and knowledge of the world. There was no description of him, so he could travel undetected. Moreover, why should Paulents refuse such an addition to his household, especially when he might live in fear of revenge attacks by Adam Blackstock’s half-brother? Whatever, Hubert the Monk had disappeared, as had the map and Stonecrop. However, Paulents had not given up trying to find that lost treasure. He’d discovered fresh evidence but this time decided to bring it to England himself. He had travelled across Europe, taken ship to Dover and landed there with his wife, his son, their maid and the bodyguard. Paulents and his family had apparently fallen ill, though whether this was due to some contagion or a cruel sea passage could not be established. What was certain was that on the same day they landed at Dover, they received a threatening note, as did Castledene in Canterbury. But how could that have been organised? Corbett paused. If Hubert was hunting both men, it would be possible to arrange through a trader, chapman or tinker for the same message to be delivered to two different individuals in two different towns.

Paulents, undeterred, had travelled on to Canterbury, where he’d been met by Castledene and Desroches, who’d pronounced their sickness caused by the hardships and rigour of their journey. Paulents had then taken up residence at Maubisson with its secure gates and walls, its doors and shutters locked and barred, a ring of guards circling it. Corbett was satisfied from the evidence he’d seen that Wendover had carried out his task faithfully. He closed his eyes for a while and tried to imagine that hideous hall, only this time the fire was burning merrily, candlelight gleaming, Paulents and his family, together with Servinus, relaxing over their evening meal. They would feel comfortable and secure. They were in Canterbury, in a fortified manor house; they had little to fear. Corbett opened his eyes and continued writing. So what had happened that night? How had four able-bodied people been hanged from those iron brackets on the wall? Just left there dangling, strangled, eyes popping, swaying slightly in the jumping shadows? Neither he nor Desroches had found any trace of an opiate or powder, no other mark of violence to their bodies. It was impossible to conclude that all four, at the same time, had decided to take their own lives. Was Servinus responsible? Had he killed them? But how? And how could he have escaped undetected, a foreigner in a snow-bound city? What was the motive behind the murders? Revenge? Or the theft of that secret map?

Corbett rose, went over to the coffer and took out the map he’d so carefully studied. He tapped it against his hand. He had no proof, just a suspicion, but he truly believed that this was not the genuine map. He had studied every secret cipher used in Europe, be it by the Papal Chancery or that of Philip Le Bel of France. Sooner or later he could prove that old adage of the schools, that if a problem exists, so must a solution; it is only a matter of time. Yet with this one. . He placed the document back in the coffer and returned to his chancery desk.

Corbett heard the faint singing of the monastic choir as they chanted the first psalms of Lauds. One verse caught his attention: ‘It is he who will free you from the snare of the fowler who seeks to destroy you. He will conceal you beneath his pinions and under his wings you will find refuge. You will not fear the terror of the night nor the arrow which flies by day, nor the plague that haunts the darkness, nor the scourge which devastates the noon-tide.’

‘I hope so,’ Corbett murmured. ‘I pray so.’

He was tempted to go down and share in the comfort of that holy place. Instead he promised himself that when the bells rang for the Jesus Mass he would join the good brothers; until then he must confront the evils which beset him.

Tertio: Decontet. Sir Rauf was undoubtedly a miser, a secret supporter of pirates and privateers, an unscrupulous man with no thought for the morrow except for how much money he might make. Lady Adelicia, his young bride, certainly hated him and he had replied in kind. Little wonder she had found comfort with Wendover. Decontet may have also been a killer, responsible for Stonecrop’s death and his hasty burial in that desolate garden. However, did such matters have any bearing on the events of that fateful Thursday afternoon? Lady Adelicia had left for the city with Berengaria. Once her mistress had been ensconced in Wendover’s chamber, Berengaria had hastened back for her own meeting with Sir Rauf, who paid her good silver for certain sexual favours. Did Lady Adelicia know about that? She had indicated that perhaps she did, calling Berengaria a minx. Corbett recalled arrangements mentioned as he left Sweetmead the previous evening. How Lechlade would stay with Lady Adelicia, but that Berengaria had murmured something about remaining with her possessions at Parson Warfeld’s house for the time being. Undoubtedly Berengaria was a sharp-witted, ruthless young woman, but on that particular day she had failed to meet Sir Rauf and so returned to Canterbury. Physician Desroches had then arrived; unable to arouse Sir Rauf, he’d waited until Lechlade had come down, roughly wakened from his drunken stupor. Desroches had sent for Parson Warfeld and the chancery door had been forced. Lady Adelicia had arrived, followed by Castledene. Questions were asked about the blood on her cloak and those gore-soaked napkins found in her bedchamber. She was arrested as the perpetrator yet the mystery still remained. How had someone entered a locked chamber, shattered Sir Rauf’s skull and then escaped? Why wasn’t there any sign of a struggle? How did the assassin, if it was not Lady Adelicia, go up to her chamber, drop the bloodstained napkin on the floor and hide more behind the bolsters? How could anyone do that without a key to her chamber? There were only two keys, one definitely held by Lady Adelicia and the other by Sir Rauf. Nevertheless, Warfeld and Desroches had been quite explicit: when the doors to both chambers had been either forced or opened, that precious keyring was still on Sir Rauf’s belt. Had another key been fashioned? Corbett shook his head. Such locks were unique, the work of a craftsman, and any attempt to replicate their keys would arouse deep suspicion.

Quatro: Les Hommes Joyeuses and Griskin. Now Corbett wrote more slowly. Griskin had been a good spy, an able man who took careful precautions to protect himself. He’d disguised himself as a leper and travelled up into Suffolk, searching out those legends about the lost treasure. He had reported to the Gleeman that he had discovered scraps of information, and made a mysterious reference to St Simon of the Rocks, but what did he mean? Griskin had later been trapped, murdered and gibbeted, probably by Hubert the Monk, which in turn meant that he had discovered something about that elusive hunter of men. What was it? Yet this begged another question. How had Hubert discovered the truth about Griskin? Was it through his own sharp wits, or had Griskin been betrayed? Had he been seen in the company of Les Hommes Joyeuses and someone reported this to Hubert? If that was the case, there was a traitor amongst Les Hommes Joyeuses. Could it be the Gleeman?

Quinto: The Waxman and Hubert the Monk. Who was Hubert? Where was he? Were he and Servinus one and the same? How could he move so quickly? Delivering warnings in both Canterbury and Dover? Following them through the woods when Corbett had returned with Desroches and Ranulf from Maubisson to St Augustine’s? Who had attacked Corbett in the cloisters? Desroches had been in the refectory downstairs, but Parson Warfeld? And the others? Who had come to St Augustine’s yesterday with that poisoned wine?

Everything pointed to The Waxman, the Suffolk treasure, the Cloister Map and Hubert’s desire for vengeance as the hideous roots of this murderous affair. Yet was all this a false lure? Indeed, was Hubert even still alive? Was someone else using the past to conceal their own devious plot? Virtually everyone had some connection with The Waxman, including Warfeld. And what about Berengaria? And the Lady Adelicia, who could so innocently flutter her eyelids and deny any knowledge of her husband’s doings? And Castledene? What was the truth there?