The Waxman Murders

Chapter 12

They left Maubisson, taking one of the city guards with them to show them the swiftest route around the city walls and in through the lychgate of St Alphege’s. Castledene and members of his comitatus were already there. They’d dismounted, and their horses were being hobbled. Corbett called Castledene’s name and the mayor hurried over. Corbett dismounted and quickly told him what he had discovered at Maubisson, ignoring the mayor’s gasps, exclamations and litany of questions.

‘No, no, Sir Walter.’ Corbett shook his head. ‘This is the heart of the problem. Four people were murdered by hanging in that dreadful manor; Servinus was killed by a crossbow bolt. Why?’

Sir Walter rubbed his hands and pointed back towards the church door. ‘Sir Hugh, there’s other business.’

‘Yes, there is other business, but I must ask you to concentrate on this. Is there anything you knew about Servinus which might be useful? Why he was murdered in one way, the others differently? Please?’ Corbett patted Sir Walter on the shoulder and hurried up the steps into the church.

Desroches was leaning against a pillar, staring down at Parson Warfeld, who was busy anointing the corpse with holy oil. Berengeria had lost all her prettiness, the noose fast around her throat, eyes glaring, face mottled, tongue protruding. She sprawled haphazardly. Corbett, listening to the priest’s murmured prayers, knelt down and, using his dagger, cut the cord, loosened it and handed it to Ranulf. The body jerked strangely in death. Corbett straightened the legs and arms even as Parson Warfeld raised his hand in the final blessing and absolution. The priest looked haggard, eyes red-rimmed.

‘She’s gone!’ he murmured. ‘Such a sweet girl. May the Lord Christ forgive her many sins and mine.’

Corbett felt tempted to ask Warfeld to explain, but decided it would wait. He rose to his feet, beckoning the others to join him further up the nave near the rood screen before the sanctuary.

‘Well?’ he asked, turning abruptly. ‘What happened here?’

Parson Warfeld explained how Berengaria had felt comfortable in the lodgings he had provided. This morning he had come down and celebrated his morning Mass and they were planning to break their fast in a city cookshop when Physician Desroches had arrived and demanded to see him. He had told Berengaria to wait in the church and taken Desroches into the priest’s house. When they’d finished, they walked back into the church thinking that Berengaria would be still waiting there.

‘What you’ve seen, Sir Hugh,’ the priest added mournfully, ‘is what we discovered.’

Corbett glanced at Desroches.

‘The flesh is slightly warm,’ Desroches said. ‘She was hale and hearty when we left. The assassin must have slipped into the church and killed her. God knows why a poor maid should be murdered.’

‘I don’t think she was as poor as you think,’ Corbett declared. ‘Berengaria had keener eyes and sharper wits than perhaps many of us presumed. I do wonder why she was murdered.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Master Desroches?’

The Physician glanced up. ‘Sir Hugh?’

‘We have found the corpse of Servinus, Paulents’ bodyguard. He was killed by a crossbow bolt to his chest, his belly slit open, and hidden in an ale vat deep in the cellar. I asked Sir Walter a question. I also ask it of you. Four people were murdered in that hall, killed by hanging, very similar to poor Berengaria’s death. Why should Servinus die differently?’

Desroches pulled a face. ‘Sir Hugh, I hardly knew the man. We exchanged a few words of greeting and that is all.’

‘And why did you come here this morning?’ Ranulf asked.

‘To see Parson Warfeld. Sir Hugh. I have told you, and Parson Warfeld will agree. I was not born in Canterbury, but my parents are buried here in God’s acre. If you check the Liber Mortuorum — The Book of the Dead — you will find their names listed there. They both died sometime before Christmas, so this is their anniversary. I came to ask Parson Warfeld to sing the Requiem Mass for their souls.’

‘That is true,’ Parson Warfeld bleated. ‘Sir Hugh, we were not gone for long. The church is cold. Berengaria said she would warm her hands over the candle flames.’ He pointed at the transept, where candles glowed in the darkness beneath the shrouded statue of the saint. ‘I didn’t think anything; I. .’ He faltered and walked away, shoulders shaking.

Corbett followed him. ‘Parson Warfeld,’ he whispered. The priest turned. ‘What was Berengaria to you?’

‘Sir Hugh, I’m in God’s house.’ He walked on, beckoning Corbett to join him. ‘Sir Hugh. .’ He paused, then whispered, ‘I must have my sins shriven; on this I’ll tell the truth. Berengaria was skilled in the ways of men. I gave her good housing; she gave me some comfort.’ He glanced away. ‘You know what I mean?’

‘Did she tell you she rendered the same for Sir Rauf?’

Warfeld stared down at the paved stone floor.

‘Was there anything she said,’ Corbett insisted, ‘which could explain her own brutal death?’

‘Sir Hugh,’ Warfeld whispered, ‘you described Berengaria accurately. She had sharp wits. You know she kept her own secret counsel.’

Corbett nodded. ‘May I visit her room?’

‘Certainly. Gentlemen,’ Parson Warfeld called out, ‘I beg you to stay here for a while. I have business with Sir Hugh.’

He led Corbett out through a side door, and crossed the frozen ground to his comfortable two-storey house. They climbed the wooden stairs built on the outside; these led into a stairwell in the recess of which stood a narrow door. Warfeld pressed the latch and opened it. Corbett stepped into the room. It was neatly kept. In the corner was a comfortable truckle bed shrouded by drapes; warming pans and chafing dishes stood on a table, and next to this were a stool and a high-backed chair. There were shelves and pegs on the wall for clothes and robes.

‘A tidy girl,’ Corbett observed.

He opened a coffer on the small table beside the bed; it was full of trinkets, gee-gaws, rings, bracelets, and a piece of brocade. Next to the bed lay a pair of soft buskined slippers. On the wall pegs hung a cloak, shifts and petticoats, linen underwear and a dress. Beneath these was a small box containing face paints and a phial of cheap perfume. Corbett pulled back the curtains of the bed, ignoring Warfeld’s protests about ‘the possessions of a poor wench recently murdered’. There was nothing. The bed had been neatly made, the faded gold coverlet pulled up over the bolsters. He was about to turn away when he glimpsed blurred marks on the whitewashed wall beneath the narrow window and leaned over. The scrawl had been done with a piece of charcoal. Corbett made out the word ‘Nazareth’.

‘Nazareth?’ He turned to Warfeld, pointing to the scrawl. ‘That is fresh, is it not?’

Warfeld came across. ‘It was certainly not there before.’ He leaned over and brushed the wall, then took his finger away and stared at the charcoal dust on the tip. ‘Berengaria must have written it. That’s right, yesterday evening when we returned, she asked for the name of the town where Jesus had been born. I said Bethlehem. She laughed and shook her head and said, “No, the other place”, so I wrote “Nazareth” out on a piece of parchment; she must have copied it from there. She said she knew her horn book, that she could read and write most letters.’

‘Why?’ Corbett asked. ‘Why did she want to know that? More importantly, why did she write it?’

‘Sir Hugh, as God is my witness, I don’t know. I found Berengaria engaging; she was, as you say, sharp-witted. I am sorry she has gone.’

Corbett finished his search but found nothing except a few more tawdry possessions. He followed the priest down the stairs and back across into the church. Castledene had ordered in some of the guards. Berengaria’s corpse, already shrouded in a cloak, was being lifted on to a makeshift bier to be taken to the mortuary house in God’s acre. Corbett stared across at the candle flames, wishing that statue could speak. Who had crept into this church and killed that hapless maid? Parson Warfeld and the physician Desroches were closeted together. .

‘Sir Hugh,’ Castledene came over and plucked at his sleeve, ‘I must have words with you.’

They walked towards the door of the church.

‘Servinus,’ Castledene whispered. ‘One thing I did learn, he never drank wine or ale. I remember him saying that. We were talking about how Paulents and his family felt. Servinus was also queasy, but declared that it could not be the ale or wine because he had taken an oath on some pilgrimage or other that he would never touch strong drink. Sir Hugh, that is all I know.’

Corbett thanked him, then went across and informed Parson Warfeld about Servinus’ corpse being brought to the church, and requested that Requiem Masses be sung for both his soul and that of Berengaria. Then he pointed towards the high altar.

‘Lay them out there tonight,’ he said. ‘Ring their corpses with purple wax candles, sing the Masses tomorrow and have them buried before dark.’

Warfeld hastily agreed. He was now embarrassed, eager to be rid of this prying clerk. Corbett and Ranulf left the church, collected their horses and led them down under the lychgate. Corbett turned and stared back. Castledene, Desroches and Parson Warfeld were huddled together on the steps, discussing some matter or other.

‘We will never find the truth from them,’ Corbett declared.

‘What truth, master?’

‘Precisely, Ranulf, what truth?’ He gathered the reins of his horse and moved away from the lychgate. ‘In this matter, Ranulf, it is time rather than evidence which is important. Think of myself and our adversary as two lurchers, two coursers, running either side of a fence. If my adversary runs faster he’ll escape; if I run faster I’ll catch him! Our killer wants to be swift. He wishes to wreak his revenge, discover the true whereabouts of the treasure and escape.’ Corbett gazed up; the sky was cloud free. ‘The weather is breaking,’ he declared. ‘It is freezing cold but I don’t think there’ll be more snow.’ He pointed across the wasteland. ‘We must visit the Lady Adelicia to enquire about her safety and security, and above all,’ he winked at Ranulf, ‘to discover whether she left the house this morning.’

They made their way across the frost-encrusted common, the breeze biting at their faces, nipping their noses, cheeks and ears. Corbett pulled his cloak up. When they reached Sweetmead, the guards lounging around in the porches and recesses rose to greet them. They assured Corbett that no one had left the manor, though he was not too certain about how strict their watch had become. Lady Adelicia certainly looked as if she had not left the house. A furred nightrobe around her shoulders, bare feet pushed into buskins, her hair undressed, she met them in the small parlour and rose to greet them coldly. She apologised for the weak fire and complained bitterly about Berengaria, how she was supposed to be here to tend to her.

‘Madam,’ Corbett caught her sleeve, ‘I bring you sad news.’ He told her exactly what had happened at St Alphege’s, how Berengaria had been garrotted. Lady Adelicia heard him out coldly, nodding now and again, lifting her hand, fluttering her fingers, the only sign of any emotion.

‘Lady Adelicia,’ Corbett continued, ‘I must be blunt with you. We have discovered that when you met Wendover in The Chequer of Hope, Berengaria did not go to the stalls or shops but hurried back to Sweetmead. I believe she — how can I put it — did certain services for your husband.’

Lady Adelicia sat propped in the chair, her face towards the weak fire. ‘Berengaria was like a cat in an alleyway.’ She didn’t even turn her head, but talked as if whispering to herself. ‘She lived on her wits, with a keen eye for mischief. I realised Sir Rauf knew about myself and Wendover but that he didn’t really care! I guessed it must be Berengaria: when we did go to the markets, she seemed to have more money than she should. Now she’s dead. Why, Sir Hugh?’

Corbett shrugged. ‘Mistress, before I continue, do you know the whereabouts of Lechlade?’

She pointed to the ceiling. ‘Sprawled upstairs drunk, I suppose, as he always is.’

Corbett excused himself, told Ranulf to stay with Lady Adelicia and walked out into the passageway and up the stairs. He passed the gallery where Lady Adelicia and Sir Rauf’s chambers stood, and went up further into a small stairwell. The door to the facing room was off the latch; he pushed it open. Lechlade’s garret was nothing more than a sty, dirty and dishevelled, with hardly any furniture. Lechlade sprawled on a pallet bed in the far corner, snoring like a pig, one hand grasping a tankard. Corbett looked distastefully round: dirty clothes were piled in the corner, a broken knife, a pair of tattered boots, some crusted pots and a cracked jug littered the floor. He walked quietly towards the bed and stared down. The bolster was stained, the sheets dirty and grimy, the blanket Lechlade had wrapped about himself holed and moth-eaten. He left and rejoined Lady Adelicia and Ranulf in the parlour.

‘Lady Adelicia,’ Corbett declared, ‘I must warn you, your life too may be in danger.’

She looked up, startled. ‘Me?’ she said. ‘Why should anyone wish to kill me?’

‘Perhaps they have already tried,’ Corbett replied, pulling the stool closer, staring into the hard eyes of this young woman. ‘Lady Adelicia, you did not kill your husband, and yet somebody stained your cloak with blood either at The Chequer of Hope or when you arrived home. Somebody else put those bloody napkins in your chamber. How? I don’t know. For what reason?’ He watched the colour drain from her face. ‘Oh yes, somebody wanted to dispatch you to either the stake or the noose. They certainly wanted you out of this house. Why is that, Lady Adelicia? To search for something?’ Now he had her attention. Corbett stretched out his hand and brushed hers; it felt cold as ice. ‘Lady Adelicia, you must realise your life is in great danger, not because of Wendover or anything else but because of what you know, or might know, or might have found. You told me about seeing your husband at the dead of night, dragging what you thought was a corpse from this house, to bury in the garden beyond?’

She nodded.

‘But there again, I’ve been in that garden; it is all tangled and overgrown. And it would have been dark when your husband brought that corpse out. How did you know what he was dragging? And if your husband, whom you hated so much, had committed such a foul act, I wager, Lady Adelicia, you would have certainly used that against him. Surely you must have been curious? You could have gone out to that part of the garden when your husband was distracted, and discovered what was truly buried there. Instead, you tell me some fable that by mere chance you are standing by your window in the dead of night and you see your husband dragging out a corpse. You even know where he buried it. Lady Adelicia,’ Corbett’s voice rose sharply, ‘I am no fool. This mummery must stop! I want the truth.’

Ranulf, leaning against the doorpost, arms folded, smiled falsely at her. ‘We could, master, take Lady Adelicia to London. A stay in a Tower dungeon, the Fleet or Newgate might loosen her tongue.’

‘Don’t threaten me!’ she snapped. ‘Neither of you knows what it’s like to be a woman alone in a world of men.’

‘Then tell us,’ Ranulf said. ‘Otherwise, mistress, you will be depicted as a murderess, or who knows, whoever killed Berengaria might creep in here. They are searching for something. What?’

Lady Adelicia drew herself up, hitching her robe closer about her shoulders. ‘About eighteen months ago, on the Feast of St John the Baptist, I was here in the parlour. Sir Rauf, as usual, was locked in his chancery chamber, counting his wealth. There was a knock on the door. Lechlade had done his duties, but the sun was setting. You’ve seen Lechlade? Like a pig in its sty or a dog returning to his vomit, he was in some ale-drenched sleep. I went out and opened the door. A man stood there. I didn’t like him. He was cloaked, though I could glimpse the stained jerkin beneath, and his boots were scuffed. He had a lean face, a slight cast in one eye. I was about to drive him away as one of those noisome beggars when he demanded to see Sir Rauf. “Tell him Stonecrop is here.” I did so. My husband came quickly enough when I told him the reason. He swiftly ushered Stonecrop into his chamber. I was intrigued, curious. My husband had had visitors before in the dead of night, but there was something about Stonecrop and the way Sir Rauf was so eager to see him, so I decided to eavesdrop, as I often did. I put on a pair of soft buskins and listened very carefully. Sometimes Sir Rauf could not be heard, but this time voices were raised. To get to the point, Sir Hugh: Stonecrop was a sailor; he’d apparently been on The Waxman when it had been captured. He had been flung overboard, swum ashore and taken refuge. Afterwards, he was forced to tramp the roads. He claimed he’d been burnt by the summer sun, drenched by spring rains, frozen on winter mornings. He explained how he was weary of slugging through mushy leaves in autumn woods, tired of the poor fare at country alehouses and hedge taverns. Sir Rauf asked what that had to do with him. Stonecrop replied that Sir Rauf was a wealthy man who lived high on the hog. Did the authorities in Canterbury know his true calling? How he had paid good silver to Adam Blackstock and The Waxman? Sir Rauf scoffed at this. Stonecrop demanded money. Sir Rauf again jeered and refused. Stonecrop turned towards the door. He then declared how, just before The Segreant and The Caltrop had closed for combat, he’d slipped down to Blackstock’s cabin and taken from a coffer a certain map which revealed the whereabouts of a great treasure in Suffolk. He’d kept it safe in a leather wallet. If Sir Rauf was willing they could share such a hoard.

‘I didn’t hear what happened next, but Sir Rauf called him back. They haggled over this map. Stonecrop eventually declaring he’d go to Sir Walter Castledene, who would give him more for it; he’d also tell the mayor about the secret doings of Sir Rauf Decontet. My husband grew abusive, but Stonecrop laughed and came back towards the door. I heard a crack, like a whip being lashed, and someone fall; even through the doorway I could hear my husband breathing heavily. I don’t truly know why I did it, but I knocked at the door, pressed the latch and it opened. My husband was standing there. He had a wooden mallet used for grinding gold in one hand. Stonecrop was sprawled on the floor, blood gushing out of the back of his head. He’d been killed; his skull had been smashed. Sir Rauf was a strong man. I knelt down, felt Stonecrop’s throat and looked up. Sir Rauf began to curse me. He called me a snooping, prying bitch who would undoubtedly use this against him. Before I could stop him, he had thrust the mallet into my hand. “If I hang,” he declared, “we’ll both hang together. I’ll go on oath and say you were with me when he was killed.” After that, well. .’ She shrugged prettily. ‘I collected some sacks from the cellar. We stripped the corpse, sheeted it up and dragged it out into the garden for burial.’

‘Did Lechlade find out?’

‘No, he was in one of his drunken stupors, though I later told him about the map. The day after I was arrested, I was taken to the dungeons in the Guildhall. Lechlade visited me. I bribed him to search Sir Rauf’s chamber for a map showing where treasure was hidden in Suffolk. He just gazed blearily at me. I told him that if he did find it he might become rich.’

‘Why did you ask Lechlade for help?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Not Berengaria?’

‘I’d grown wary of Berengaria — she even more so of me. I suspect she was frightened of being depicted as my accomplice.’ Lady Adelicia laughed sharply. ‘And Berengaria always looked after herself. I had my suspicions about her. I was also desperate,’ she confessed. ‘I needed certain things, comforts, luxuries. I also wanted to write letters to the King. Lechlade will do anything to buy ale. He hired a scribe and brought him to my dungeon. He also brought other things I needed: clothes, wraps, soap and money, at least Castledene permitted that. Once you are a prisoner, Master Ranulf, you have no right; silver and gold are the only language people understand.’

‘But surely you’d searched for the map before?’

‘Of course, Sir Hugh. From that night onwards I was obsessed by it. I knew Stonecrop had brought something precious. When I went into the chamber I saw Sir Rauf holding a small scroll, yellowing with age, but since that night I have never seen it again. You must remember, Sir Hugh, Sir Rauf rarely left the house. When he did, I would search everywhere, but I never found it.’

‘Did you talk to Wendover about it?’

‘Of course I did. I suppose,’ Lady Adelicia blinked, ‘in the full moon of our passion we laid our plans and schemes. How we’d find that map, discover the great treasure, move away from Canterbury, begin a new life. Wendover was much taken by it.’

‘Do you think Wendover ever came back here to look for it?’ Ranulf asked.

Lady Adelicia laughed thinly. ‘Sir Rauf would never allow a man like Wendover into his house, let alone to search his belongings. Moreover, Master Ranulf, Wendover is a thief.’

Corbett stared at Lady Adelicia, who gazed coolly back. ‘We will leave Wendover for the moment. You know, Lady Adelicia,’ Corbett chose his words carefully, ‘the manner of your husband’s death is truly mysterious. He was found in his chancery office, the back of his skull smashed, yet the door to that chamber was locked and secured. The lock is singular and special, I recognise that. It would be virtually impossible to replicate a key for it. Moreover, the key of this chamber was found on your husband’s belt, as was the key to your chamber, the other one being held by you, and yet-’

‘What do you mean, Sir Hugh?’ Adelicia’s voice was harsh.

‘Well, mistress, why was your husband murdered? Nothing was stolen, nothing disturbed, so why kill him? And why make such a mystery of it?’

‘Sir Hugh, I cannot answer that.’

‘No, madam, nor can I.’

Corbett rose to his feet, left the parlour and went to sit in Sir Rauf’s high-backed leather chair in the chancery chamber. He clutched the arms. Once again he felt those grooves beneath. Curious, he crouched down and studied them carefully. The weals or grooves were evenly placed in the wood on either arm, and freshly done. Corbett shook his head. There was some mystery here, but what? He sat down and gazed at the shelves and the manuscripts stacked there: the tagged rolls of vellum, the account books, the memoranda, all neatly filed and organised. He had no doubt that Sir Rauf had once owned the Cloister Map. Had he memorised it, then destroyed it? If that was the case, why hadn’t he moved to discover the treasure? What had he been waiting for? ‘Of course!’ Corbett exclaimed, beating the arms of the chair with his fists. ‘He was waiting-’

‘He was waiting for what, master?’ Ranulf stood in the doorway. He’d put his cloak around him and was standing with his thumbs pushed into his war belt.

‘Come in.’ Corbett indicated the stool. Ranulf sat down. ‘I believe Sir Rauf had the Cloister Map. I suspect he memorised and destroyed it, but he was waiting. Clever man, Sir Rauf! He knew Castledene and Paulents were also searching for that treasure, not to mention Hubert the Monk. He was also wary of his prying wife. He allowed her to continue her trysts with Wendover, and took his revenge in accepting sexual favours from Berengaria. Eventually he would have applied to the Court of Consistory, an appeal to the Archbishop of Canterbury, demanding his marriage be annulled. Once he’d rid himself of Lady Adelicia, once he believed it was safe, he would have used his undoubted wealth, skill and secret knowledge to travel to Suffolk and hunt for that treasure. Sir Rauf was a cold-hearted man, he could bide his time.’

‘Anything else?’

‘At this time, I don’t know, Ranulf. I truly don’t. We’ve discovered two new facts this morning. First, Servinus did not touch wine or any strong drink. I have to reflect on that. Second, Berengaria, a woman who lived on her wits, who had no more religion in her than perhaps. .’ he gestured at a coffer, ‘took a piece of charcoal and scrawled the word “Nazareth” on her bedchamber wall. Why?’

Ranulf shook his head. ‘Do you think Wendover,’ he asked, ‘could have had a hand in Sir Rauf’s death? He did leave Lady Adelicia early that day.’

‘Ah yes, our unfinished conversation.’ Corbett rose to his feet. He walked back in to where Lady Adelicia still sat staring into the fire. ‘You said Wendover was a thief?’

‘Of course, Sir Hugh, and there’s no honour amongst thieves. When I visited Wendover at The Chequer of Hope, I always took money. I have my own petty source of income, though my late husband took care of the rest. On frequent occasions I found something missing. Wendover and I lay together. He satisfied his lust as well as mine. I fell asleep. He always left before I did, claiming this duty or that.’

‘And he invariably stole?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes, Sir Hugh, it is humiliating, isn’t it? He took a coin or a bracelet, some small item he thought I wouldn’t notice.’

‘Why?’ Corbett asked.

‘I don’t know, Sir Hugh. Perhaps that was the nature of the man; perhaps he was like Berengaria, collecting money, wealth against the evil day.’

‘That is why he left early?’

‘Of course it was, Sir Hugh, to steal and sneak away. When I woke there was no one to remonstrate with. I always thought I would but I never did. Perhaps it was pride. Our passion, Sir Hugh, was like a fire: it burnt fiercely, then the flames died, leaving nothing but cold ash.’ She paused. ‘Sir Hugh, what will happen to me?’

‘Madam, matters have become so confused, no judge could sit and listen to this case, yet there’s a malignancy here which I must root out.’

Corbett made his farewells still lost in his own thoughts. He and Ranulf dressed against the cold and waited for Chanson, who arrived from Maubisson declaring he’d discovered nothing new. They mounted their horses and made their way across the wasteland into the city. The break in the weather had brought everyone out. All the cocklebrains and twisted hearts, every rogue who swarmed in the King’s city of Canterbury, had emerged looking for easy pickings. These mingled with the rich garbed in woollen robes wrapped firmly around well-lined bellies. Pilgrims flocked the streets, pale and wan after their days of abstinence, eager that Advent be over so they could give up dry bread and brackish water to feast on wine, sweet manchet loaves and juicy meats. A prisoner recently released from the castle dungeons perched drunkenly on a cart, shaking the manacles on his hands, as he begged for alms and mockingly gave his last will and testament.

‘To those in the trap,’ he referred to fellow prisoners in the castle, ‘I give my mirror and the good graces of the jailor’s wife. To the castle, my window curtains spun from spiders’ webs. To my comrades freezing at night and chained to the walls, a punch in the eye. To my barber, the clippings of my hair. To my cobbler, the holes in my shoes. To my costumer, my worn hose. .’

The raucous speech had attracted the tavern-roisterers with their mulled wine and roasted chestnuts. They gathered around shouting abuse as the unfortunate begged and pleaded for pennies to take back so he and his fellow prisoners could celebrate the birth of Christ in some comfort. Corbett gave him some coins and passed on. He reached a crossroads and glimpsed Les Hommes Joyeuses now parading through Canterbury to advertise their coming pageant. The Gleeman had arranged a cavalcade of devils, all rigged with wolves’, calves’ and rams’ skins laced and trimmed with sheep’s heads and feathers from which dangled cow and horse bells ringing out a horrid din. They held in their gauntleted hands burning pieces of wood, which gave off puffs of smoke and crackling sparks. The people flocked around them. The Gleeman would occasionally rein in and describe how the Mummers would meet here or there to tell the story of the Blessed Christ and His incarnation in the world of men.

Corbett urged his horse on, his ears dinned with the shouted bustle, the hoarse guffaws, the clink of steel, the pealing of bells, the raw scraping music of fiddlers, the shrieks of mopsies and prostitutes seeking customers. Stallholders shouted their goods whilst the sonorous, bellowing sermon of a stooped, black-garbed Dominican echoed across the streets. The preacher stood, one finger pointed to the sky, eyes gleaming in a pinched face, his nose scything the air. Shouted arguments between two dice-coggers echoed from a tavern door. A juggler screamed curses as he pushed his tame bear in a wheelbarrow, looking for space so the beast could dance. Market bailiffs moved around, shoving at the crowd with their steel-tipped staves. Corbett felt as if he was part of some bizarre pageant. He felt sick, slightly confused. He cursed as a pilgrim shot across his path to join the quarrel between a brothel-keeper and a fellow pilgrim who claimed he’d been cheated. Unsteady in the saddle, Corbett reined in and swiftly dismounted. He’d taken enough, he had to rest. He led his horse off the street into the quiet stable yard of The Gate to Paradise tavern. Ostlers ran up to take their mounts. Corbett left them and walked into the sweet, musty darkness of the tap room. He deliberately ignored the glittering, contemptuous eye of a courtesan standing in the entrance, a small posy of winter herbs in her gloved hand. Just within the doorway, a sign pointed down to the Painted Cellar, where The Father of Laughter ruled. Two men stood at the top of the steps, each cradling a pet weasel; they were shouting at the courtesan to join them below.

Corbett still felt as if he was in a dream. The tavern master hurried up looking all snug and cosy with a welcoming pot of wine. Corbett showed his warrant and demanded a private chamber for himself. Mine host bowed and swept him across the tap room, up broad, sturdy stairs into a long, well-furnished room. Coloured cloths hung across the walls, and a fire spluttered merrily in a hearth carved in the shape of a doorway. Above the ornamented mantel hung painted panels celebrating popular saints: Christopher, protector against sudden and violent death; Laurence, the patron of cooks; Julian, the patron of innkeepers. The tavern master waved Corbett and his companions to chairs and stools before the fire whilst he listed the food available: buttered capons and fowl; golden crusty pastries rich with dark tangy sauces; roast partridge; crackling pork served in a mushroom and onion sauce; soups rich with eggs and milk, all accompanied by the best wines of Bearn. Corbett half listened as he sank into the high-backed chair; he muttered that he wanted some wine. Ranulf sat next to him, highly anxious. He was alarmed at Corbett’s drawn face, that haggard look when, as his master had admitted on previous occasions, his mind teemed, the thoughts flying thick and fast as flakes in a snow-storm. Nevertheless, he held his peace. A short while later a slattern served the wine. Corbett drank deep and relaxed.

‘Master,’ Ranulf asked at last, ‘what is wrong?’

Corbett cradled the cup against his chest. ‘What is wrong, Ranulf?’ He winked. ‘I’m confused. I feel like a man with a fever, wandering in that grey land between sleep and day. Questions come, jabbing at me like spear points. Who? What? Why and how?’

‘And, master?’ Ranulf wished to shake Corbett from his mood.

Sir Hugh glanced up at the painted panels. ‘Why? Well,’ he shrugged, ‘why has the Cloister Map disappeared? Undoubtedly it was taken from The Waxman by Stonecrop and brought to Sir Rauf, but what truly happened to it then? From what I gather, that house has been searched. You remarked on that, Ranulf, yet the Cloister Map has not been discovered. Did Decontet really destroy it? Secondly, why did the Cloister Map brought by Paulents prove to be meaningless? Even if you ignore these questions and move on to gruesome murder, why was Sir Rauf Decontet killed in such a fashion? Was it simply revenge, or something else? How was it done? Who was responsible? Why was Lady Adelicia cast as her husband’s killer? How was that arranged?’ Corbett sipped from his wine. ‘Who perpetrated those hideous murders at Maubisson? How was it done so swiftly, so mysteriously? Who killed Servinus in a fashion different from the rest, then ripped his belly open and stowed his corpse away? How could all this be done in a manor house so closely guarded?’ Corbett paused as the reeling tune of pipes and the stamp of feet echoed from the tap room below. For a brief moment, in his fevered mind, he thought demons were dancing at his frustration. He shook his head to free himself from such a macabre reverie, and turned, staring at his companion. ‘And Ranulf, what else is there?’

The Clerk of the Green Wax shifted uneasily in his chair. It was rare to find Sir Hugh so confused. ‘Well,’ he rolled the earthenware goblet between his hands, ‘you talk of who, why, what and how. Yet, master, surely the cause of this or that, the reason for everything, must be someone we have encountered, someone we know, who kills and kills again. Poor Berengaria, garrotted in that lonely church; she must have known her killer.’

‘And that word Berengaria etched on her chamber wall at Parson Warfeld’s house?’ Corbett added. ‘What was it? “Nazareth”, written as if to remind herself, but about what?’

‘And the attack on Griskin,’ Ranulf added. ‘Who killed him?’

Corbett nodded. He did not wish to reply. Les Hommes Joyeuses was his secret. ‘Not to mention the attacks on us,’ he mused, ‘travelling back from Maubisson with Desroches, that crossbow bolt loosed at the shutters, another in the cloisters.’ He paused. ‘Then there’s the wine.’

‘Master, what wine?’

Corbett quickly told him about the jugs left outside his chamber. Ranulf cursed under his breath, a shiver of cold fear pricking the nape of his neck. He glanced apprehensively over his shoulder at Chanson guarding the door. In truth Ranulf wanted to be away from here. He wanted to distance himself from the stretches of lonely, snow-draped fields, ice-rutted forest trackways, desolate, haunted wastelands, the abbey with its stone galleries and echoing, deserted passageways filled with juggling light and shifting shadows. He glanced at Corbett slouched low in the chair, staring into the fire.

‘Master,’ Ranulf leaned over, ‘you have always warned me about the time lost staring into flames.’

Corbett straightened up and grinned. ‘Not this time, Ranulf, it’s. .’ He paused at the knock on the door. The tavern master bustled in with platters heaped high with bread, strips of pork and pots of boiling spiced sauce. Corbett and his companions sat round the table. They ate in silence. Chanson offered to sing, but Ranulf didn’t reply, and the Clerk of the Stables’ joke hung like a sombre sentence in the air. Corbett was about to return to his high-backed chair when there was a further knock on the door and the tavern master crept in.

‘I have a message, sir. A tinker came into the tap room, asked for me, thrust this into my hand and fled.’

Corbett took the tightly rolled piece of greasy parchment. He sensed the threat it contained. He moved a candle closer, undid the parchment and stared at the scrawled hand.

Hubert Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze, sends formal warning: King’s man, be gone.