The Waxman Murders

Chapter 14

Shortly after midnight, the shadowy figure of the assassin slipped across the yard and in through the unlatched door of the guesthouse. Hooded and visored, knife in one hand, a small axe in the other, an arbalest handing from a hook on his war belt, he gazed quickly round. One night flame still beckoned like a beacon, but the fire in the refectory was banked, the braziers capped, the candles snuffed, the table still littered with bits and pieces from the feast. The man started at the squeak of a rat; a dark shape scurried across the floor. He took a deep breath and softly climbed the stairs, pausing at every creak and groan of the weathered wood. Yet the night remained silent. He reached the stairwell and peered along the narrow gallery. One door was closed, the other slightly opened. He edged his way along, gripping the knife and axe tighter; he tiptoed closer, pushed the door open and crouched down, edging into the room. The chamber was still lighted; a candelabra stood on a table. One of the candles had guttered out but the other two still flickered beneath their metal caps. He gazed at the bed and glimpsed the outline of the sleeping clerk, his woollen jerkin, boots and hose strewn on the floor. The assassin smiled to himself. Corbett had drunk so much he must have staggered upstairs and fallen asleep, confident and secure that his task had been finished. The assassin raced towards the bed, stretched over the body and drove the dagger deep into the sleeper’s chest. He heard a sound, whirled round and gazed in horror as Corbett walked from the shadows in the far corner, sword and dagger out.

The assassin looked at the open door. He sprang to his feet, kicked a stool towards Corbett and raced across. He scrambled down the stairs, Corbett in pursuit. Another figure abruptly appeared in the doorway at the bottom, hood drawn back, a primed arbalest ready. The bolt was loosed and took the would-be assassin in the chest. He crumpled to his knees, then fell, crashing down the stairs.

Corbett lowered his own sword and dagger and hurried down the stairs towards Physician Desroches, who was already lowering his crossbow. Corbett, gasping for breath, turned the corpse of the assassin over, pulling back the hood and mask to reveal Lechlade’s ugly unshaven face. The man was dying, eyelids fluttering, blood bubbling between his lips. Corbett let him fall back and kicked him further down the stairs so that he landed at Physician Desroches’ feet.

‘Master Physician.’ Corbett walked down the stairs, sheathing both his sword and his dagger. He stretched out his hand. ‘I thank you. I owe you my life. Come.’ He gripped Desroches’ hand, making it clear he would accept no refusal. ‘You must come up for some wine. Fortify yourself, explain what happened.’ He waved Desroches up into his own chamber. The physician immediately went across to the bed and pulled back the sheet from the corpse Corbett had secretly taken from the mortuary house. He stared down at the pallid, pinched face of the beggar framed by a greasy mat of hair.

‘You dressed him in your clothes?’ Desroches declared, not turning round.

‘Of course. I begged the guest master. I knew the death house had the corpse of a beggar found frozen to death in the abbey grounds. The rest is as you see. Lechlade thought I was asleep, drunk, wits fuddled by wine, so he struck. And what brought you here, Master Physician?’

‘I watched Lechlade at your supper. He acted the drunk yet I always had my suspicions.’ Desroches flinched as the point of Corbett’s sword pricked deep into the back of his neck.

‘Turn round, Master Desroches, or, to be more precise, Hubert Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze. Turn round!’ Corbett ordered.

Desroches did so, his hand going towards the belt under his cloak.

‘Unbuckle it!’ Corbett stood back, sword still raised. ‘Let it fall to the ground and move over there.’

Desroches did so, sitting down on a stool. Corbett pulled another one across and picked up the primed arbalest, aiming it straight at Desroches’ chest.

‘Sir Hugh, you are making a mistake. I was watching Lechlade. I had had my suspicions for some time. I thought-’

‘No you didn’t,’ Corbett declared. ‘I too had my suspicions about Lechlade, but I also began to suspect that two killers were on the prowl, not one. Hubert Fitzurse, that is you, had an accomplice. What I believe, Master Hubert, is this. A gang of outlaws attacked your manor house many years ago and killed your parents. Decontet and Castledene were members of that coven. At Westminster you were visited by someone who told you that, a revelation which abruptly, very dramatically, changed your life. Your visitor was Lechlade. When I looked at the accounts for your parents’ manor, I came across a list of those old enough to pay tax: your father was one, your stepmother another; the rest were servants, except for one other individual, John Brocare. I believe Brocare and Lechlade are one and the same person. Somehow Brocare escaped, concealed himself and re-emerged as Lechlade. From what I understand, he was a relative of your father, perhaps a cousin? Anyway, he discovered what had actually happened that night and brought the news to you at Westminster. In a way it was like a messenger from God, wasn’t it? You learned that the very city which had helped you, men who were now its leading merchants and traders, had been involved in your parents’ death. You decided to forsake God, your king, your order and become a hunter of men. I would wager you hunted down surviving members of that murderous coven, and, apart from Castledene, they are now probably all dead. You also shared Lechlade’s startling revelation with your brother Adam, who, by then, had turned to a life of piracy. Little wonder that Adam Blackstock waged war on Castledene’s ships.

‘Then the Cloister Map emerged. Adam found it on one of Paulents’ ships. He seized that and sent a message to you. He had not only stolen the map; he may also have deciphered it correctly. You and he were to meet along the Orwell, near the ruined hermitage with its chapel dedicated to St Simon of the Rocks; that’s where you took your false name, isn’t it: Peter Desroches? Desroches is French for “of the rocks”, whilst you changed the name Simon to Peter, as happened in the Gospels, just in case anyone remarked on the coincidence that you bore the same name in French as the hermitage where Adam Blackstock used to meet Hubert the Monk. The rest of the story you know better than I do. Stonecrop betrayed your brother. The Waxman was intercepted, your brother killed and gibbeted. I can only imagine your rage, which cooled in to a deep desire for bloody revenge. You are a highly dangerous but very intelligent man, Master Hubert. It wouldn’t be hard for the likes of you, who has always hidden deep in the shadows, to change character, shape-shift as they say. You ceased being Hubert, the venator hominum, the former monk, and became Monsieur Peter Desroches of Gascony, who’d studied at this university and that. You had acquired enough wealth as Hubert to finance such a clever deception.’

Corbett paused and studied his adversary staring so coldly back at him, not a flicker of emotion in those hard eyes, no shift or twitch to his body; he sat perfectly composed, hands on his knees, scrutinising Corbett, searching for any weakness, any gap he might exploit.

‘You are skilled enough to forge letters of accreditation, official seals, to be a physician from this school or a scholar of the other. You could study and absorb medical treatises; as a venator you’d also become skilled in the treatment of wounds and ailments. You’d soon learn the knowledge, customs and mannerisms of a physician, be it the treatment of Chanson’s ulcers or the use of rats to test tainted food and drink. I suspect you’re a finer physician than many a genuine one. After all, as a boy you’d displayed a talent to mimic, to imitate. Anyway, you pretended to be the wealthy physician who had studied abroad.’ Corbett paused. ‘When I talked to you and Lechlade, both of you mentioned how you had been a physician in Canterbury for over three years, some time before The Waxman was intercepted, but of course that is not strictly true, is it? It is just over three years ago that The Waxman was captured. Only after that did you arrive in Canterbury with your wealth, knowledge, expertise and pleasant diplomatic ways. Castledene accepted you, and so did others.’

Corbett paused, shifting the arbalest for comfort’s sake.

‘Of course, you must ask why should they patronise you? Very easy.’ Corbett smiled. ‘Physicians are noted for their love of gold, their haughty ways, their insistence on protocol. You played your own lure like a hunter with his snare: the easy-going, charming, knowledgeable Desroches who, perhaps, charged less than the rest. Tactful, diplomatic, you wormed your way into people’s affections. You played the same affable physician for me, the man who didn’t like weapons, who found it difficult to mount a horse.’

Desroches snorted with laughter and flailed a hand, but his eyes remained watchful.

‘You acted the physician very well, both for our good mayor and for Sir Rauf Decontet,’ Corbett continued. ‘You were in Canterbury for two purposes: first to wreak revenge, and second to discover the whereabouts of the true Cloister Map. You bided your time. When Castledene told you about Paulents coming to Canterbury, you laid your plans. Your confidant and accomplice Lechlade played his part. He too had assumed a new identity, a new guise. He was the lumbering, lurching, foul-mouthed, drunken sot whom Sir Rauf tolerated because it cost him next to nothing. In fact Lechlade was as sharp-witted as you, and equally bent on revenge.’ Corbett paused. ‘I reflected: in the past Lechlade may have been a toper, but revenge sobered him up. He would keep you informed of what was going on, be it Lady Adelicia playing the two-backed beast with Wendover and, above all, the whereabouts of that map. I realised two killers must be involved. When Paulents landed at Dover, he was given a warning; at the same time Castledene was threatened in Canterbury. It is possible for one man to travel from Dover to Canterbury, but I concluded it more likely that two people were involved: you in Canterbury, Lechlade in Dover. Your accomplice would find it easy to slip away: his master was murdered, Lady Adelicia held fast in prison and Berengaria safely lodged with Parson Warfeld, so who would be bothered about that drunken oaf? I also suspect Lechlade interfered with the food and drink served to Paulents and his family at the Dover tavern. Nothing serious, just enough to agitate the belly, to worsen the symptoms of a rough sea crossing. Paulents left for Canterbury. Lechlade also swiftly returned to the city before the snows set in.’

‘And what was the purpose of all this?’ The question was taunting, yet brisk.

‘Well, if Paulents and his family were unwell, naturally, as a city physician, you would meet them.’

‘Castledene could have hired someone else.’

‘I doubt it,’ Corbett replied drily. ‘As I’ve said, you’d proved to be most accommodating. Moreover, and I’ve asked Castledene this,’ he bluffed, ‘when Paulents and his family arrived in Canterbury, you happened to be in the Guildhall or nearby. Yes?’ His adversary gazed stonily back. ‘You swiftly established a cordial relationship with Castledene’s guests, assuring them that all was well. Paulents’ wife was much taken with you and even asked you to stay at Maubisson. Of course, you refused; you had other plans. Now, Wendover was to guard Maubisson. However, our captain was deeply distracted, you knew that. He had been playing the fornicator, the adulterer with Lady Adelicia, who had now been arrested and lodged in the Guildhall dungeons for the murder of her husband. It would be easy for you, with your skill at disguise, to pretend to be a city guard dressed in his cloak, hood pulled up against the cold, and slip into Maubisson carrying this parcel or that.’

‘As easy as that, Sir Hugh?’

‘Very much so! Wendover was distracted. Guards milled about. Who would notice you? Who would really care? No one suspected an assassin had crept in carrying the means to inflict bloody mayhem.’

‘And?’ The self-proclaimed physician leaned forward. Corbett’s fingers curled round the catch of the arbalest.

‘A short while later Paulents and his family arrived. They locked themselves in. The guard was set, the fires lit, the food cooked, the wine served, and you emerged.’

‘Corbett, you are raving: too much time spent on idle speculation. How could I-’

‘Very easily, Master Hubert. You’d learnt the guards’ password; you pretended to leave. No one would give you a second glance either disguised as a guard or as the special friend of Castledene, the mayor of Canterbury. You made your farewells, went down the stairs, then slipped quickly into that cellar. Even if you’d been discovered, a remote possibility, you could have bluffed and lied your way out, but fortune favoured you. Paulents and his family wished to relax, Castledene to be gone, Wendover to reflect on his own troubles.’

‘If I emerged, as you put it, why wasn’t the alarm raised?’

‘Because Paulents would see you as a friend: the gentle physician who carried no weapons. You’d offer some pretence as to why you had been allowed to slip back into the manor. They must have thought Wendover had let you pass. You’d make up some story, how, perhaps, the mayor had given you a key to this postern door or that. You were the kindly physician, Castledene’s close colleague: why on earth should they suspect you? You had the night in front of you. You reassured them that all was well; they would relax as you secretly mixed a sleeping potion with their wine. While they drank, you took Servinus outside on some pretext or other. You’d already established, when talking to them earlier, how Servinus did not drink alcohol, so he was brutally dispatched with a swift crossbow bolt to the chest. You laid his body down, turning it over so no blood dripped on to the floor, staunching it with a rag. By the time you returned to the hall, Paulents and his family were sleeping. You had the rope; it was simply a matter of dragging your hapless victims across to those iron brackets, putting a noose around their necks and hoisting them up. You are a strong man, Hubert; they eventually all dangled like corpses on a gallows. They never regained consciousness, slipping from sleep into death,’ Corbett snapped his fingers, ‘like that! Servinus was a different matter. In all this you had to be careful of time passing. You knew I was coming to Canterbury. Castledene told you that. Your business had to be done quickly, then you and Lechlade were to be gone. You slit Servinus’ stomach so its foul vapours could escape and thus slowed the stench of putrefaction, staunching the wound with more cloths and napkins.’

‘I know so much about physic, the bodily humours?’

‘Of course you do, Master Hurbert. You are highly intelligent and skilled. I wager you know as much about the art of healing as you do about killing! You’ve read books, the pharmacopoeia of the Ancients. You’re probably more erudite than many a physician; you proved that when you treated Chanson’s ulcer. After all, your expertise in physic as well as artful diplomacy had secured the patronage of Castledene and others.’

‘And what did I do with Servinus’ corpse?’

Corbett eased the arbalest back. Hubert was waiting for him to tire.

‘You dragged it down into the cellar, took the lid off that vat, having first run off some of the ale, lowered the corpse in and resealed the barrel. You carefully looked for any spilt blood. I can imagine you going along the floor with a candle, wiping away any stain of violence. You then returned to the hall. You took all the wine cups, emptied them, washed them and refilled them with fresh, untainted wine. Your task was completed. Servinus was dead and so was Paulents. Revenge had been carried out. You went to the merchant’s chamber, took out the fresh copy of the Cloister Map and replaced it with another piece of parchment which was really nothing more than a farrago of nonsense.’

‘And how did I escape?’ The prisoner on the stool moved his head to ease the tension at the back of his neck.

‘Oh, that was quite easy for you, Hubert: a hunter of men, a skilled assassin. You had your city guard cloak which you had filched from somewhere. Wendover burst into the house; people were scurrying hither and thither, shouting the pass-call; you were just another figure hurrying about. Nobody would think to stop a city guard during the immediate confusion. I did wonder, however, about Oseric killed out at Sweetmead Manor. Did he notice something untoward? Did you kill him, or did Lechlade on your order, because you wanted him dead, or was it just to create more terror? Whatever, Hubert, you slipped into that manor and hid yourself away. You were elated but you also had to be prudent: the King’s man was coming, so you sent me warnings.’

‘Why?’

Corbett moved the arbalest. Hubert was whiling away the time, waiting, searching for a weakness, a mistake; the clerk strained to listen for any sound, but the guesthouse lay wrapped in an ominous silence.

‘Because three people were involved in the death of your brother: Castledene, Paulents and His Grace the King. You already knew I was hunting you. You murdered poor Griskin, didn’t you?’ Corbett accused. ‘You discovered that he wasn’t really a leper but an emissary from the Royal Chancery seeking out information, making enquiries in that part of Suffolk where the ancient treasure was supposed to be buried, about who had been there, why and when. Griskin had learnt something but it became garbled. He talked about Simon of the Rocks, a play on the name of the physician from Canterbury who was making similar enquiries. Was that Griskin’s way of concealing your true name? Or was it something else? Another alias used by you when you travelled into Suffolk? Had Griskin glimpsed you in the ruins of that lonely hermitage?’ Corbett shook his head. ‘I cannot say.’

‘I never knew the time and place Griskin was supposed to meet you.’

‘Oh, Master Hubert.’ Corbett smiled at the consternation on his enemy’s face as he realised his mistake, ‘who said anything about the time and place of my meeting with Griskin? Did you find my letters giving such information, or did you torture him? We will never know. In the end you trapped him in some lonely alleyway or on some wind-blasted heath. You killed him, strung his corpse up on that gallows, cut off his hand, pickled it and sent it as a warning to me. You also took Griskin’s chain; he would never be separated from that. You left it here in the chantry chapel of St Lazarus, a clear warning of the danger you posed. In the end you learnt about Griskin as I did about Edmund Groscote, also known as the Pilgrim. Oh yes, I’ve met him. He is a member of Les Hommes Joyeuses. He confessed everything. What I said to you at supper about what he knew of you was a mere fabrication, yet you believed it; hence your appearance tonight.’

‘And I could leave Canterbury for Suffolk just like that?’ Hubert waved a hand, his voice betraying his growing desperation: ‘Go here, there?’

‘Of course you could, Master Hubert. You are a master of disguise, a man of wealth, of status. You have no family, no wife, no maids or servants. No one has a clear description of you. Master Lechlade was always there to protect your back. So yes, when you were not pretending to be a physician in Canterbury, you made the occasional journey into Suffolk, your heart set on finding that treasure. Griskin found that out; perhaps not the full truth, but certainly enough information to threaten you, so you killed him. You enjoy such games, don’t you? You like hunting men down. Griskin, me, Paulents and his family, we are just quarry in your eyes. You love giving yourself titles, sending out warnings; such power of life and death gladdens your heart!’

‘And Sir Rauf Decontet?’

‘Oh well, you had matters to settle with Sir Rauf, and what better time than when his wife was out playing the whore with Wendover. Again time was pressing. Paulents was coming to England, Decontet had that map. Lechlade undoubtedly found out about Stonecrop. He’d certainly have been aware of Lady Adelicia’s furtive searches for the Cloister Map. Sometime on Thursday, the Feast of St Ambrose, he informed you that Lady Adelicia was leaving for one of her trysts with Wendover. You decided to visit Sir Rauf. Lechlade joined you. You bustled into the chamber in your role as Decontet’s physician. Once inside, however, you locked the door and, assisted by Lechlade, tied Sir Rauf down in his chancery chair. I felt the marks of the rope on the wood beneath the quilted arm of that chair. You see,’ Corbett patted his own arm, ‘Sir Rauf was probably wearing a padded jerkin against the cold. The rope wouldn’t show on his wrists, you’d be careful about that, but it did on the wood of the arms of the chair as he strained against his bonds.

‘You questioned Decontet about what had happened to your brother. You taunted him. You demanded the Cloister Map, but of course that map no longer existed, did it? Sir Rauf, clever man, had memorised it carefully and burnt it. Oh yes, Master Hubert,’ Corbett smiled, ‘I never found any map. By now Lady Adelicia must have realised that. She’ll have rushed into her late husband’s chancery, only to discover no secret pocket in the quilted seat of that chair. Eventually you and Lechlade concluded that Decontet could not, or would not, tell you anything, so you killed him with a swift blow to the back of his head. You laid his corpse out, took his keys and locked the chancery chamber. Later on, after Parson Warfeld had arrived and the door had been forced, you secretly replaced the keyring. The good parson, distracted by Decontet’s death and the administration of the last rites, simply saw what you wanted him to witness. I suspect that you or Lechlade replicated that small ring of keys, placing a similar one on his belt while you held the true one. You used these to lock the chamber after you opened Adelicia’s, then, during the chaos that followed the forcing of Decontet’s chamber, secretly replaced them.

‘Once Decontet was dead, you left his chamber, but not before you had taken some napkins and stained them with his blood. Going up to Lady Adelicia’s chamber, you unlocked the door, placed one bloodied napkin on the floor and the rest behind the bolsters. Later on you’d incriminate Lady Adelicia further: she’d left her cloak in the chancery chamber, an easy target for Lechlade to smear with blood when everybody else was distracted. You also used what time you had to search that house thoroughly. Ranulf noticed how things had been moved, but to your anger and frustration, no Cloister Map was found.

‘The day was passing. The one person you and Lechlade had overlooked was Berengaria. Everybody makes mistakes, Hubert, even you with your far-seeing gaze. You must have been furious with Lechlade: he had not learnt of the maid’s secret trysts with her master; she and Decontet had been very careful. Anyway, Berengaria came tripping back and saw something untoward involving you. Perhaps she saw you actually in the house when you later pretended to be locked outside. She also deceived me. She never actually approached the manor; she saw what she did from a distance, then fled back to Canterbury. Later on she decided to use her knowledge to blackmail you, the wealthy physician. Of course, she didn’t perceive the full truth; just enough to upset your story. Nor did she want to explain to anyone else why she had returned home that Thursday afternoon. When we were all at Sweetmead, she probably hinted at blackmail. Of course, by then she had moved chambers from Decontet’s household to Parson Warfeld’s, where again, her skill in certain sexual matters advanced her cause. Naturally Parson Warfeld would ask for the proprieties to be observed so people wouldn’t hint or gossip about scandal. Accordingly Berengaria attended daily Mass. The parson would read the Gospel and, as is the custom, deliver a short homily on it. Now a few days ago, during the very time Berengaria was staying with Parson Warfeld, the Gospel passage was about Jesus’ return to his home town of Nazareth, Our Saviour expressed his astonishment at the lack of faith of his fellow citizens in an enigmatic remark. You must recall it?’

‘Physician, heal thyself.’

‘Precisely. Berengaria, no Scripture scholar, was quick-witted enough to realise how such a phrase could also be applied to you, Master Hubert, and what truly happened on that fateful afternoon. Is that what she whispered to you at Sweetmead? “Physician, heal thyself”? That is why she scrawled the word “Nazareth” on her chamber wall, as an aid, a prick to her memory.’

‘But I was with Parson Warfeld when she was killed.’

‘Oh yes.’ Corbett eased himself back. ‘Worried about the souls of your dead parents. Did you take the name of Desroches, not only because of its links with that lonely hermitage but also because there was no one of that family alive in Canterbury to contradict you?’

‘I was with Parson Warfeld!’

‘But Lechlade wasn’t. Most of the time he acted the drunken sot. However, when I questioned him at Sweetmead, my first suspicions were roused. Lechlade leaned across the table. On his breath I could smell the stew Ranulf had cooked, but no ale, yet he acted as if he was drenched in beer. On the morning Berengaria died, you distracted Parson Warfeld and took him away; Lechlade followed you. Lady Adelicia despised him. What would she care about his movements, slipping in and out of Sweetmead? The guards at the front of the manor were also there to watch the lady of the house, not her sottish servant. On that morning Lechlade furtively slipped into St Alphege’s and Berengaria was quickly garrotted, her mouth closed for ever.

‘Two killers must have been involved. You used that to protect yourself. When Berengaria was murdered, you were with Parson Warfeld. When Sir Rauf Decontet was found, you couldn’t get through locked doors because Lechlade was asleep. No one could suspect you, especially when you called for Parson Warfeld to act as your witness. The same is true of other attacks. When I was journeying back from Maubisson to St Augustine’s, a secret assassin loosed crossbow bolts at us from the trees. How could I suspect Physician Desroches? He was with me? It must be someone else. In truth it was Lechlade, who was also responsible for that warning bolt loosed at the shutters of my chamber as you were leaving the abbey. Strangely enough, by sheer coincidence, you were with Ranulf and Chanson in the refectory below when I came up to my chamber. If it hadn’t been for the good Lord and our guest master, I would have drunk the tainted wine Lechlade undoubtedly arranged to be left outside. You insisted on accompanying us from Sweetmead. Lechlade secretly went ahead to prepare the poisoned wine, but it was a hasty job. Unable to use jugs from the abbey kitchen, he supplied his own, and of course, our guest master knows exactly to the last porringer what items are his and what belongs elsewhere.’ Corbett paused. ‘The same happened when I was attacked in the cloisters. You and Parson Warfeld were visiting the abbey. Our good priest definitely had business here, and so had you: the news about Lady Adelicia being enceinte. You decided to exploit that. You stayed with Ranulf and Chanson, Parson Warfeld went about his business, so who was lurking in the cloisters waiting for me to leave the abbey church after Vespers?’ Corbett glared at this man who’d plotted so assiduously against him. ‘Why, Master Lechlade, your silent, stealthy accomplice.’

Corbett drew a deep breath. ‘In truth I recalled that whenever anything happened, you were the one person who could account for his movements, be it the attack in the woods, the bolt loosed at my shutter, the poisoned wine, the death of Decontet, the murder of Berengaria, or the death of that poor city guard.’ He paused. ‘Oseric was killed in the garden. You were being questioned by me. Lechlade perpetrated that murder, opening the shutters of one of the rear windows. Why was that innocent man killed?’ Corbett pulled a face. ‘To frighten Wendover, or just to establish your own alibi? You and Lechlade are killers to the bone. Who would suspect the drunken servant? In truth he was your murderous shadow, following you, ready to exploit any opportunity. On all these occasions Physician Desroches could have gone on oath that he could not possibly be involved. Such obvious innocence certainly made me suspicious. Moreover, you also had the means to travel to and from Suffolk. You were known to Paulents, his wife and his family. It’s like a game of logic, isn’t it, Master Hubert? What is common to all these events? Why, Physician Desroches!’

‘If I stole the Cloister Map,’ Desroches replied, ‘why didn’t I just escape?’

‘Ah,’ Corbett nodded, ‘I thought of that, but of course you couldn’t allow there to be two maps, could you? You had Paulents’ copy, which you would certainly decipher, but you suspected Decontet still had the original. Moreover, you had unfinished business with him and others, including me. You wanted to make sure there’d be no other map, no rival hunter for that gold and silver. You realised the hour candle was burning away. Sooner or later you might make a mistake; sooner or later you would have to move, but you had to be certain. If Sir Rauf and Lady Adelicia didn’t have the map, there was the possibility that Wendover, that blaggart, that roaring boy, had it in his possession, so you watched him. He tried to flee Canterbury but you trapped him. You questioned him but he knew nothing, so he died. You and Lechlade then conferred on what might happen next. You had pushed matters to their logical conclusion — enough was enough, time was passing, the candle of opportunity was about to gutter out. Physician Desroches must suddenly disappear, Lechlade with him, but then you were invited to my supper. I dropped hints about Groscote, the ordinaires — the secret spies of the Chancery — as well as the possibility that I had found Decontet’s map. You had to act. Ranulf and Chanson had left for London. You watched how much I drank. I was very careful; I also kept my cup covered: I didn’t want a powder mixed with my wine. I begged the guest master for that poor man’s corpse to do some good before it was interred in sacred ground. You sent Lechlade ahead whilst you guarded the door. He came in here, stabbed a body he thought was mine and fled. You are quick-witted, Desroches. Lechlade alive might incriminate you, so you killed him and pretended to be my noble rescuer.’

Corbett paused at the faint sound of horses in the yard below. Voices echoed. Ranulf and Chanson had returned!

‘Of course, my companions were never travelling to London.’ He moved the arbalest as Hubert leaned forward, but the man simply undid the clasp of his cloak and let it fall away.

‘You have no evidence,’ Hubert said, ‘not really.’ He stretched out his hands in mock innocence.

‘Oh, I think I have,’ Corbett retorted. ‘The logic of my argument; your presence here. Moreover, Master Hubert, Ranulf and Chanson merely journeyed to the other side of Canterbury and back. They carry royal warrants and have mustered the city watch. By now they have searched Lechlade’s chamber and your house. I am sure they will find evidence enough.’

Hubert Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze, slumped his shoulders, Corbett glimpsed the stricken look in his eye. ‘You never considered that, did you?’ Corbett asked. ‘They too went hunting, and Ranulf is a good lurcher.’ He paused at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. ‘I am sure he has brought enough evidence to hang you, Fitzurse!’ Corbett stretched out a hand. ‘The Cloister Map?’

Fitzurse smiled thinly. ‘Like Decontet,’ he murmured, tapping the side of his head, ‘I’ve memorised it. If you want to know, then I’ll trade it for my life. I’ll give you the map, I’ll even accompany you there, but I’ll demand a royal pardon and enough money to go where I want.’

Corbett chewed the corner of his lip. He thought of Griskin dangling from the gallows, that hand of glory sent to him. Staring at the killer in front of him, he reflected on all the others who had died at Hubert’s hands, especially Paulents and his family, strung up like a line of dead crows from those grim iron brackets in that ghostly hall at Maubisson.

‘I don’t think so.’ Corbett shook his head and watched the smile fade from his opponent’s face.

‘Sir Hugh?’

‘In here, Ranulf,’ Corbett called.

Ranulf swaggered into the chamber, followed by Chanson. He threw a leather pannier at Corbett’s feet.

‘Enough?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes, master, enough to hang him, but no Cloister Map. Documents, memoranda; the same at Lechlade’s. He wasn’t the toper he pretended to be.’

‘Very good.’ Corbett clicked his tongue, then gestured at Hubert. ‘Bind his hands, Ranulf. Chanson, you and I will go into Canterbury. I have a goldsmith to visit, whilst you rouse Sir Walter Castledene. Tell him that before the day is out, the King’s Justice of Oyer and Terminer, Sir Hugh Corbett of Leighton, will sit in judgement.’

Two days later, just before Christmas Eve, the execution party left Canterbury, making its way through the streets to the gallows erected outside the main entrance to Maubisson manor. The news of Hubert Fitzurse’s summary trial, conviction and sentence had swept the city. Crowds had gathered to see justice carried out. Corbett, Ranulf and Chanson on either side, sat on his horse, cloaked and hooded. He watched Fitzurse be shriven by a friar. The prisoner thrust the priest aside and clambered to his feet, face towards Corbett.

‘King’s man,’ he bellowed, ‘I didn’t ask to be created. I didn’t ask to be redeemed. All I wanted was peace, my parents, my brother. .’

Fitzurse was seized and pushed on to the cart beneath the gallows rope. Corbett felt a deep pang of sorrow and recalled what he’d said to Ranulf. They were now watching the hideous flowering of an evil, the roots of which stretched back over thirty years. The prisoner’s hands were swiftly tied, the noose positioned around his neck, the knot placed expertly behind his left ear. The red-masked executioner jumped from the cart and looked at Corbett, who sat like a statue, left hand raised.

‘Hubert Fitzurse,’ Corbett called out, ‘you have been justly tried. You have been found guilty of heinous crimes against the King, his peace and the city of Canterbury. Do you have anything to say before sentence is carried out?’

‘Yes,’ Fitzurse shouted back, twisting his head to where Castledene sat further along the line. ‘I’ll be waiting for you, Master Mayor!’

Corbett dropped his hand. The cart creaked away. Fitzurse kicked and jerked for a while, then hung still.

‘The King’s justice has been done,’ Corbett called out. ‘Let everyone take careful note.’ He nodded at Sir Walter and turned his horse, determined to leave Canterbury as quickly as possible. Castledene and Lady Adelicia would have to wait until the weather thawed. Spring would come and so would a royal summons to both of them to account for their actions before the King’s Bench at Westminster.

Once they were free of the crowd, Ranulf urged his own mount forward and placed his hand on Corbett’s arm.

‘Master, the Cloister Map?’

‘I will tell the King the truth,’ Corbett murmured. ‘The treasure still lies there waiting to be found, but the map is gone.’