The Waxman Murders

Chapter 2

Sir Hugh Corbett was roughly roused from his bedchamber at the guesthouse of St Augustine’s Abbey by a heavy-eyed lay brother, hands fluttering, who stammered the usual monastic benediction before hastily adding that Sir Walter Castledene had arrived. The Mayor of Canterbury was deeply agitated, so the lay brother declared, waiting below with his retinue in the refectory. Castledene was insisting that the King’s emissary accompany him immediately to Maubisson.

Corbett aroused Ranulf and Chanson in the adjoining chamber, going in and out as he hastily dressed, kicking Chanson’s bed, leaning over Ranulf to shout at the heavy-eyed clerk to prepare himself. Corbett pulled on his spurred boots, gathered up his war belt and cloak and hurried down the torchlit staircase. Sir Walter had left the refectory and was waiting impatiently in the hallway; his horsemen milled in the cobbled yard beyond, their mounts snorting and kicking at the cobbles. The torches carried by the riders spluttered sparks through the freezing cold air, making the horses even more skittish. The greetings between mayor and clerk were brief but cordial. Corbett knew Castledene of old. They’d fought in Segrave’s mounted brigade at Falkirk five years earlier. Corbett would never forget that fight. The English longbowmen had broken Wallace’s schiltrons and the heavy mailed cavalry of Lord Segrave had poured in, phalanx after phalanx of armoured knights, to bring the remnants of the Scots to battle, mace against club, sword against stabbing dirk, a frenzy of blood-spilling which still haunted Corbett’s dreams.

‘Sir Walter.’ Corbett stepped back. ‘What is the matter?’

Despite being a wealthy man, a powerful citizen, Castledene looked dishevelled and tired; his wiry frame cloaked in a simple cote-hardie, quilted jerkin and hose above battered riding boots, his lean face drained of all colour.

‘You’d best come to Maubisson, Sir Hugh. I have dreadful news.’ Castledene glanced fearfully over his shoulder at his retinue. Mailed men-at-arms clustered in the entrance; others stood outside amongst the horsemen. The mayor hardly gave the guest master, who now came hurrying down, a second glance whilst he curtly nodded at Ranulf and gestured at the door.

‘Sir Hugh, come, for God’s sake! We have to go to Maubisson! Paulents and all his family are dead!’

‘Dead?’

‘Hanged like a coven of felons! Do you understand me, Sir Hugh? Hanged here within the King’s peace and under our protection!’

‘How?’

Castledene didn’t answer; he was already moving towards the door. All thoughts Sir Hugh had had of joining the good brothers in their stalls and participating in the glory of plainchant were quickly forgotten. He muttered his apologies to the guest master and followed Castledene. Horses were hastily trotted out and saddled, the yard noisy with hooves clattering over cobbles. Ranulf shouted at the grooms to check girth and stirrups. Corbett, half asleep and freezing cold, mounted, gathered the reins and then they were away, cantering out of the abbey yard along a narrow icy lane leading down to the Dover road. Corbett was aware of the jingle of harness, the snorts of horses and the quiet curses of men cantering through the freezing grey dawn. They passed carts lumbering into the city. He glimpsed lantern lights, flickering flames, a lonely lamp glowing in an arched window, but then the dark swept in around them. The road was slightly raised; carts and wagons had already shifted the fallen snow but it was still dangerous going. Two horses went down and they and their riders had to be left behind. At last the comitatus reached the trackway stretching down to Maubisson. Here the snow was so deep they had to dismount and walk their horses towards the iron-studded gateway in the curtain wall of the manor. This was ablaze with torchlight from flambeaux fixed in sconces or on poles driven into the ground. More guards clustered here, all wearing the livery of the city beneath their cowled cloaks: three ravens against a blue and gold background.

The captain of the guard, Wendover, hastily introduced himself and led them along a narrow path, still buried deep under snow, up the main steps and into the manor hall. The rest of the retinue hung back. Castledene went forward, followed by Wendover, Ranulf and Chanson. As Corbett entered, he gazed around and gasped. He had experienced all forms of horror: he had wandered battlefields where the dead lay thick like some blood-coated robe strewn across God’s earth; he’d stumbled over corpses hacked and cut, past cadavers swinging from trees, eloquent witness of man’s cruelty to man; he’d ridden through villages annihilated like any City of the Plain in the Old Testament, where cottages and houses were blackened shells and the wells were crammed to the brim with the blue-black remains of the decomposing dead.

Maubisson Hall, however, possessed a unique, frightening dreadfulness. At first glance the chamber was an exquisitely comfortable one, with dais, tables, benches and chairs; tapestries and coloured stiffened cloths hung against the walls. Candlelight glittered from precious vessels, whilst smoke still curled from the mantled hearth and the air was faintly sweet with the odours of cooking. These just emphasised the hideousness of the corpses: silent, twisting shadows hanging by their necks, held tight by thick tarred rope. Dangling from ugly iron brackets driven into the wall, the corpses were suspended like half-empty sacks; legs, feet, arms and hands trailing, heads slightly turned as if peering into the darkness beyond.

Corbett ignored the exclamations of those around him and walked across. He studied the stout L-shaped brackets, pieces of iron hammered into the wall either side of the shuttered windows from which lanterns could be slung. Near each corpse a stool or chair had been pushed away. Corbett had seen enough hanged men and women to last him a thousand lifetimes: corpses blacker than charcoal, cavities carved from their eyes by yellow-beaked crows, faces pitted and holed by kites, hollow bones rattling beneath tattered rags. In contrast the Maubisson corpses seemed almost alive, except for those half-open glassy eyes, gaping mouths and protuberant tongues.

‘An entire family,’ he murmured.

‘Where is Servinus?’ Castledene exclaimed. ‘Their bodyguard? He’s not here!’

Corbett only half heard him, eyes straining up through the darkness. He wanted to catch the expressions on those dead faces, to remember their ghastliness so that when he began to pursue their assassin he would never forget, show no mercy, offer no pardon.

He stepped back. ‘Cut them down!’ He gestured at Ranulf, shaking his head in an attempt to clear from his mind the nightmare image of his own family in such a hideous situation. ‘For God’s sake, man!’ he added to Castledene. ‘This is an abomination! Have them cut down.’

They all helped. Tables, chairs and stools were pushed close, daggers drawn. Corbett tried to ignore the hiss of trapped air from the corpses as the nooses round their necks were cut. At length all four — Paulents, his wife, their son and their young flaxen-haired maid — lay side by side on the floor.

‘I’ve sent for Parson Warfeld from St Alphege’s,’ Castledene declared, ‘as well as the city physician Peter Desroches. They’ll both be here soon.’

Corbett crouched at the feet of the row of corpses. Paulents’ face was slightly contorted; his wife and son and the maid looked as if they were asleep: so young, yet they were all marred by that gruesome purple-blue circle round their throats, the strange colour of their skin, the way their lips appeared swollen. Corbett tried to ignore the dead faces as he carefully inspected wrists and nails, the backs of hands and heads, sniffing at parted lips. He pressed his hand against Paulents’ face, then felt the muscles of the shoulder, chest and stomach.

‘They must have been dead some hours,’ he declared. ‘At least to my reckoning, their corpses are beginning to stiffen.’

‘Desroches will examine them,’ Castledene declared.

‘Aye, and so will I, Sir Walter.’ Corbett continued his scrutiny. ‘Mirabile dictu!’ he exclaimed, getting to his feet.

‘What, master?’ Ranulf came over, beads of sweat lacing his brow, his usual reaction to the sight of any hanging. It was a fate he himself had almost suffered many years earlier, being saved only by Corbett’s intervention.

‘Mirabile dictu,’ Corbett repeated. ‘Marvellous to say! I’ve inspected the corpses, at least cursorily, yet I can detect no mark or blow, no sign of force or poison.’ He shrugged. ‘As I’ve said, at least to my scrutiny.’ Corbett walked towards the dais, ever watchful of who was now in the hall. Castledene was standing over the corpses. Wendover and Chanson guarded the doorway; the retinue stood behind them staring in at this abomination.

‘No one has touched anything?’ Corbett turned to Wendover.

‘Nobody, sir,’ the captain retorted. ‘I’ll go on oath. I came in.’ He gestured across to the corpses. ‘I saw those. I immediately left and sent a message to Sir Walter. Everyone had to wait outside until my lord arrived.’

Corbett noted Wendover’s obsequiousness to Castledene. He stepped on to the dais and stared at the table laid out so elegantly.

‘Everything can be accounted for,’ Wendover sang out. ‘Not a porringer, goblet or platter will be found missing.’

Corbett grunted and moved along the table: five chairs, no sign of a sixth. Paulents must have occupied the throne-like chair in the centre, his wife on his right, his son on his left; further down the maid and the hired mercenary Servinus. They’d apparently eaten well: the main platters bore the remains of pastry, chicken, slices of beef and some sauce now dried hard. The tablecloth was of shimmering white linen. Corbett glimpsed stains, some minuscule black dots. He bent down and studied one of the platters. Mice and other rodents had apparently been busy. He scrutinised the wine goblets, jugs and water beakers. He could neither smell nor detect anything tainted. No sign of disturbance was evident. The chairs were pushed in to the table whilst the rushes on the floor betrayed no marks of bodies having been pulled from the table, dragged off the dais towards those dreadful iron brackets.

‘Master?’

‘Yes, Ranulf.’ Corbett turned.

‘Do you think it could have been suicide?’

Corbett shook his head. ‘No, this was foul murder, a massacre.’ He pointed down at the corpses. ‘Their killer isn’t trying to mislead us but terrify us. This, he or she is saying, is how I deal out death.’

‘She?’ Castledene came over.

‘No.’ Corbett shook his head. ‘That was a mistake. A man, a powerful one, cunning and deadly, is responsible for this.’

‘But how?’ Castledene hissed.

‘Sir Walter, I need urgent words with you alone. Ranulf, guard the hall. Allow no one but the parson and physician to enter.’ Corbett extended a hand. ‘Sir Walter, there must be a chamber above stairs? Ask for braziers to be placed there, fired and glowing, but no wine or food, nothing from here.’ He walked over to Wendover. ‘You’ve searched the rest of the manor house?’

‘Once I sent the messenger, yes, sir, from attic to cellar, stable and outhouse. We found nothing untoward, nothing sinister, no sign of forced entry.’

‘And when you came in, no one could have slipped out?’

‘My lord,’ Wendover gestured at the men thronging behind him, ‘they’re all city guards wearing the corporation livery.’

‘So?’

‘And we had a password.’

‘Which was?’

‘Maubisson,’ Wendover replied. ‘One guard always called that out to any other. No stranger, no intruder was seen either entering or leaving.’

‘So where is Servinus, Paulents’ bodyguard?’

‘Nowhere,’ Wendover gabbled. ‘God knows, Sir Hugh! We’ve searched, we were vigilant. There is, was, no sign of him!’

Corbett nodded. Whilst Castledene hurried to prepare an upstairs chamber, Corbett returned to the corpses. In truth, the more he observed, the longer he walked that darkening chamber with those gruesome corpses laid out stark on the floor, the more mystified he became. It certainly wasn’t suicide, yet there was no mark of violence, of intrusion, no sign of any assassin. Nothing except the four corpses and the fact that Servinus was missing. He turned round. Wendover was standing in the doorway talking to one of his guards.

‘You, sir.’ Corbett called him over. ‘Why were Paulents and his family so closely guarded?’

‘They had fallen sick, my lord.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They had some sickness. That is why Sir Walter had them housed safely here.’

‘But they were supposed to lodge here anyway.’

‘Yes.’ Wendover shrugged. ‘Sir Hugh, you must ask Sir Walter that yourself.’

Corbett stared at the captain as if seeing him for the first time. Wendover shuffled his booted feet, plucked at a loose thread on his woollen legging, then adjusted the battered war belt round his waist. Corbett crouched down by one of the corpses and continued his close scrutiny. Wendover, he believed, was highly nervous. He was youngish-looking, with curly brown hair, fair-faced and bright-eyed, but a man who probably hid behind his livery. The weapons, the leather hauberk, even Wendover’s neatly clipped dark brown moustache and beard, indicated a man in love with the pretence of himself. Corbett glanced sideways. He noticed the cheap rings on the stubby fingers, the leather brace around Wendover’s left wrist, the gleam of oil on his hair and beard. A lady’s man, he concluded, a boaster who revelled in his own calling and status.

‘My lord, what do you think?’ Wendover asked, eager to break the silence.

‘Murder,’ Corbett replied. ‘Heinous murder. And as the old proverb has it, murder will out. There’s also another saying, Master Wendover.’ He watched the captain gulp nervously. ‘Evil shall have what evil deserves.’ Corbett rose to his feet.

Wendover tried to control his fear. As first he’d regarded this royal clerk as a May-day boy, but now, standing there cloaked like a raven, black hair swept back, those sharp eyes staring at him from that sombre, watchful face, Corbett frightened him, as did that other one, similarly dressed, with his red hair and keen green eyes. Wendover heard a sound and glanced over his shoulder. Ranulf was standing close behind him.

‘So, sir,’ Corbett took a step closer, plucking at the cords on Wendover’s leather jerkin, ‘did you see anything untoward here? Anything, sir, on your allegiance to the King. After all,’ Corbett added coldly, ‘you were on guard.’

‘I saw nothing!’ Wendover spluttered, stepping back, but Ranulf pushed him forward again.

‘Sir Hugh?’ Castledene was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. ‘No need for your games here, Sir Hugh, or yours, Master Ranulf.’

‘No games.’ Corbett went over to the merchant prince. ‘Oh no.’ He shook his head. ‘No games, Sir Walter, I assure you. Someone will hang for this!’

A short while later Corbett made himself comfortable in the high-backed chair in one of the upper chambers. Castledene sat facing him across the long, narrow table. Beside either chair was a warming brazier full of sparkling charcoal. A six-branched candelabra, each spigot holding a pure beeswax taper, glowed lucidly, the flames dancing like angels in the cold air of the chamber. On the wall behind Sir Walter was a triptych depicting Simeon and Anna greeting the Divine Child in the Temple of Jerusalem. Corbett studied this as he deliberately allowed the silence to continue. Then he glanced round, taking in the heavily draped cotbed in the corner, the bedside table with its chequered top, the mullioned glass door-window high in the wall, the turkey rugs on the floor, the coffers, and caskets grouped around the iron-bound chest at the foot of the bed.

‘Sir Hugh, you have questions?’

‘I certainly have, Sir Walter. A comfortable chamber,’ Corbett observed. ‘Every luxury for your friend.’

‘The King commanded it.’

‘The King commanded it,’ Corbett echoed. ‘You have checked Paulents’ treasure chests and coffers?’

‘I. .’

‘Sir Walter,’ Corbett leaned forward, ‘you are Mayor of Canterbury. Paulents was your friend and I mourn for him as I do for his wife, son and maid, but you also act for the King in this matter, as do I.’ He held up his left hand, displaying the chancery ring. ‘I am not your friend, Sir Walter. Nevertheless, you and I,’ he gestured across the table, ‘have fought for our lives on the battlefields of Scotland and Wales, so let’s not play the clever man of law, the shrewd merchant. Tell me honestly: after he arrived here, did Paulents show you the secret coffer in his private chamber?’ He let his hand fall with a crash. ‘Please, Sir Walter, the truth.’

‘I am not a plaintiff before King’s Bench.’

‘You could be.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘I could serve writs on you for refusing to answer. Sir Walter,’ he leaned across the table, ‘four of God’s children lie foully murdered downstairs. Servinus their bodyguard has disappeared. They were all the King’s guests, foreigners who entered this kingdom with royal approval and licence. They fell under the Crown’s protection. Edward will want answers. So, are we going to engage in cat’s cradle? Hodman’s bluff? Answer and question? Point and counterpoint? If we are, Sir Walter, I’ll take you back to London and loose Berenger, Staunton and the other royal justices on you. They’ll savage you like mastiffs.’

‘Sir Hugh?’ Castledene held his hand up.

‘From the beginning,’ Corbett warned. ‘The truth, simple and stark; no fables, no subtle deceits.’

‘It’s true what you say, Sir Hugh,’ Castledene began slowly. ‘We have fought on the same battlefields. I am the King’s man but I’m also a Canterbury man. My grandfather’s father was born here. I was raised here. I went to school in Christchurch Cloister. I love this city. Being a second son,’ he sighed, ‘gave me little advantage, so I joined the King’s household and, as you know, showed courage — or at least didn’t betray my fear — in Wales and Scotland. I won the King’s favour and a number of valuable ransoms, and I came back to Canterbury, where I married. My poor wife died; she now lies buried in God’s acre at St Dunstan’s. I put all my energy and talent into building up trade and business; you name the item and I sell it, especially wool. Sir Hugh, the markets of France, Brabant, Hainault and Italy are greedy for our wool. I bought land. I raised sheep. I sold wool then I bought ships. Merchants from different countries, Sir Hugh, have a lot in common with chancery clerks. We speak the same language.’ He flailed his hand. ‘We meet and talk to each other. There are no differences when it comes to trade, be it Germany, Brabant, Castile or Aragon. Money always talks, it breaks the barriers; it is almost as powerful,’ he smiled thinly, ‘as God’s grace.

‘In London I met Paulents, a Hanseatic merchant. I liked him, I visited him and he visited me. We entered into trade negotiations, nothing remarkable. Now Paulents was also a scholar very interested in the history of England, particularly its eastern shrines. He was always fascinated by the stories of how his ancestors, the Angles, Saxons and Jutes, invaded this island. Anyway, about four or five years ago Paulents found an entry in a chronicle apparently written by some warrior who’d fled from England to Germany, where he later took vows and entered a monastery. When he was in England this former warrior had attended the funeral of a great Saxon king which was celebrated with fabulous ostentation. He talked about a ship of gold, laden with treasure, buried beneath the fields of eastern England. Now the chronicle he wrote,’ Castledene held his hand up, ‘contained a map in the shape of a monastic cloister: a square with pillars around its garth. According to Paulents, this Cloister Map shows the treasure to be buried beneath wasteland somewhere in south Suffolk near the River Denham. Paulents trusted me fully; he copied this map and sent it to me, but it never arrived. You see, Sir Hugh, the richer I became, the more I attracted the attention of other people. In the year of the Gascon War, 1296, an audacious privateer had appeared on the sea-roads, a man I knew vaguely: Adam Blackstock, a former citizen of Canterbury, half-brother to Hubert the Monk. You know the details of their past. The chancery at Westminster must have informed you. Well, Blackstock proved himself to be a ruthless, indomitable fighter as well as a most skilled mariner. Eventually he owned his own ship, The Waxman. Now here is a problem, Sir Hugh. .’ Castledene paused.

‘What problem?’ Corbett asked.

‘Blackstock and The Waxman were certainly patronised by leading merchants, even here in Canterbury. I always suspected Sir Rauf Decontet secretly supported him.’

‘Was there any personal animosity,’ Corbett asked, ‘between you and Blackstock?’

Sir Walter shrugged. ‘Blackstock was a citizen of Canterbury, as was I, but we never met. He became a pirate and lived beyond the law. He sank some of my ships. He also attacked Hanse merchant cogs.’ He smiled wryly. ‘It became personal when The Maid of Lubeck, belonging to Paulents, was attacked and plundered, for it was also carrying the precious Cloister Map. Paulents, myself and Edward of England decided to act.’

‘But something went wrong.’

‘No,’ Castledene replied with a sigh, ‘something went right. Paulents came across Blackstock’s lieutenant, a sly, eerie man called Stonecrop, in a Brabantine port. Blackstock had dispatched him there on some errand. Now Paulents could have hanged Stonecrop out of hand; instead the man turned traitor and told us exactly what had happened. First that Blackstock had intercepted the Cloister Map. Second that he had communicated this valuable find to his half-brother. Third that he was planning to sail back to Orwell to meet Hubert and unearth the treasure. It was easy to establish the times and dates of his proposed landfall.’

Castledene paused at a noise below.

‘Parson Warfeld and Desroches the physician have arrived,’ he declared.

Corbett shrugged. ‘They have their tasks to do and so have we. Please continue.’

‘We trapped and boarded The Waxman and subdued its crew, but Blackstock refused to surrender-’

‘Was he hanged?’ Corbett intervened.

‘No, we killed him and gibbeted his corpse.’

‘And Stonecrop?’ Corbett asked.

‘I threw him overboard,’ Castledene declared. ‘He was worthless. I could have hanged him but he deserved a slight chance. I’ve never seen or heard of him since. He probably died in the swollen icy seas. We searched Blackstock’s cabin but found nothing. The Cloister Map had disappeared; there was nothing but an empty coffer fashioned out of whalebone.’

‘And then what?’ Corbett asked. ‘You must tell me, Sir Walter! Be precise, because I believe all this has a bearing on what we’ve seen tonight.’

‘I was angry,’ Castledene confessed. ‘We took The Waxman in tow and sailed up the Orwell, but when we reached the Hermitage there was no sign of Hubert.’ He shrugged and spread his hands. ‘That was the last we ever heard of him or the treasure.’

‘Were there any survivors,’ Corbett asked, ‘apart from Stonecrop?’

‘No.’ Castledene shook his head. ‘Those who weren’t killed were hanged. We showed no mercy to anybody.’

‘And then what?’

‘Paulents returned to Germany and began searching for a fresh copy of the Cloister Map. The chronicle he’d first discovered was very ancient. It had passed through his hands and he had copied it. You know what it’s like, Sir Hugh: precious manuscripts are jealously guarded by the scriptoria, libraries and chanceries of monastic houses. Paulents thought he would never find it again, but even so he searched furiously for it. The problem was that he could never tell people why he needed it. Eventually he found a copy of the manuscript in the library of the Shrine of the Three Kings at Cologne. He transcribed the map again, then wrote to me suggesting that he come to England and, with my help and that of the King, search for the treasure.’

‘Were Paulents and his entourage ill when they landed at Dover?’ Corbett asked. ‘Wendover claimed they were suffering from some sickness.’

Castledene shrugged. ‘They were certainly ill, though of what I am not sure. I sought the advice of the city physician, Desroches. Paulents’ family said they felt clammy and tired. I certainly wished to keep them safe.’

Corbett studied this cunning merchant carefully. ‘That’s not entirely true,’ he declared. ‘There was something else, wasn’t there?’

Castledene looked as if he was about to deny it, but then he opened the wallet on his belt, took out two pieces of parchment and slid them across the table to Corbett.

‘Read them.’

Corbett picked up the scraps of manuscript; the words on them were carefully written in a clerkly hand.

Thus says Hubert, son of Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze. You have been weighed in the balance. Your days have been numbered. You have been found wanting.

The other piece of parchment bore the same message. Corbett glanced up. ‘When were these delivered?’

‘One to Paulents at his tavern in Dover; the other was handed to me in Canterbury. Hubert Fitzurse, Blackstock’s half-brother, must be responsible.’

‘I thought you said he’d vanished?’

‘He had, but apparently he has now reappeared. True, Paulents and his family felt ill, but the guards at Maubisson were not posted against sickness. .’ Castledene gestured at the parchment, ‘rather against those threats, as well as to protect the precious manuscript Paulents had brought.’

Castledene excused himself, got to his feet, scraping back the chair, and left the chamber. He returned with an exquisitely carved whalebone coffer set in wood with moulded clasps on the front. He fished a bunch of keys from his robe, opened the lock and undid the clasps.

‘Those are Paulents’ keys?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes,’ Castledene confessed. ‘I found them in the pocket of his robe.’

‘You should have told me!’ Corbett warned. ‘I never saw you do that.’

‘Sir Hugh, I cannot trust everybody. When we examined those corpses, others were milling about. I had to make sure. I took the keys and searched Paulents’ chamber. You can see that for yourself. Nothing has been disturbed and neither has this coffer.’ He pulled back the lid and drew out two rolls of parchment. The first was a list of monies Paulents had in England. Corbett could make no sense of the second document; various letters and symbols were strewn across a drawing closely resembling the cloisters of a monastery.

‘The Cloister Map,’ Castledene murmured.

‘I’ll keep this,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Ranulf will make a fair copy and return it to you, but I must keep the original.’

Castledene reluctantly agreed. Corbett slipped the manuscript into his own wallet.

‘These warnings,’ Corbett leaned across the table, ‘were delivered both to Paulents and to you?’

Castledene nodded.

‘So. .’ Corbett picked at a wax stain on the tabletop, ‘Paulents arrives in England, he feels unwell. In Dover he receives a threatening message; in Canterbury you receive the same, which means that Hubert, Blackstock’s half-brother, must be hunting both of you.’

‘Which is why I had to keep my guests safe. Paulents and I discussed the warnings. We concluded that the safest place was Maubisson, with a strong guard around the hall and in its courtyard. No one could hurt them here.’

‘You could have moved them elsewhere: the castle?’

‘No, no!’ Castledene shook his head. ‘Paulents was very determined on that. He believed he was safe under my protection. Maubisson is on the Dover Road, close to Canterbury, and can be easily guarded.’

‘And how was that arranged?’

‘Furnishings were brought in.’ Castledene gestured around. ‘Food and provisions. The guards were always here. Nothing untoward happened. Paulents arrived late yesterday morning. I and Physician Desroches greeted him and his family. We brought them in here and housed them securely. I took Paulents around the manor, showing him where things were. Desroches then left, and I followed soon afterwards.’

‘And yet,’ Corbett declared, ‘within hours Paulents and his family were brutally murdered. But how? That provokes further mystery. Paulents was not an old man; he was strong, so was his wife, his son, even the maid; yet no one resisted. No one raised the alarm. How could anyone have got in here and hanged all four without being detected?’