Murder Wears a Cowl

Chapter 13

Corbett was relieved to find the Lord Morgan had not yet arrived at Bread Street.

‘He has been delayed,’ Maeve moaned. ‘Matters in Wales are not proving as easy to leave as he had thought.’

He’s bloody drunk, more like it, Corbett thought, and still can’t get his horse to take him across the drawbridge. However, he kept his unkind sentiments to himself for Maeve worried herself sick over the old rogue’s health and well-being.

Ranulf was absent when Corbett arrived but, on his return, declared that Maltote’s life was in no danger, though Brother Thomas could not say whether or not he would regain his sight.

Corbett retired to his small, chancery office, idly sifting through letters, memoranda, bills and petitions which the Chancery had sent on to him. Nevertheless, his mind was elsewhere: back in the abbey grounds watching that dark shape, so vividly described by Puddlicott, slip across to Father Benedict’s house to begin that dreadful fire.

Maeve came in with baby Eleanor, and Corbett cosseted and teased both until Anna arrived, talking volubly in Welsh. She seized the child, glared at Corbett, and mumbled something about the infant being too excited. Maeve stayed for a while as Corbett described his recent interview with the King and his frustration at being unable to catch the assassin and trap the murderer of the city whores.

‘It could be anyone,’ he muttered. ‘It could have been Warfield or another of the monks.’

Maeve seized him by the hand. ‘You are agitated, Hugh. Come, join me in the kitchen, I am cooking the evening meal.’

Corbett followed her down the passageway and helped prepare the meal, as Maeve chattered about this and that, trying to distract her husband. He always loved to watch her cook: she was so expert, so neat and tidy, and the dishes she served were always fresh and fragrant. After the hard-baked bread and rancid meat of London’s taverns and the royal kitchens, Corbett always appreciated whatever she cooked.

She deftly peeled the whitened flesh of a roasted chicken, dicing it with a small knife, scraping the portions into a bowl, mixing in oil and herbs. Then she looked up, startled, as her husband gasped. He stood, mouth open, staring at her.

‘Hugh!’ she exclaimed. ‘What is the matter?’

‘Of course!’ Corbett murmured, as if in a trance. ‘Oh, by Hell’s teeth, of course!’ He put down the knife he had been holding and moved like a sleep-walker towards the kitchen door.

‘Hugh!’ Maeve exclaimed again.

He just shook his head, leaving his wife puzzled and exasperated. Outside in the passageway, Corbett stared at the white plaster, so surprised by his own thoughts he leaned his hot face against the wall, relishing its coolness.

‘No,’ he whispered. ‘It can’t be, surely?’

Ranulf came running down the passageway. ‘Master, are you well?’

‘Yes,’ Corbett replied absent-mindedly. ‘I am glad Maltote’s well.’ He patted the surprised Ranulf on the shoulder. ‘Lady Maeve may need some help.’ Corbett shook himself and narrowed his eyes. ‘What did I say, Ranulf?’

The manservant just shook his head. ‘Have you been drinking, Master?’

‘No,’ Corbett murmured, striding down the passageway back to his office. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘But I wish to God I had!’ Back in his office, Corbett reached for the Calendar of Saints at the end of a Book of Hours then sat for an hour writing furiously as he developed the idea which had so surprised him in the kitchen. He tried to disprove his own theory but, whatever ploy he used, the conclusion reached was unshakeable and he cursed his own lack of logic.

‘So simple,’ he murmured to himself, lifting his head to stare out of the window. ‘I know the murderer. I can prove the murders, but what else?’

He rose, strode to the door and shouted for Ranulf.

‘Come on, man!’ Corbett urged. ‘We have business to do in the city. You will take the following message to the Lady Mary Neville.’

Corbett went back to his writing tray and scrawled a few words on a piece of parchment which he then deftly folded and sealed.

‘Give this to her; and watch her eyes. Then you are to go to the Guildhall and do the following. .’

Corbett heard Maeve’s footsteps coming along the passageway so he quickly whispered his instructions to an even more surprised Ranulf.

‘Master, that’s foolish.’

‘Do as I say, Ranulf. Go now!’

‘What is the matter, Hugh?’

Corbett seized his wife and kissed her on the forehead. ‘I have been a fool, Maeve, but bear with me.’

He walked back, collected his sword-belt, boots and cloak and, shouting farewells to his wife and daughter, ran into the darkening street. He took a barge from Fish Quay and, ignoring the boatman’s chatter, sat, wrapped in his cloak, as the skiff, helped by the pull of the tide, swept him down to the King’s Stairs at Westminster. The abbey and palace grounds were now packed with soldiers, men-at-arms and archers. They had constructed their own bothies from branches, cut from the nearby trees, whilst officers had set up their own coarse-clad pavilions.

Corbett was challenged at every turn but, when he showed his warrant, was allowed through the different cordons thrown around the abbey until he reached the Chapter House. An officer, now carrying the keys of the abbey, unlocked the door for him.

‘Collect three men and stay outside!’ Corbett ordered. ‘But allow any visitors in!’

The soldier obeyed and Corbett walked into the long, high-vaulted, deserted room, his footsteps ringing hollow and eerie in the watchful silence. Despite the warmth of a summer evening, the Chapter House was cold and dark so Corbett took a tinder and lit a few of the sconce torches, and wax candles on the table, where he sat in de Lacey’s chair and waited for the drama to begin.

Ranulf and Cade came first, the under-sheriff looking haggard and tired.

‘Sir Hugh, what is the matter?’

‘Sit down, Master Cade. Ranulf, did you deal with the other matter?’

‘I did.’

Corbett tapped his fingers on the table top. ‘Then let us wait for our guests to arrive.’

They must have sat for half an hour, Cade trying to make desultory conversation, when they heard a knock on the door.

‘Come in!’ Corbett shouted and Lady Mary Neville slipped into the room.

She had the hood of her cloak well forward, and, as she pushed it back and sat in the chair Corbett offered, he caught the woman’s nervousness. Her skin had lost its lustre, she kept licking her lips and her eyes darted to and fro as if she suspected that some great danger threatened.

‘You asked to see me, Sir Hugh?’

‘Yes, Lady Mary. The night Lady Somerville died, you went to St Bartholomew’s hospital?’

‘I have told you that.’

‘So you did. And who else knew you were going?’

Corbett watched the woman closely as he heard the Chapter House door quietly open. ‘I asked you a question, Lady Mary. Who else knew? Or shall I answer it for you?’ Corbett looked up and stared at the woman standing just inside the doorway.

‘Well, Lady Fitzwarren, can you answer?’

The tall, angular woman swept towards him; her stern face looked harsh, her eyes were like two pieces of hard slate in her angry, drawn face. Corbett saw her hands were tucked into the sleeves of her gown and he did nothing to stop Ranulf drawing his own dagger.

‘Master Cade, a seat for our second guest.’

Lady Fitzwarren sat down carefully.

‘As I was saying, Lady Mary and her companion went to St Bartholomew’s hospital on Monday, May eleventh. Now, I always believed that Lady Somerville’s death was some accident, but I have changed my mind. I realise my own mistake, a lack of attention to detail. Only someone who knew Somerville would know she would walk across Smithfield Common by herself.’ Corbett smiled at both women. ‘Oh, yes, Lady Somerville knew her killer. You see, the murder was witnessed by someone.’ He saw Fitzwarren’s eyes flicker in fear. ‘A mad beggar squatting at the foot of the scaffold saw Lady Somerville stop and wait for her killer, he heard her call out “Oh, it’s you!” Now,’ Corbett leaned his hands on the table, ‘I was far too clever. I should have listened to that beggar man more carefully. He described the killer as tall as the devil with horned feet. I dismissed that as some phantasm of his imagination but, of course, he was talking about you, Lady Catherine. You are taller even than most men. And you were dressed in cowl and hood when you carried out your bloody murders.’

Lady Mary recoiled in fright and horror. Fitzwarren pursed her lips.

‘You speak gibberish, clerk!’

‘Oh, no, I don’t. Let’s go to another murder. Father Benedict. Someone blocked the keyhole of the poor priest’s door, threw a jar of oil through the open window then struck a tinder and flung that in as well. Go and look at the ruins of Father Benedict’s house. The window is high in the wall, someone well above average height threw that jar in.’

‘They could have stood on a log or a stone,’ Lady Mary whispered.

‘Yes, that’s true, but they didn’t. No log or stone was found near the window nor did the ground outside bear any such mark.’

‘You still haven’t produced any proof,’ Fitzwarren challenged.

‘Oh, I’ll come to that by and by. You see, when I examined the room, I found traces of the oil, clear and pure, of a very high quality. Only the wealthy purchase such oil for their food. I realised that this evening whilst watching my wife prepare our meal. The assassin used that oil because it was free of any reeking odour and, if spilt over dry rushes, would soon catch alight.’

‘The assassin could have bought it!’ Fitzwarren snapped.

Corbett steeled himself for the next lie to come.

‘Ah, yes, but in Newgate there is a man called Puddlicott, lying under sentence of death, who is responsible for the robbery of the King’s treasure. You must have heard of that? He was in the abbey grounds the night Father Benedict’s house was burnt down. He saw you, Lady Fitzwarren, throw a jar of oil through Father Benedict’s window.’

‘He’s a liar and a rogue!’ she hissed. ‘Who would believe him?’

‘The King, for a start. Puddlicott has no grievance against you. He seeks no reprieve or pardon. Both are out of the question. Lady Fitzwarren, he recognised you.’

The old noblewoman’s face lost some of its arrogant hauteur. Corbett leaned towards her, silently praying that his bluff would force a confession.

‘Even if Puddlicott’s story is rejected,’ he continued quietly, ‘others saw you. Do you remember the whore Judith? I believe you were hiding in a large cupboard in the garret she used? She opened the door and you lashed out with your knife. You did not stay to mutilate her body because she had screamed but, Lady Fitzwarren, she survived and is now under royal protection. Master Cade will swear to that.’

The under-sheriff, who was staring open-mouthed at Lady Catherine, nodded solemnly.

‘She, too, recognised you,’ Corbett insisted. ‘She caught the fragrance of your perfume, a glimpse of your face. I don’t bluff. Judith must have survived for only she or her would-be killer would know about the incident in the cupboard.’

Lady Fitzwarren drew back, hissing and muttering to herself.

‘I could go on,’ Corbett continued. ‘The whore Agnes, the one you killed in a church near Greyfriars, she also glimpsed you leaving the house where her friend had died. I believe she was on the point of sending a note to Lady de Lacey, here at Westminster, but the boy dropped the note down a sewer. Somehow you realised the poor girl posed a danger. She saw you, perhaps you glimpsed her. Anyway, you forged a note, probably in de Lacey’s handwriting and, dressed like a monk, you slipped it under her door. The poor girl fell into the trap. She would never dream that her killer was luring her to murder on consecrated ground. She was one of the few not killed on the thirteenth of the month. Because she had seen you leaving the corpse of one victim, Agnes had to be silenced as quickly as possible. Now, as regards Lady Somerville. .’

‘This is impossible,’ Lady Mary interrupted. ‘Why should the Lady Fitzwarren murder one of her sisters and poor Father Benedict?’

‘You are right to think both are connected. You see, our killer dressed as a monk. She carried with her the sandals, cloak, cowl and hood of a Benedictine monk. She took them from the vestry which adjoins this Chapter House. Now, I can only conjecture, but I suspect that Lady Somerville, whilst cleaning and laundering the vestments, came across a monk’s cowl, or gown, which bore marks of blood, perhaps traces of a woman’s perfume. Naturally, she would be puzzled, hence her constant quotation of the riddle “the cowl does not make the monk”. She was not referring to any moral platitude about our monkish brethren, though God knows she may have been right, she was being quite literal. Just because someone dons the cowl and hood, that doesn’t make the wearer a monk.’

‘And Father Benedict?’ Cade asked, reasserting himself.

‘Oh, I suspect Lady Somerville talked to him. Perhaps even conveyed her suspicions that the person killing the prostitutes and whores of London was one of her own sisters, someone from the Sisters of St Martha.’ Corbett glanced at Lady Mary Neville. ‘The shock of what Lady Somerville learnt made her sketch a caricature of what was happening at Westminster. The monks here may have been lax but, in their midst, they harboured a slavering wolf. It also explains why Lady Somerville thought of leaving the Sisters of St Martha.’

‘But why would the killer suspect Lady Somerville?’ Ranulf asked.

‘A matter of speculation, as well as logic. Lady Somerville was muttering mysterious riddles which only the killer could understand and, perhaps, the murderer realised the mistake she had made in returning a blood-stained gown. A gown quite singular because it had been designed for someone very tall in stature. The assassin would watch Lady Somerville and notice where she went. Now, Lady Somerville wouldn’t talk to the brothers in the abbey and her story was too incredible to take to any official, she was alienated from her own son so Father Benedict was the logical choice.’

‘He’s right,’ Lady Mary retorted, staring at Fitzwarren. ‘He’s right.’ Her voice rose in anger. ‘Lady Somerville and Father Benedict were very close.’

‘Yes, yes, they probably were,’ Corbett answered.

‘Everything else fits the picture,’ Ranulf remarked, rising out of his seat to go and stand behind Lady Fitzwarren. ‘Our murderer had two advantages: dressed as a monk, she could go anywhere and, being a member of the Sisters of St Martha, she knew which whores were more vulnerable, where they lived, their routine, their personal circumstances. Moreover, no woman would see another as a threat.’ Ranulf leaned over the woman’s chair and seized her by the wrists.

Fitzwarren struggled, her face snarling like a vixen.

‘You bastard!’ she hissed. ‘Take your hands off me!’

Ranulf drew Lady Catherine’s hands out of the sleeves of her gown and looked at Corbett in surprise, for there was no dagger there.

Corbett stared at the ugly, old face, full of venomous hatred. She’s mad, he thought. Like all killers she has let some canker, some rot, deep in her soul, poison her whole mind. Fitzwarren stared at him like some spiteful scold being caught in a misdemeanour.

‘Finally,’ Corbett concluded, ‘I became fascinated why the women died on or around the thirteenth of each month. You know the reason why. Your husband, Lady Catherine, died at Martinmas, the Feast of St Martin, pope and martyr, whose mass we celebrate on April thirteenth.’

‘But the last one, Hawisa’s death, did not follow this sequence,’ Cade interrupted.

‘Yes, I know,’ Corbett replied. ‘But that was meant to puzzle us. You see, Master Cade, only a handful of people realised the pattern in the deaths. Ranulf, myself, you and two other people I talked to: Lady Mary Neville and Lady Catherine Fitzwarren.’ Corbett smiled weakly. ‘I confess, for a while, Master Cade, you were under suspicion. Lady Mary, I also began to wonder about you. However, both Puddlicott and the beggar described the killer as very tall. Finally, His Grace the King unwittingly told me the date of Lord Fitzwarren’s death. You killed that last girl, Lady Catherine, just to muddy the water.’ Corbett drummed his fingers on the table top. ‘You were always dirtying the water,’ he added.

‘When we visited you at St Katherine’s by the Tower you hinted that the monks of Westminster were involved in some scandal which could be linked to the deaths of the street girls.’ Corbett smiled thinly. ‘I suspect when the dust settles, everyone will be so knowledgeable. You, however, saw such rumours as a cover for your own murderous activities.’

Fitzwarren preened herself, smiling spitefully. ‘All of this is conjecture,’ she retorted. ‘You have no real proof.’

‘Perhaps not, but enough for the King’s Justices to try you at Westminster. And what then, Lady Catherine? Public humiliation? Suspicion? You will be regarded as the lowest of the low.’ He watched the smile fade from the old woman’s face. ‘And after conviction? God knows what. If you are found innocent or, more likely, the case not proven, will you ever be able to walk the streets of London? And, if you are found guilty of so many deaths, you will be taken from the Fleet prison, dressed in the scarlet rags of a murderer and burnt at Smithfield, where every whore in the city will gather to laugh at your dying screams.’

Fitzwarren looked down then quickly back at Corbett.

‘What other choices are there?’ she asked softly.

‘The King would wish this matter kept quiet. A full and frank confession and forfeiture of all your goods to make compensation.’

‘And me?’

‘You will take the veil in a lonely, deserted convent. Perhaps somewhere on the Welsh or Scottish march and live out the rest of your days on bread and water, making reparation for the terrible crimes you have committed.’

The old lady grinned and cocked her head sideways.

‘You are a clever, clever boy,’ she murmured. ‘I should have killed you,’ she added softly. ‘With your hard face, worried look and cunning eyes.’

‘You tried to, didn’t you? You hired those killers who attacked us in the Walbrook?’

Fitzwarren wriggled her shoulders and pouted as if Corbett had made some mild criticism.

‘You are a clever, clever boy.’ Fitzwarren repeated. You see, Corbett,’ she moved in her chair, as if she was telling a story to a group of children. ‘You see, I loved my husband. He was a noble man. We had no children so I lived for him.‘ She looked around, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘Don’t you understand that? Every breath I took, my every thought, my every deed was centred on him. He died a warrior’s death fighting for the King in Wales.’ Fitzwarren crossed her arms, her face became sad, losing its mask of hatred as she withdrew deeper into the past. ‘I really loved my husband,’ she repeated. ‘In a way, I still do, despite the terrible injury he did me.’ Her eyes quickened with malice and she glared at Corbett. ‘I joined the Order of St Martha, devoting my life to good works, I pitied these girls and I never dreamt what secrets I would find. One day I was talking to one of them, she was young, with skin as white and smooth as marble and eyes as blue as the summer sky, she looked like some angel, beautiful and innocent.’ Fitzwarren tightened her arms. ‘That was until she opened her mouth. I tried to reason with her, tried to explain the wrong she was doing. I pointed out how hard my life had been, a Fitzwarren, with a husband who had been a general in the King’s army.’ Lady Catherine’s lips curled. ‘The bitch asked my name and I repeated it. She asked me again and again whilst rocking to and fro with peals of laughter.’ The old woman stopped speaking and looked down at the table.

‘My Lady?’ Corbett insisted.

Fitzwarren looked up, her eyes slits of malice, and Corbett sensed her mind was slipping into madness.

‘The bitch,’ she hissed. ‘She plucked up her skirts and showed me her private parts! “See these, my Lady Fitzwarren!” she yelled. “Your husband fondled them, kissed and ploughed me because of the joys you could not give him!’” Fitzwarren rubbed her face in her hands. ‘I couldn’t believe it,’ she whispered. ‘But the whore described my husband, his skin, the colour of his hair, his walk, his posture, even his favourite oaths. According to the bitch, my husband used not only her but others of her ilk. I could not deny it for when we were in London my husband was often absent on the King’s business, or so he said.’

The old noblewoman laughed abruptly. ‘The bitch thought it was so funny. Here was I, serving those who served my husband so well! The girl kept pulling up her skirts, standing on a stool, flouncing her filthy nakedness before me. There was a knife on the table. I don’t know what happened. I picked it up and struck. The girl screamed so I yanked her hair back and slit her throat.’ Fitzwarren stared at Corbett. ‘How could he,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘How could he consort with such women and leave me a laughing stock, the butt of every common prostitute’s jokes? Oh, I am no fool,’ she added. ‘The girl’s words raised ghosts in my own mind. How my husband neglected me and everything began to fester. Yet I found the whore’s death acted like a purge, cleansing my blood, purifying my mind, so I struck again. Each time I used a robe and cowl from the vestry at Westminster.’ She smiled. ‘Those fat monks never noticed that anything was amiss. I heard the rumours about their late-night revelries and saw them as a marvellous opportunity. I also thought of my dear departed husband and vowed that every month, on the anniversary of his death, a whore would die.’ She raised whitened knuckles to her lips. ‘Oh, I used to love it. I would prepare carefully, single out my victim and plot her destruction.’ Fitzwarren leaned over and tapped Corbett on the hand with her icy fingers. ‘Of course, you were right, you clever, clever boy. Now and again things went wrong. The whore Agnes saw me. Silly, silly girl! She thought she was hiding in the shadows but I saw the light glinting on her cheap jewellery, and her stupid face peering through the darkness.’ She rubbed the side of her cheek. ‘Her death was easy, but Lady Somerville was different. Usually I checked the robe I used, even cleaned it myself, but one day I made a mistake. You know how it is, Corbett? Dark red blood merges so well with brown. Then, of course, the fragrance of my perfume. Anyway, I caught Somerville holding the robe, she just stood and looked at me, and I smiled back.’

‘And Father Benedict?’ Corbett asked.

‘I knew Somerville would go to him,’ she spat out. ‘For she would find no joy with de Lacey.’ She smiled to herself. ‘Life became so, so busy. Somerville suspected and was already talking to Father Benedict. I knew he would take some convincing and I had already marked Isabeau down as my next victim.’ Fitzwarren gazed into the middle distance, talking as if to herself. ‘Somerville had to die and Father Benedict as soon as possible afterwards, before he could gather his dithering wits and realise what was happening. The following evening I visited Isabeau. I didn’t dream Agnes would arrive. The rest. .’ Fitzwarren shrugged and put her hand inside her robe as if to scratch her chest, ‘well,’ she whispered then rose, bringing her hand back in a lightning lunge. Corbett saw the glint of a thin steel dagger in her hand. Yet Fitzwarren’s speed made her clumsy, instead of thrusting she tried to hack at his face. Cade jumped up and Lady Mary Neville screamed as Corbett seized Fitzwarren’s wrist, squeezing it tightly till his assailant, her face contorted with pain, let the dagger drop. Ranulf sprang forward, grabbed the woman, dragging her arms behind her back and expertly tying her thumbs together with cord from his pouch. Fitzwarren just stood, smirking in satisfaction.

‘Clever, clever boy,’ she murmured. ‘I paid those bastards well but trust a man to bungle matters.’ She threw her head back and laughed until Ranulf slapped her across the face. ‘Bastard!’ she screamed.

Ranulf seized her shoulder and whispered something in her ear. The old noblewoman drew away, her face pale with fright.

‘You wouldn’t?’ she hissed.

‘Oh, yes I would,’ Ranulf replied quietly.

Corbett just stood and watched this eerie pantomime being played out.

Again Ranulf whispered in the old woman’s ear.

‘At The Wolfshead tavern, Southwark,’ Fitzwarren replied. ‘The former hangman, Wormwood.’

Ranulf nodded and stepped away. Corbett snapped his fingers at Cade.

‘Take her,’ he ordered, ‘to some chamber in the White Tower. She is to be held there until the King’s wishes are known.’ Corbett nodded at Lady Mary Neville, who sat white-faced, eyes staring, mouth half-open. ‘Ranulf, see the Lady Neville home.’

Corbett sat down as Cade hustled a now passive Fitzwarren to the door. Ranulf gently helped Lady Mary Neville to her feet and, with one protective arm around her, left the Chapter House without a backward glance. Corbett watched the door close behind them and leaned back in the chair, hugging his chest. He stared into the dark emptiness. ‘It’s all over,’ he whispered. Yet was it? As in war, victims and wounds remained. He would draw up his report, seal it with the secret signet, and pass on to other matters. But what about Cade and his young doxy Judith? Puddlicott and his brother? Young Maltote? The monks of Westminster? The Sisters of St Martha? All had suffered because of this. Corbett sighed and rose wearily to his feet and wondered what Ranulf had whispered to Lady Fitzwarren.

‘He’s changing,’ Corbett murmured. Lady Mary Neville, he thought, only emphasized these changes more: Ranulf was more cautious, more ruthless in his self-determination and Corbett had glimpsed the burning ambition in his manservant’s soul. ‘Well, well, well!’ Corbett tightened his sword-belt round his waist and then grinned to himself. If Ranulf wants more power, he thought, then he will have to accept the responsibility that goes with it. The clerk’s grin widened as he decided Ranulf would be responsible for informing the formidable Lady de Lacey of what had been happening in her Order.

The clerk stared around the gathering shadows. So much had happened here, the chamber seemed to echo with the vibrant passions revealed there. Corbett recalled Fitzwarren’s sardonic dismissal of him as a clever boy. He grinned sourly. ‘Not so clever!’ he muttered. He had always prided himself on his logic and yet that had actually hindered his progress: he had believed that Warfield, Puddlicott, de Craon, the killer and the murder victims were all inter-woven. He should have remembered how logic dictated that all parts do not necessarily make the same whole and that fortune, chance and coincidence defy the laws of logic. The only common factor was Westminster, its deserted abbey and palace. Corbett tapped the table-top absent-mindedly. ‘The King must return,’ he whispered, ‘set his house and church in order!’

Corbett left the Chapter House, walked through the abbey grounds and hired a wherry to take him down river. He was still thinking about Ranulf as he pushed open the door to his house and heard the commotion from the solar above: baby Eleanor’s shrieks, the shouting and thumping of feet and, above all, the beautiful wild singing of Welsh voices. Corbett leaned against the wall and covered his face with his hands. ‘Now,’ he groaned, ‘my happiness is complete!’

The door at the top of the stairs was flung open and Corbett forced himself to smile as Maeve, leaning on the arm of a stout, long-haired figure, shouted, ‘Hugh! Hugh! You’ll be ever so pleased! Uncle Morgan has just arrived!’

Ranulf left the Lady Mary Neville on the corner of her street in Farringdon. He gently kissed her fragrant fingers, nodded perceptibly as she murmured how grateful she was for his protection, and watched the beautiful young widow walk down to the door of her own house. She stopped, her hand on the latch and looked back up the street to where Ranulf stood, legs apart, thumbs thrust into his sword-belt. She pulled her hood back, shook her hair free and, raising her fingers, blew him the sweetest of kisses. Ranulf waited until she had gone in and smiled, fighting hard to control his own elation which wanted to make him shout and cry for joy.

Yet Ranulf had decided that the day’s business was still unfinished. He walked back into the city, visiting a fletcher’s shop just off West Cheap, before hurrying as fast as he could down to Thames Street and the barges waiting at Queenshithe. He would have liked to have stopped at Bread Street or even visited Maltote in St Bartholomew’s but Ranulf was determined to carry through what he had decided. If his master knew, or even suspected, Corbett would use all his power to hinder and impede his plans. Ranulf drew his cowl over his head, wrapped his cloak more tightly about him and clambered into a two-oared wherry. He kept his face hidden, curtly informing the boatman to drop him in Southwark just beneath London Bridge. So, whilst a powerful oarsman pulled his little craft across a choppy Thames, Ranulf clutched his sword and carefully plotted how to carry out his plan. He only hoped the Fitzwarren hag had told the truth. Ranulf had threatened that if she did not give him the information, he would tell every whore in London about her. Yet her confession was the easy part. Southwark at night was regarded as London’s own entrance to Hell and Ranulf knew that The Wolfshead tavern had a worse reputation than the devil himself.

The wherryman, intrigued at Ranulf’s silence, thought his passenger was going to visit one of the notorious Southwark brothels and refused to let him land until he had given him stark advice on how to get his money’s worth at The Golden Bell tavern where the bawds rutted like stoats for a penny and would do anything for two. Ranulf thought of the poor pathetic corpses he had seen, smiled bleakly and, once ashore, headed into the warren of alleyways which led off from the riverside. No lamps or torches flared here. The tenements and hovels huddled together and Ranulf felt he was picking his way through a darkened maze. Yet he knew Southwark came to life at night: cut-throats, pickpockets, pimps, vagabonds and outlaws roamed the alleyways looking for prey amongst the weak and unarmed. The runnels were cluttered with filth of every kind which reeked like the rotting decay of a charnel house. As Ranulf moved deeper into the darkness, dark forms emerged from narrow doorways but then slunk back as soon as they saw the hilt of Ranulf’s dagger and sword.

At last he found The Wolfshead, a small, dingy tavern with narrow slit windows out of which poured the sounds of violent roistering. Ranulf pushed the rickety door open and stepped into the stale, noisy half-light. As he entered, the din fell away. Ranulf pulled his cloak aside, the sword and dagger were noted and the hum of conversation continued. A greasy, fat-faced tapster hurried up, bobbing and curtseying as if Ranulf were the King. His greedy little eyes took in the fine fabric of Ranulf’s cloak and the leather, well-heeled boots.

‘Some ale? Some wine, Master?’ he whined. ‘A girl? Perhaps two?’

Ranulf beckoned him closer and grabbed the man by his food-stained jerkin.

‘I want Wormwood!’ he muttered. ‘And don’t lie, you slob of lard! He and his companions always meet here. They can be hired, yes?’

The fat tapster licked his lips, his eyes darting like those of a trapped rat. ‘Don’t look!’ he hissed. ‘But in the far corner, Wormwood and his companions. They are here. What is it you want, Master? A game of hazard?’

Ranulf pushed him away. ‘Yes. Yes,’ he muttered. ‘A game of hazard.’

He shoved the man aside, walked over to the corner and stared down at the four gamblers rolling cracked dice from a dirty cup. At first they ignored him but then the one-eyed man in the corner looked up; his face was narrow, thin and made all the more vicious by the rat-trap mouth and the dagger wound under his good eye; his greasy hair was parted in the middle and fell in straggling locks down to his shoulders.

‘What is it you want, bucko?’

‘You are Wormwood?’

‘I am. And who are you?’

‘Someone recommended you!’

‘For what?’ Wormwood’s hands went beneath the table as did those of his three companions.

Ranulf beamed at all of them. They looked what they were: footpads, cut-throats, men who would slit a baby’s throat for a groat. Unshaven faces, sly glittering eyes; Ranulf saw that one of them nursed a wound in his shoulder and knew that he had found his prey.

‘I want to hire you,’ Ranulf announced. ‘But first I’d like to gamble some of my gold.’

Wormwood’s hands, as did those of his companions, came back from under the table. Ranulf noticed the rags tied round their fingers and saw the lime stains. He knew how professional assassins had their own hallmark. Some would use the garrotte, others the crossbow, whilst these beauties used lime to blind their victim before striking with dagger and sword. Wormwood spread his rag-covered hands.

‘So, you wish to hire us but first you want to dice?’ He smirked at his companions. ‘Mother Fortune, my dear brothers, is smiling on us tonight. Landlord!’ he called out. ‘Bring a stool for our friend. A jug of your best wine and five cups! He’ll pay!’

The landlord hurried up but kept his face hidden as if he suspected what was to come. A stool was brought and the wine served. Wormwood shook the dice in the cup.

‘Come, Master, guests first!’

Ranulf shook the dice and threw a ten then passed the cup to the fellow sitting to his left. Each had their throw and, slurping their wine and shouting abuse, they all threw less than Ranulf. The dice cup came round again.

‘The best of three!’ Wormwood announced angrily. ‘And we’ll see the colour of your gold just in case you lose!’

Ranulf slipped a piece on to the table and his companions gazed greedily at it. Ranulf picked up the dice cup.

‘Strange!’ Wormwood exclaimed.

‘What is?’ Ranulf smiled back.

‘We have seen your gold but what are we gambling for?’

Ranulf put the cup back down on the table. ‘Oh, didn’t I tell you?’ He smiled sweetly. ‘Your lives!’

Wormwood’s hands fell away but, before the rest could regain their wits, Ranulf leapt to his feet, kicking the stool behind him. The small crossbow concealed beneath his cloak was brought up and a barbed-edged quarrel hit Wormwood in the chest even before the footpad’s hand could reach his dagger. His companions were too slow or fuddled with drink. One sprang up and almost fell on Ranulf’s dagger. He backed away, screaming, his hands clutching the blood-spurting split in his belly. The other two fared no better, Ranulf, moving lithely, pushed the table with his boot, wedging one against the wall. He stepped back and drew his sword as another footpad, clutching his dagger and mouthing drunken curses, lurched towards him. Ranulf feinted, the man tottered by him then screamed in pain, crashing to the floor as Ranulf brought his sword back, slashing deep into the small of the man’s back. The fourth assassin, still jammed between table and wall, struggled to free himself. Ranulf picked the small sack from the belt tied to one of the fallen. He opened its neck, poured the lime into his hands then threw it into the seated man’s face. The fellow shot back, screaming, drumming his feet on the floor. Ranulf turned and stared round the now silent taproom.

‘Justice has been done!’ he bellowed. ‘Is there any man here who wishes words with me?’

No one answered. Ranulf plucked his dagger out of the dead assassin and edged towards the door. The only sound was the scraping of stools and the muttered curses of Wormwood’s remaining companion moaning for water. Ranulf slipped into the night and hurried back along the darkened alleyways to the riverside. There he cleaned his weapons, re-sheathed them and walked along the quayside to hire a wherry. He paid his coin and clambered in. As the oarsman pulled away, Ranulf gazed across the fast-flowing river. He felt no scruples about what he had done. Those men had attacked him for no cause except they had been hired by the Fitzwarren bitch. They had almost killed him and his master and caused God knows what damage to poor Maltote’s eyes. Ranulf leaned back in the stern. When the time was right, he would tell Corbett what he had done. Ranulf thought of the Lady Mary Neville and smiled. Perhaps it was time that he told a little more to Master ‘Long Face’? Above him a gull shrieked but Ranulf hardly stirred. He recalled his boast to Corbett: he, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, was as good a man as any; he would kneel before the King, be dubbed knight, be given high office and bed the Lady Mary Neville as his wife. And what could Master ‘Long Face’ do about that? Ranulf closed his eyes and dreamed of future glories.

By the time he reached the steps of Fish Wharf, Ranulf was so lost in his reverie that the boatman had to shout and give him a vigorous shake. Absent-mindedly, Ranulf tossed a few coins into the fellow’s hands and stood looking along the quayside, remembering Corbett’s conversation with Puddlicott. The trickster, now lodged in the Fleet, had failed to resolve one small mystery; something Master ‘Long Face’ Corbett had overlooked, a minor detail which had puzzled Ranulf. He recalled his ambitious dreams and wondered if now was the time to take the first step to realise them. Or should he just go home? He looked up the alleyway towards Thames Street. A wet-tailed rat scurried across his boot. Ranulf lashed out angrily but also took it as a sign. He was growing tired of scampering around in the dark on his master’s errands. Yes, he concluded, now it was time Ranulf-atte-Newgate took care of his own future. As he walked briskly up the alleyway, two dark forms slipped out of a doorway. Ranulf threw back his cloak and drew his sword.

‘Piss off!’ he shouted.

The figures slipped away and Ranulf strode on, threading his way along the alleyways until he reached Carter Lane then across Bowyers Row and up Old Deans Lane which ran under the darkened mass of St Paul’s. Ranulf, his curiosity whetted, stopped and edged his way up the cathedral’s high cemetery wall. As usual, the old graveyard beyond was a hive of activity; Ranulf caught the smell of cooking and saw dark figures huddled around the fires and battered stalls selling trinkets and other gewgaws which, even at night, never closed. St Paul’s was the refuge of the sanctuary men, the wolfs-heads, who fled there beyond the jurisdiction of the city officials or the King’s law officers. Ranulf stood, silently staring into the night; if his master had not plucked him from Newgate prison, then this would have been the best his future could have offered him. More determined than ever, he climbed down, cleaned his hands and went up into Newgate. He bribed a sleepy-eyed guard to let him through the postern door and made his way across Smithfield Common to St Bartholomew’s Priory. He stopped near the scaffold; the rotting, dangling cadavers did not concern him.

‘Are you there, Ragwort?’ he called softly.

‘Old Ragwort’s not there and he’s not here either,’ the mad beggar replied angrily.

Ranulf smiled, flicked a penny in the direction of the gibbet and went to hammer on the priory door. A few minutes later a lay-brother ushered him into the hospital. For a while Ranulf stood in a draughty passageway wondering what news awaited him.

‘Ranulf, Ranulf,’ Father Thomas came hurrying towards him. ‘You come about Maltote?’

‘I was passing this way, Father. I hate to bother you.’

‘No trouble, Ranulf. I do my best work at night.’

‘Well,’ Ranulf asked hastily, ‘is Maltote blind?’

Father Thomas took him gently by the arm and guided him to a bench.

‘Maltote will be fine,’ Father Thomas answered, sitting down beside him. ‘His eyes will hurt and smart for some time but the lime was either washed or cleaned out very quickly. The side of his face will be slightly pitted but he is young and his body will mend quickly.’

Ranulf stared at him anxiously. ‘So, what’s the problem, Father?’

‘It’s his spirt I’m worried about.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He might have a horror of violence, particularly weapons.’

Ranulf bit his lip. ‘Go on, Father.’

‘Well, we gave him a knife to cut his meat. He did more damage to his fingers than he did to his food.’

Ranulf leaned back and laughed in sheer relief, patting Father Thomas gently on the hand. The apothecary sat puzzled by Ranulf’s outburst.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Father. I must apologise. Didn’t you know?’

Father Thomas shook his head.

‘Never give Maltote a knife, a spade, anything which will cut. He will only harm himself and everyone else in St Bartholomew’s! Yet, Father, I do thank you for your care.’

‘Don’t you wish to see him?’

‘He’s sleeping?’

‘Yes, yes, he is.’

‘Then let him be, Father. I have other business to tend to.’

Once outside St Bartholomew’s, Ranulf strode back across the common and, covering his face against the terrible smells from the city ditch, followed the winding cobbled alleyway down to the entrance to Fleet prison. The porter was not too accommodating; only after silver had changed hands was Ranulf allowed into the grim, stinking entrance hall. A burly gaoler with greasy spiked hair and a drink-drenched face accosted him.

‘What do you want?’ the fellow asked, wiping his hands on a stained leather jerkin.

‘A word with Puddlicott.’

The gaoler’s thick lips parted in a smile.

‘Ah, the plunderer of the King’s treasure! We have orders to allow no one near him.’

‘Whose orders?’

‘Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal.’

Ranulf fished in his wallet and took out a warrant bearing Corbett’s seal. ‘My master sent me! Do as I say!’

Naturally, the fellow could not read but he was impressed by the seal and even more so by the silver piece Ranulf placed on top of the warrant.

‘You’d better come with me. He’s nice and safe now. Comfortable lodgings he has, well away from the rest of the scum.’

The gaoler led him through a cavernous chamber where the common felons crouched, chained to the wall. The manacles were long enough for the prisoners to stand up and walk about but now they huddled under threadbare blankets, moaning and whimpering in their sleep. Ranulf looked with distaste at the long common table covered in greasy dirt where mice, impervious to their presence, still gnawed at the dirty scraps of food and globules of fat strewn there. A few of the prisoners woke and staggered towards them; dirty, fetid men and women clothed mostly in rags, their bare skin showing terrible sores and purple bruises. A guard shouted at them and the prisoners slunk away.

Ranulf and the gaoler left the hall, crossed a stone-flagged corridor past grated windows where felons awaiting the death cart shook begging bowls through the bars, cried or shouted abuse. They climbed slimy, cracked steps into a long, torch-lit corridor containing a number of cells. Ranulf immediately knew where Puddlicott was lodged, by the two guards crouching outside. They hardly stirred as the gaoler unlocked the door and ushered Ranulf in.

‘Puddlicott, my lad!’ the gaoler shouted. ‘You poor benighted bastard! You’ve got a visitor!’

Ranulf peered through the gloom. The cell was a perfect square, clean and swept. There was a privy in the corner, which evidently drained down to the city ditch, and even some furniture: a small table, a broken stool and a long bed with a straw-filled mattress on which Puddlicott now half sat, his face heavy with sleep. At last he shook himself awake, stretched and yawned. Ranulf had to admire his coolness. The prisoner smiled at him.

‘There’s a candle on the table but I have no flint.’

Ranulf took his own and the candle sparked into light. Puddlicott went to piss in the privy, plucked up his cloak and came back to sit on the edge of the bed.

‘So, Corbett has sent you again, eh? Has he missed something out?’

Ranulf sat on the table. ‘Not really, we now know what happened. You apparently slipped in and out of the country when you wished, and moved sacks of coin to Gracechurch Street down to the docks by using a dung cart.’

Ranulf leaned back and stared at the ceiling. He and Corbett had made one mistake: never once had they asked why an important envoy like de Craon had not chosen a better lodgings. Yet, there again, accredited envoys had every right to choose where they stayed.

‘Didn’t you wonder,’ Ranulf abruptly asked, ‘why some of the whores invited to the abbey were murdered? Some of your girls must have been amongst the victims?’

Puddlicott shrugged his shoulders and pulled his gown tighter. ‘You know the way of the world. It’s Ranulf, isn’t it?’

His visitor nodded.

‘Men die violently, as do women and children, so why shouldn’t whores.’ Puddlicott stretched his legs. ‘Your master will keep his word about my brother?’

‘Yes,’ Ranulf answered. ‘And if you tell me more, you have my oath that twice a year I shall go to St Anthony’s to make sure all is well.’

Puddlicott got to his feet and went to stand over Ranulf. ‘Corbett didn’t send you. You’ve come here on your own. I have told you what I know and, although I think all law officers are bastards, you are not here to gloat. So what is it? The slayer of the prostitutes?’

‘No,’ Ranulf answered defensively. ‘We have our own thoughts on that.’

‘What then?’

‘Information!’

‘For Corbett?’

‘No, for myself.’

Puddlicott roared with laughter and went back to sit on his bed. ‘So, that’s your game, Master Ranulf? The servant competing with the master? Why do you think I have more information?’

Ranulf leaned forward. ‘I accept,’ he began, ‘that de Craon would come to England to take the treasure home. I also understand why he would hide away but, what I can’t understand, Master Puddlicott, is why you, digging away at the foundations of the crypt, had to leave such an important task and go back and forth to France!’ Ranulf looked at the prisoner. ‘That’s the only loose thread. Why didn’t you stay in London? What was so important that you had to journey backwards and forwards to Paris. We know you did; your accomplices stated how you would disappear for weeks. So, what else were you up to?’

Puddlicott waggled a finger at him. ‘You’re very sharp, Master Ranulf. Corbett didn’t ask me that.’

‘Perhaps he thought you were going back for fresh instructions.’

Puddlicott shrugged. ‘So?’

‘So,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Will you tell me the real reason?’

Puddlicott lay back on his bed, crossing his hands behind his head.

‘You’ve got nothing to lose.’

‘I’ve got nothing to gain,’ Puddlicott snapped.

‘There’s your brother, and, as you know, Puddlicott, the hangman has his own way of easing pain. I am also sure our good friend the gaoler could provide a deep-bowled cup of spiced wine before your last ride in the death cart.’

Puddlicott lay whistling softly through his teeth.

‘Agreed,’ he said sharply and swung himself off the bed. ‘I am a dying man, Ranulf. You know any oath made to me is sacred.’

‘I’ll keep it.’

Puddlicott tapped his feet on the ground. ‘Would you like to look on the face of Christ?’ he asked suddenly.

‘What?’

‘Would you like to look on the face of Christ?’

‘Of course. What do you mean?’

‘You know the Order of the Templars?’

‘Of course!’ Ranulf snapped.

‘Well,’ Puddlicott drew in his breath. ‘I don’t know the full story but sometimes de Craon babbled in his cups. His master, Philip of France, is desperate for money; the roads of northern France are clogged with men-at-arms as Philip assembles his armies for all-out war against Flanders.’ Puddlicott held a hand up. ‘I realise you know that. Anyway, Philip has heard of a precious relic, the Shroud of Christ held by the Templars.’

‘And now he wants it so he can sell it abroad?’

Puddlicott made a face. ‘Ah, but there’s more. You see, I had three tasks: breaking into the crypt was one, the others were to collect information about the Templars in England as well as the whereabouts of their famous relic.’

‘Why this information?’

‘Ah.’ Puddlicott rose and whispered in Ranulf’s ear. He then stood back, enjoying the amazement on Ranulf’s face.

‘You are telling the truth?’ he asked.

Puddlicott nodded. ‘The breaking into the crypt is nothing compared to Philip’s plans for the future. Only four others now know what you do.’ Puddlicott held up his fingers. ‘Philip of France, Master Nogaret, de Craon and myself.’ Puddlicott shrugged. ‘I’ll soon be dead. Let’s face it, that bastard de Craon did nothing to save me.’

Ranulf eased himself off the table and hammered on the cell door.

‘You’ll keep your word?’ Puddlicott pleaded.

Ranulf looked over his shoulder. ‘Of course, provided what you have told me is the truth!’

In the porter’s lodge, Ranulf dug deep into his purse and slipped some silver coins into the gaoler’s palm.

‘You’ll do what I say?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I understand, Master,’ the fellow replied. ‘On the morning he dies, Puddlicott will drink deeply and go high up the hangman’s ladder.’

Ranulf assured him that he would check that his silver was well spent and, breathing a sigh of relief, stepped out of the prison, the iron-studded door slamming firmly behind him. He stood for a while sucking in the cool night air and staring up at the stars.

‘Ranulf-atte-Newgate,’ he whispered to himself. ‘The searcher of secrets.’ He recalled what Puddlicott had whispered to him. Oh, he would tell Master Long Face but his own quick wits would choose both the time and the place. The revelation of Puddlicott’s terrible secret would be the key to Ranulf’s fortune.