Murder Wears a Cowl

Chapter 10

The journey was a peaceful one, broken only by the sound of splashing oars, the creak of leather and the clink of armour. A heavy mist still hung over the river so Corbett felt cut off from the busy life of the city. Now and again they passed the occasional boat or ship. The silence was shattered when Limmer roared out orders to pull towards the centre of the arches under London Bridge which provided wider space to shoot through. Here the water frothed around the great starlings built to protect the river craft from the massive stone columns of the bridge. Oars were pulled in and the barges shot under the bridge and into calmer waters. The mist still hung heavy as they turned the bend to go down towards Westminster. The oarsmen feverishly pulled to one side when the great gilt-edged prow of a Venetian galley suddenly broke through the mist bearing down on them. Otherwise, the journey was uneventful. They rowed to the northern bank, the mist now thinning, and they glimpsed the tower and turrets of Westminster.

They disembarked at King’s Stairs; orders rang out and the archers, organised in two columns, marched behind Corbett and his companions. They swung through the gardens, surprising the odd, sleepy-eyed servant, and across the palace yard into the abbey grounds. A side door to the abbey was open. Corbett, leaving the military escort outside, walked into the deserted side of the nave. It was dark and cold.

‘Bring benches!’ he ordered Limmer, pointing further down the aisle towards the south transept. ‘I want a bench placed up there against the wall and a chair opposite. I then want the following brought: Master William of Senche, he’ll probably be drunk.’ Corbett sniffed the still fragrant scent of incense. ‘Then go to the abbey refectory. And, whatever they say, arrest Adam of Warfield the sacristan and Brother Richard and bring them here. I want an armed guard left outside and all entrances to the abbey and palace sealed. No one is to leave or enter without my permission.’

‘William of Senche will be easy,’ the officer replied. ‘But the monks may accuse us of blasphemy; trespassing on church property and violation of their clerical orders.’ The soldier grinned sourly. ‘I don’t want some priest shouting Thomas a Becket’s martyrdom is being re-enacted, nor do I want my men being cursed and excommunicated by bell, book and candle!’

‘Nothing will happen,’ Corbett replied. ‘This is no clash between Church and King, but between law officers and proven criminals.’

‘They are monks.’

‘They are still criminals and, Master Limmer, I shall prove that. I assure you, when this business is over and the King knows your part in it, you will be praised and rewarded. As for Holy Mother Church, she will be only too pleased to see justice done and be too busy looking after her own affairs.’

The officer grinned and hurried out, shouting orders at his men.

‘And us, Master?’

‘You, Ranulf, together with Maltote, stay here near the side door. Only approach me if any of those I interrogate use violence, or threaten to, though I don’t suppose they will.’

Corbett walked up the aisle into the south transept where archers had already rearranged the bench and dragged a chair from the Lady Chapel for Corbett. The clerk sat down and breathed a silent prayer that he’d be proven right. Despite his brave words to the soldier, Corbett felt nervous and uneasy. If his allegations were proved false and his theory collapsed, then he would have a great deal of explaining to do, both to the bishops as well as to the King.

Corbett heard shouting and muttered oaths outside the abbey. The door crashed open and a group of archers entered, led by Limmer, with three struggling figures held fast by the arms. Corbett got to his feet. Adam of Warfield seemed on the verge of apoplexy. His sallow face had tinges of anger high in his cheeks, his eyes blazed with fury and Corbett saw traces of white froth at the sides of his mouth.

‘You will answer for this, clerk!’ the monk roared. ‘I will see you excommunicated by our Order! By the hierarchy of England, by the Pope himself!’ He struggled and broke free of the grinning archers on either side of him and turned to face his tormentors. ‘All of you!’ he bellowed. ‘All of you are damned! This is sacred property, the King’s own abbey! And this man,’ he turned, flinging out an accusing finger at Corbett, ‘is a limb of Satan!’

Corbett glanced at Brother Richard and took heart at what he saw. The little, fat monk seemed apprehensive, his eyes constantly shifting, his small, pink tongue popping in and out of his mouth, licking his lips. Next to him, the steward William of Senche had been frightened into sobriety. At last Adam stopped shouting and stood, chest heaving, hands hanging down by his side. Corbett stared at the brown cowl and garb he wore, and the white tasselled cord round his waist. He’d seen the man’s fury, the foaming at the mouth, the demonic anger. Was this the killer stalking poor prostitutes in the alleyways of London? he wondered. The sacristan drew in his breath for a second tirade. Corbett knew that if the monk was allowed to continue he might lose the support of his military escort, some of whom were already worried at the terrible curses uttered by the priest. Corbett stepped closer and, bringing his hand back, gave Adam a stinging slap across the face. The monk yelped and stepped back, holding his cheek.

‘You blasphemer!’ he hissed.

‘There are courts,’ Corbett replied softly, ‘where I will answer for what I do as there are courts, Adam of Warfield, where you will answer for the terrible things that have happened here. I, Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, do arrest you Adam of Warfield, Brother Richard of Westminster and William of Senche, Steward of the Palace for the terrible crimes of blasphemy, sacrilege, misprision of treason and corroboration with the King’s enemies.’

Adam of Warfield lost some of his pompous arrogance. His chin sagged, his eyes became more watchful.

‘What do you mean?’ he muttered and glared at Brother Richard, moaning softly, whilst Corbett noticed to his disgust, the small pool of urine between William of Senche’s feet.

‘Oh, yes,’ Corbett continued. ‘The charges I have listed are only the beginning. All three of you will sit on that bench. All three of you, on your allegiance to the King, will answer my questions. And, when I have finished, I shall produce the proof of the charges against you.’

‘I will answer nothing!’ Warfield screamed.

Corbett hit him again. ‘All three of you will answer,’ he repeated. ‘Or you will be taken to the Tower. If you offer further violence, either by word or action, or attempt to escape, Master Limmer has orders to kill you! Now, sit down!’

The three prisoners were hustled to the bench.

‘Sir Hugh, you will be safe?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Corbett took his seat opposite the three men. ‘I am sure I will, Master Limmer. Please stand back. I shall call you forward if I need you. Your men, their crossbows are loaded?’

Limmer nodded.

‘Good!’ Corbett turned to his three prisoners. ‘So, let us begin.’

He waited until the archers were out of earshot before leaning forward, his hand half raised.

‘I swear by all that is holy that I know what has gone on here. The midnight revelry, the eating and the drinking, the debauchery, consorting with prostitutes from the city.’ He looked at William of Senche who was now quivering with fright. ‘You, sir, will answer to the King and your best hope is to throw yourself on the King’s mercy.’

Adam of Warfield looked as if he was going to brazen it out but Brother Richard suddenly got to his feet.

‘It’s all true,’ he confessed. The monk glared at the sacristan. ‘For God’s sake, Adam, can’t you see he knows? Master William, the clerk speaks the truth. I am not going to lie. I will confess to breaking my monastic vows. I’ll confess to the abuse of royal property.’ He turned and smiled bleakly at Corbett. ‘So what, Master Clerk? I’ll take my punishment, bread and water for three years, the performance of the most menial tasks in the abbey. Perhaps a stay in a public pillory. But what’s so terrible about that?’

Corbett stared at this small fat monk, then back at Adam, who now sat head bowed.

‘Oh, you’re clever, Brother Richard,’ Corbett answered. ‘You think it’s a matter of vows. I accept your confession but I suspect your companions know there is more to my tale than monks who fornicate, become drunk and involve themselves in midnight debauchery.’

Brother Richard looked at his companions. ‘What is he saying?’ the monk stammered. He grabbed the sacristan by the shoulders and shook him. ‘In God’s name, Adam, what more is there?’

The sacristan refused to look up.

‘Sit down, Brother Richard!’ Corbett ordered. ‘Now, Warfield, the name of the Master of Revels, the seigneur who organised the activities? By what name was he called?’

‘I don’t know,’ the monk murmured without looking up.

‘He was called Richard,’ William bleated, his eyes almost popping out of his head with fright. ‘He only called himself Richard.’

‘Shut up!’ the sacristan snarled, his white face twisted in a mixture of fear and rage.

‘No, I won’t!’ the steward yelled.

‘What did he look like?’

‘I don’t know.’ The steward rubbed his face between his hands. ‘I really don’t know,’ he bleated. ‘He always came in the evening and kept in the shadows. He thought it was best like that. He always dressed like a monk in robes and cowl with the hood pulled well over his head and at the revelries he wore a satyr’s mask.’

‘He had a beard?’

‘Yes, he had a beard. I think his hair was black.’

Corbett got up and stood over the three men. ‘I think Brother Adam of Warfield may know his true identity. Yes, Master William, your Master of Revels was called Richard. His full name is Richard Puddlicott, a well-known criminal. Didn’t you ever ask yourself why a man, a complete stranger, was so interested in providing revelry and ribaldry?’

‘He came to the palace one evening,’ the steward stammered. ‘I told him I was bored. He suggested some fun.’ The steward glanced sideways at the sacristan. ‘Then one day Adam of Warfield found out.’ The fellow shrugged. ‘You know the rest. Some of the monks joined us.’ He looked pitifully at Corbett. ‘We did no wrong,’ he wailed. ‘We meant no harm.’

‘Until someone decided the parties must end and the prostitutes you had invited be silenced.’

Both the steward and Brother Richard moaned in terror.

‘You are not saying,’ Brother Richard’s voice rose to a scream. ‘You are not saying we are involved in the terrible deaths of those girls in the city?’

‘I am, and not only those but perhaps the deaths of Father Benedict, who found out about your midnight feastings, and Lady Somerville who had her own suspicions.’

Adam of Warfield sprang to his feet and Corbett stepped back. The monk’s face was now pallid and tense, covered in a fine sheen of sweat. His eyes glowed with the fury burning within him.

‘Never!’ he rasped. ‘I had. . we had no part in that!’

Corbett sat down in his chair and shook his head.

‘I have witnesses,’ he said. ‘A number of sightings of the killer. All of these point to a man dressed in the garb of a Benedictine monk, very similar to what you are wearing now!’ Corbett eased his dagger out of the sheath. ‘I suggest you sit down, Master Sacristan.’

The monk crouched between his two companions, his eyes never leaving Corbett.

‘You can’t prove that,’ he muttered.

‘Not now, but soon, perhaps.’

The monk stared and suddenly his face twisted in a malicious smile.

‘No, you can’t, clerk,’ he repeated. ‘All you can prove is that we broke our vows. Wrong? Yes, I admit we were wrong. But you did say in the presence of witnesses that we were charged with treason. I am no jurist, Master Corbett, but if fornication is now treasonable, then every man in this bloody city should be under arrest!’

Corbett got back to his feet. ‘I shall prove my charges. Master Limmer, Ranulf, Maltote! You will join us now! Outside the treasury door!’ The clerk smiled bleakly at Warfield. He was pleased to see all the bombast and pretence drain from the monk’s face. He looked weak like some broken old man.

‘What are you going to do?’ he whispered.

Corbett snapped his fingers and strode off, the three prisoners and their escort trailing behind. They entered the south transept and stopped before the great reinforced door. Corbett grasped his dagger and, despite the protests and worried exclamations of his companions, slashed through each of the seals.

‘What is the use?’ Ranulf murmured. ‘We do not have keys!’

‘Of course,’ Corbett cursed softly, in his excitement he had forgotten. ‘Master Limmer, I want four of your men. They are to bring one of the heavy benches. I want that door smashed down!’

The officer was about to protest but Corbett clapped his hands.

‘On the King’s authority!’ he shouted. ‘I want that door clean off its hinges!’

Limmer hurried off.

‘And some others had better bring a ladder!’ Corbett called. ‘The longest they can find!’

Corbett stood, looking at the treasury door waiting for the soldiers to return. Behind him, Ranulf and Maltote muttered dark warnings, William of Senche was gibbering with fright. Brother Richard lounged against the wall, arms folded, whilst the sacristan just stood like a sleep-walker drained of all emotion.

The soldiers returned. Six carried a very heavy church bench and behind them two more held a long thin ladder. Corbett stepped aside; Limmer pushed the three prisoners away; and the archers, thoroughly enjoying their task, drove their battering ram against the great door. Backwards and forwards they swung the heavy bench until the crashes reverberated through the empty abbey like the tolling of a bell. At first the door withstood the attack but then Limmer told them to concentrate on the far edge where the hinges fitted into the wall. Again the soldiers attacked and Corbett began to hear the wood creak and groan. One of the hinges broke loose and the soldiers stopped for a rest, panting and sweating before resuming their task. At last the door began to buckle. With another crash, followed by an ear-splitting crack, the door creaked and snapped free of its hinges. The archers heaved it to one side, snapping the heavy bolts and lock, and Corbett stepped into the low, dark stone-vaulted passage. A candle was brought and having ordered the sconce torches on the wall to be lit, Corbett grasped one.

‘Limmer, leave two, no, three archers to guard the prisoners, the rest follow me but walk carefully! The passageway is steep and ends in stairs but they have been smashed away. Take care!’ He turned. ‘Oh, by the way, where is Cade?’ Corbett realised how the under-sheriff had kept very much in the background.

‘He’s outside,’ Ranulf muttered.

‘Then bring him in!’

They waited until Ranulf returned with Cade, who stood astounded at the broken treasury door.

‘Sweet Lord, Master Clerk!’ he whispered. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing!’

‘Sweet Lord!’ Corbett mimicked. ‘I think I am the only one who does!’

They went down the passageway, the flames of the torches making their shadows dance on the walls; their footsteps sounded hollow and echoed like the beating of some ghostly drum. Corbett stopped abruptly and pushed the torch forward. Suddenly the passageway ended, and he edged forward gingerly, crouching and waving the torch above the darkened crypt below. The staircase was there — well, at least the first four steps — then it fell away into darkness. The ladder was brought, lowered and, once it was secured, Corbett carefully descended, with one hand on the rung, the other holding the torch away from his face and hair. He looked up, where the others were ringed in a pool of light.

‘Leave two archers there!’ he called. ‘And come down. Bring as many torches as you can!’

He reached the bottom and waited while the archers, with a great deal of muttering and cursing, came to join him. More torches were lit and as their eyes became accustomed to the light they glanced around. The crypt was a huge, empty cavern, the only break being the central column which, Corbett deduced, was the lower part of the great pillar rising to support the high soaring vaults of the Chapter House above. He sucked in his breath. Was he going to be right? Then he glimpsed it: the precious glint of gold and silver plate from half-open coffers, chests and caskets.

‘Surely, they should be locked?’ Cade muttered, seeing them at the same time as Corbett did. He ran across to one. ‘Yes! Yes!’ he said excitedly. ‘The padlocks have been broken!’ He held his torch lower. ‘Look, Sir Hugh, there’s candle grease on the ground.’ He edged towards a white blob of wax. ‘It’s fairly recent!’ he cried.

The others dispersed, examining the various caskets and chests. Some of them had their locks broken, others had been smashed with an iron crowbar or axe, and the contents had been rifled. But none was empty.

‘The crypt has been plundered!’ Corbett announced. ‘Some plate has been taken! But that is bulky, cumbersome and unwieldy and very difficult to sell. Look!’

He pulled from a chest a small silver dish encrusted round the rim with red rubies. He held it close to the flame of his torch. ‘This is engraved with the goldsmith’s hallmark and the arms of the royal household. Only a fool would try to sell this. And our thief is no fool.’

He went back to stare at the great pillar and noticed that portions of the column had been cut away by a stone mason to form a series of neatly made recesses. Corbett put his hand into one of these and drew out a tattered empty sack. ‘By all the saints!’ he muttered. ‘Everyone. Here!’ He held up the tattered remnants of the bag. ‘Our thief did not come for the plate but for the newly minted coins of gold and silver. I suspect these recesses were once full of bags of coins and now they have all gone. These sacks were the thief’s quarry.’

‘But how did he get in?’ Cade asked.

Corbett walked over to the grey mildewed wall of the crypt, built with great slabs of granite.

‘Well,’ Corbett murmured, his words echoing through the darkened vault. ‘We know the thief could not come from above. He certainly didn’t come through the door.’ He tapped his boot on the hard concrete floor. ‘From below is impossible, so he must have burrowed through the wall.’

‘That would take months,’ Limmer answered.

‘You’ve been at a siege?’ Corbett asked.

The soldier nodded.

‘These walls are thirteen feet thick. No different from many castles. How would a commander breach such a wall?’

‘Well, a battering ram would be useless. He would probably try and dig a hole, a tunnel beginning at the far side of the wall under the foundations and up.’

‘And if that didn’t work?’

‘He would attack the wall itself. But that would take a long time.’

‘I think our thief had plenty of time,’ Corbett muttered. ‘I want you to examine the wall with your torches. If the flame flutters from a violent draught, that’s the place.’

It took only a few minutes before Ranulf’s excited yell, from behind some overturned chests, attracted their attention. Corbett and the others examined the place, and Ranulf pushed against the stone.

‘It’s loose!’ he said. ‘Look!’ He pointed to the mounds of dusty plaster around the foot of the wall.

‘Oh, Lord!’ Corbett whispered. ‘I know what he’s done.’ He tapped the wall. ‘On the other side of this is what?’

‘The old cemetery.’

‘Let’s go there.’

They rescaled the ladder. Corbett ordered the archers to guard it whilst, outside the door, the three prisoners stood silent and forlorn, their hands and feet quickly bound. Corbett and the others, at a half-run, went out of the abbey and into the old cemetery. They had to wade through the waist-high hempen coarse grass and other shrubs before they stood before the walls of the crypt. Here the signs of an intruder were more apparent: a broken spade, a rusting mattock, pieces of old sacking and Ranulf even found a silver noble shining amongst the weeds. Corbett tried to visualise the inside of the crypt and pointed to a fallen, battered headstone.

‘Pick that up!’ he said.

The stone was easily shifted to one side, revealing a hole large enough for a man to go down. Corbett looked round and grinned to hide his own nervousness. He could not stand such enclosed spaces and knew what terrors would assail him if he got stuck or was unable to turn. He shrugged uneasily.

‘I have a fear of such places,’ he whispered.

Ranulf needed no second bidding but, on hands and knees, wriggled down the hole, Corbett heard him scuffling down the tunnel like some fox returning to its earth. After a few tense minutes Ranulf returned, covered in dirt, but smiling from ear to ear.

‘The tunnel gets wider as you approach the base of the wall.’

‘And the wall itself?’

‘Nothing but a hole. Apparently our thief simply hacked his way through, crumbling the stone by lighting a small fire then bringing it out in sacking and scattering it amongst the graves.’

‘It would take months!’ Limmer repeated unbelievingly.

‘It can be done,’ Corbett replied. ‘I have seen miners in the King’s army perform a similar feat against castle walls. Remember, it’s not natural rock but man-made slabs of stone. Once cracked, it’s a matter of scooping it out.’

‘And the final stone?’ Cade said. ‘The one Ranulf disturbed in the crypt?’

‘The tunnel ends there,’ Ranulf replied. ‘But if you brace yourself and thrust with your feet, the stone simply slides in and out. Our thief even fashioned a great hook to pull it back. Once pushed away there’s a natural door into the crypt and the King’s treasure.’

Corbett stared round the forlorn cemetery. ‘So, we have a man probably working at night. He begins here, digs through the soft clay until he reaches the base of the wall. He then hacks through the brickwork, probably weakened by fire, bringing out the results of his handiwork in sacks. The final stone is also attacked, weakened and an iron hook and ring placed in it so it can be pushed in and out. The thief helps himself to some of the royal plate, though his real quarry are those sacks of coins.’ He stared round. ‘And now they have gone.’

Corbett rubbed the side of his face with his hand. He’d felt pleased that his theory had proved correct. But two problems remained. First, the thief? He had no doubt it was Puddlicott but where the hell was the man? And, more importantly, where were his ill-gotten gains? Corbett squeezed his lips between his fingers. Secondly, although the secret life of these monks had been revealed in the full glare of day, he still had no evidence to link them to the murders. Nothing except the scribblings of an old woman and the eyewitness account of a beggar boy and a common prostitute. Corbett sighed and looked up at the blue sky.

‘Of course,’ he muttered. ‘There’s a final problem. Who will tell the King. .? We have done what we can here,’ he continued loudly. ‘Master Cade, you are to take the archers and secure the treasury room, fill in the stone, bring masons and carpenters from the city and do what you can. Master Limmer, I want you to forget the law! Our three prisoners are to be taken to the Tower and, short of loss of life or limb, they are to be interrogated until the full story is known.’

The soldier, nervous at what he was being involved in, spat and shook his head.

‘Sir Hugh, two of them are priests!’

‘I don’t give a damn if they are bishops!’ Corbett snarled. ‘Take them and do what you have to. This is treason, man. They have robbed a royal treasury. You would soon object if the King could not pay your wages.’

‘How do we know they were involved?’ Cade interrupted.

‘Oh, you will,’ Corbett replied. ‘Master William perhaps, Brother Richard maybe, but Adam of Warfield definitely. I also suggest you search the latter’s chamber. I am sure you will find more than an expensive pair of riding boots.’ Corbett clapped his hands. ‘Now, come on, there’s yet more to be done.’

Limmer and Cade hurried away. Corbett slapped Maltote on the shoulder and the young messenger, who was staring open-mouthed at the hole in the ground, jumped and blinked.

‘Yes, Master?’

‘Take two horses, Maltote. The fastest we have. You are to ride to Winchester and tell the King exactly what you have seen here. You are to ask His Grace to return with all speed to London. Do you understand? You have money?’

The young man nodded.

‘Then go now!’

Maltote hurried off and Corbett grasped Ranulf by the arm.

‘Take your care whilst you can, Ranulf,’ he murmured. ‘For, when the King returns, the city will buzz like an overturned beehive!’

They waited until Limmer sent archers round to guard the secret tunnel, then Corbett and Ranulf walked back through the abbey grounds.

‘What shall we do, Master?’

Corbett watched Limmer’s archers now hurrying backwards and forwards and noted with relief that fresh troops, men-at-arms, had also arrived from the Tower. Some of the abbey lay-brothers, officials, scullions and servants from the kitchens wandered about asking questions, whilst at the gates, archers with drawn swords were pushing back a small crowd of curious bystanders.

‘Master, I asked, what shall we do?’

Corbett looked at his dishevelled manservant.

‘Well, you need a wash and I need something to eat and drink. So, for a while, it’s back to The Golden Turk to sit and take stock.’ He squeezed his servant’s arm. ‘Oh, by the way, I am grateful for you going down the tunnel. I may have gone in but I doubt if I would have returned.’

Ranulf was about to make some mischievous reply when, suddenly, Lady Mary Neville appeared, her black hair falling loose under her blue veil as she ran breathlessly towards them.

‘Sir Hugh, Master Ranulf, what is the matter?’

The young widow stopped in front of them, her face slightly red, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

‘What is happening?’ she repeated. ‘There are soldiers all over the abbey. They say some of the brothers have been arrested! Have you found the killer, Sir Hugh?’

Corbett took the young woman’s small, white hand in his, lifted it and brushed it softly with his lips.

‘Oh, more than that, Lady Mary. But for the moment, let the gossips have their way.’ He bowed and moved on, Ranulf trotting enviously behind him.

‘Oh, Master Ranulf!’

Corbett deliberately walked on as Ranulf stopped and returned to Lady Neville.

‘Yes, Lady Mary?’

The young widow looked at him coyly. She lifted her hand and Ranulf, with a flourish which would have been the envy of any courtier, caught it and raised it to his lips. The young woman laughed, withdrew her hand, turned and walked swiftly away. Only then did Ranulf realise she had pressed a small gold amulet into his hand with the phrase ‘Amor vincit omnia — Love conquers all’ inscribed on it. Ranulf gazed after her, speechless with amazement, until the roars of Master ‘Long Face’ shook him from his golden reverie.