Murder Wears a Cowl

Chapter 4

Corbett and Ranulf waited for Cade to collect his belongings. They left the Guildhall and went down to Catte Street, the area round Old Jewry and the dark, looming mass of St Lawrence’s Church. A crowd had gathered near the stocks placed outside the wicket gate of the cemetery. Most of the onlookers were city riff-raff who were baiting a man locked in the stocks for selling faulty bow-strings, whilst his shoddy merchandise was piled in a heap and burnt under his nose. The poor unfortunate, his head trapped in the wooden slats, was forced to breath in the acrid smoke which irritated his mouth, nose and eyes. Now and again he would yell abuse at his tormentors before falling into a fit of coughing which jarred his head against the slats.

Corbett and his companions pushed through the crowd into the derelict cemetery. Cade went across to the priest’s house, he knocked at the door and talked to someone inside. A few minutes later a small, portly figure emerged, a huge bunch of keys in his hand. Corbett threw a warning glance at Ranulf to behave himself for the priest’s broad girth, rosy face and womanish waddle indicated he was a man of the cloth more interested in the fruits of the earth than the salvation of souls. He wore a cloak of Lincoln green, edged with bright squirrel fur, whilst cheap jewellery glinted on wrists and fingers. His beady little eyes glared at Corbett. There were no introductions. Instead the priest opened a small leather bag he was carrying and drew out three sponges soaked in vinegar and herbs.

‘You’ll need these,’ he rasped, handing one to each of them. ‘Now, follow me.’

He led them round to the back of the church to a long windowless shed. He opened the padlock on the door and waved them in.

‘Feast your eyes!’ he jibed. ‘I bury the poor bitch in an hour. You’ll find a candle on the ledge to the right of the door.’

Corbett went first into the darkness and immediately caught the stench of putrefaction. He was glad he had the sponge and that his stomach was strong. Ranulf, however, went a dull grey colour so, after he had used a tinder to light the candle, Corbett told him to wait outside.

‘Ignore the rats!’ the priest called out. ‘The coffin is on trestles in the centre.’

Corbett held the candle high and, despite the discomfort, felt a tinge of compassion for the lonely, oblong box. Cade, muttering curses, lifted the loose lid and revealed the ghastly sight of the woman lying there. Apparently, she was to be buried as she had been found, no attempt being made to dress the body. Her face, white as chalk, looked even more garish in the flickering candle flame, her skin was already turning puffy, her body bloated with corruption. Corbett examined the long purple gash which had severed the windpipe. Cade, one hand cramming nose and mouth, lifted the poor girl’s dress. Corbett took one look at the mutilation, turned away and vomited the wine he had just drunk. He staggered to the door, a white-faced Cade following him into the sunlight. Corbett threw both sponge and candle at the feet of the priest.

‘God have mercy on her!’ he muttered between bouts of retching. ‘She was someone’s daughter, someone’s sister.’ He suddenly thought of his young daughter, Eleanor. Once, the mass of mutilated flesh he had just glimpsed, must have been a young child cooing in a cradle.

‘God help her,’ Corbett repeated.

He sat in a half-crouch and cleaned his mouth with the back of his hand. Ranulf brought an ewer of water from the priest’s house and, without a by your leave, he held it up for Corbett to wash his hands and face. The clerk then stood, glared at the priest and undid the neck of his purse.

Two silver coins went spinning in the priest’s direction. ‘Here, Father!’ Corbett muttered. ‘I want a Mass sung for her. For pity’s sake, before you bury her, douse the coffin in a mixture of vinegar and rose water and place a white cloth over the corpse. She probably lived a wretched life, died a dreadful death. She deserves some honour.’

The priest tapped the silver coins with the toe of his high-heeled boot. ‘I’ll not do that,’ he squeaked.

‘Yes, you bloody well will!’ Corbett roared. ‘You’ll get someone to do it and, if you don’t — and I will check — I will make it my business to have you removed from this benefice. I understand His Grace the King needs chaplains for his army in Scotland.’ He stood over the now frightened priest. ‘My name,’ he whispered, ‘is Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, friend and counsellor of the King. You’ll do what I ask, won’t you?’

The priest’s bombast collapsed like a pricked bladder. He nodded and carefully picked up the silver coins. Corbett didn’t wait but walked back to the wicket gate, where they had tied their horses, and stood for a while drawing in deep breaths.

‘Whoever did that,’ he nodded back to the church, ‘must be both evil and bad.’

Cade, who still appeared nauseous, just muttered and shook his head whilst Ranulf looked as if he had seen a ghost. They walked down the Poultry, their stomachs unsettled as they passed the stinking tables and shearing tubs of the skinners who sat, knives in hand, scraping away the dry fat from the inside of animal skins before throwing the finished pieces into tubs of water.

Ranulf, now revived, cat-called the apprentices who stood waist-deep in the large vats of water, kneading the soaking skin with their bare feet. The abuse was swiftly returned but most of the skinners’ venom was directed at a man chained by the beadles to the pole of one of their stalls. A placard round the fellow’s neck proclaimed how the previous night, whilst drunk, this roaring boy had moved amongst the skinners’ houses mewing like a cat. A barbed insult, implying that some skinners tried to trade cat skin in the place of genuine fur.

At last, Corbett and his party reached the Mercery where tradesmen behind stalls shouted that they had laces, bows, caps, paternosters, boxwood combs, pepper mills and threads for sewing. They passed the great seld, or covered market, in West Cheapside, finding it difficult to manage their horses because of the cows being driven up the Shambles towards the slaughter houses at Newgate. The animals seemed to sense their impending doom and struggled at the ropes round their necks. The horses caught their panic and whinnied in fear. Further up near Newgate, the slaughterers had been busy, turning the cobbles brown with blood, gore and slimy offal. They passed through Newgate, the summer breeze wafting the fetid odours of the prison and the foul stench of the city ditch which ran alongside of it.

‘A morning for bad odours,’ Cade mumbled. He pointed to the city ditch, a seething cauldron of stale water, dead rats, the carcasses of cats and dogs, human waste and rotting offal from the markets. Cade nudged Ranulf playfully in the ribs.

‘Keep on the straight and narrow,’ he warned. ‘From next Monday, the sheriffs intend to use all malefactors in the city gaols to clear the ditch and have the rubbish rowed out to sea to be dumped.’

Corbett, still thinking about the corpse he had just viewed, stopped at Fleet Bridge to buy a ladle of fresh water from tipplers selling it from stoups and water barrels. The others joined him and they washed their mouths before continuing down Holborn towards the Strand. They passed the church of St Dunstan’s in the West, the Chancery record office, went under Temple Bar and on to the broad Strand leading down to Westminster. The great highway was lined by the freshly plastered and painted great inns belonging to certain nobles; the road was busy with judges, lawyers and clerks, dressed in their rayed gowns and white coifs, making their way to and from the courts.

Outside the hospital of Our Lady of Roncesvalles, near the village of Charing, Corbett stopped to admire the new beautifully carved cross erected by his royal master in memory of his beloved wife Eleanor. Moving on, they rounded a bend in the road and saw before them the gables, towers and ornately carved stonework of Westminster Abbey and Palace. Entering the royal precincts by a small postern gate in the northern wall, they saw, to the right, the great mass of the abbey and, nearer to them, wedged neatly between the abbey and the palace grounds, the beautiful church of St Margaret. Yet the splendour of both the abbey and the church was tarnished by rusting scaffold stacked haphazardly against the walls by the masons who had ceased work when the treasury had run out of money to pay them.

Cade pointed north, around the other side of the abbey. ‘Over there,’ he remarked, ‘in the middle of a small orchard you will find the ruins of Father Benedict’s house and,’ he moved his arm, ‘behind the abbey church is the Chapter House where the Sisters of St Martha meet. Shall we go there first?’

Corbett shook his head. ‘No, first we will visit the palace and see the steward, he may be able to give us more information.’

Cade pulled a face. ‘The steward is William Senche. He’s usually half-drunk and can’t tell you what hour of the day it is. You know how it is, Sir Hugh, when the cat’s away the rats will play.’

They led their horses into the palace yard. The King had been absent from his palace for several years and the signs of neglect were apparent; weeds sprouted in the palace yard, the windows were shuttered, the doors locked and barred, the stables empty and the flower-beds overgrown. A mongrel dog ran out and, hackles raised, stood yapping at them until Ranulf drove it off. Near the Exchequer House, overlooking the overgrown riverside gardens, they found a glum-eyed servant and despatched him to search out William Senche. The latter appeared at the top of the steps leading from St Stephen’s Chapel and Corbett muttered a curse. William Senche looked what he was: a toper born and bred. He had bulbous, fish-like eyes, a slobbering mouth and a nose as fiery as a beacon. With his scrawny red hair and beetling brow, he was a very ugly man. He had already sampled the grape but when he realised who Corbett was, he tried to put a brave face on it; his answers were sharp and abrupt but he kept looking away as if he wished to hide something.

‘No, no,’ he remarked in a tetchy voice. ‘I know nothing about the Sisters of St Martha. They meet in the abbey and things there,’ he added darkly,’ are under the authority of Abbot Wenlock and he’s very ill.’

‘So, who’s in charge?’

‘Well, there are only fifty monks, most of whom are old. Prior Roger is dead, so the sacristan Adam Warfield is in charge.’

The man danced from foot to foot as if he wished to relieve himself. His nervousness increased as Cade moved to one side of him and Ranulf to the other.

‘Come, come, Master William,’ Corbett mildly taunted. ‘You are an important official, not some court butterfly. There are other matters we wish to talk to you about.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, one in particular, Father Benedict’s death.’

‘I know nothing,’ the fellow blurted out.

Corbett plucked him gently by the front of his food-stained jerkin. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is the last lie you will tell me. On the evening of Tuesday, May twelfth, you discovered Father Benedict’s house on fire.’

‘Yes, yes,’ the fellow’s eyes snapped open.

‘And how did you do that? The house can’t be seen from the palace yard.’

‘I couldn’t sleep. I went for a walk. I saw the smoke and flames and rang the tocsin bell.’

‘Then what?’

‘There’s a small well amongst the trees. We brought buckets but the flames were fierce.’ The man pulled his lips down which made him look even more like a landed carp. ‘When the fire was out we examined the rooms. Father Benedict was lying just behind the door.’

‘He had a key in his hand?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘Anything else untoward?’

‘No.’

‘And do you know how the fire started?’

‘Father Benedict was old, he may have dropped a candle, an oil lamp, or a spark from the fire could have been the cause.’

‘And you noticed nothing suspicious?’

‘No, nothing at all. I can’t tell you any more than that. Adam of Warfield would be of more help.’ With that the fellow turned and bolted like a rabbit who had suddenly seen a fox.

Corbett looked at Cade, raised his eyebrows and went back through the postern gate into the abbey grounds, the under-sheriff laughing loudly at Ranulf’s mimicry of the steward’s accent and strange antics.

Before them rose the great mass of the abbey church and its stone carvings: snarling gargoyles and visions of hell. Corbett studied the latter, fascinated by the horrors the sculptor had so subtly depicted. Beneath a triumphant Christ in Judgement, the damned were being led by ghastly demons to be cooked in a great vat of bubbling oil where devils poked the unfortunate lost souls with spears and swords like cooks would do when boiling pieces of meat. Corbett heard a noise and looked to his left across the great empty vastness of the old cemetery. The grass and hemp were almost a yard and a half high but Corbett glimpsed an old gardener doing his best to clean the area around the graves.

‘Sir,’ Corbett called out. ‘You have a task and a half there.’

The man half turned and faced Corbett with watery eyes and dirt-stained cheeks.

‘Oh, aye,’ the gardener replied in a thick rustic accent, tapping a derelict headstone. ‘But my customers don’t object.’

Corbett smiled and looked away at the great rounded buildings overlooking the cemetery.

‘Is that the Chapter House?’

Cade nodded.

‘And the crypt lies beneath it?’

‘Yes.’

Corbett studied the thick buttresses and heavy granite wall. ‘Tell me again, how the crypt can be entered.’

‘Well, behind the Chapter House,’ Cade said, ‘lies the cloister but the crypt can only be entered by a door in the south-east corner of the abbey church. As I have said, the door is sealed. Behind that door there’s a low vaulted passage which descends by a steep flight of steps. These steps are broken and, to get down into the crypt, where the treasure lies, special ladders have to be used.’ Cade narrowed his eyes. ‘I have already told you this so why the fresh interest?’

‘I am just thinking of Father Benedict’s cryptic message.’ He smiled at the pun. ‘I wondered if his warning was about the treasury? Perhaps he saw something?’

Cade shook his head. ‘I doubt it. The treasury door is sealed, barred and locked, and even if you could get in, you would need siege equipment to reach the heart of the crypt. Moreover, I doubt if the good brothers would allow someone to climb out of their crypt with bags of treasure.’

Corbett reluctantly agreed and they crossed the grounds towards the main abbey buildings. A bleary-eyed, shuffling lay brother took care of their horses, then led them down paved passageways to Adam of Warfield’s chamber. Corbett took an immediate dislike to the sacristan. He was tall, angular, very precise, and had a long crooked nose and a prim, pursed mouth. Corbett thought his eyes, under their shaggy brows, were shifty and uneasy. Warfield, however, made them welcome enough with dainty flutterings of his long boned fingers; he offered them ale and bread which Corbett refused, despite Ranulf’s mutterings. All three of them sat on a bench feeling rather awkward, like boys in a school room, with the sacristan perched opposite them on a high stool, hiding his hands in the voluminous sleeves of his brown robe. Too composed, Corbett thought, too placid: not the sort of man you would put in charge of a great abbey. At first their conversation was desultory; Corbett asked after the old abbot who was virtually bed-ridden and expressed his condolences at the recent death of Prior Roger. Adam of Warfield seemed unmoved.

‘We have sent word to Rome,’ he rasped. ‘But we have not yet received the authority to hold fresh elections for a new prior.’ He smiled deprecatingly. ‘But I do what I can.’

‘I’m sure you do!’ Corbett replied.

He could hardly abide the sanctimonious smile on the man’s face so he stared round the austere chamber with its few sticks of paltry furniture. He sensed Warfield was a hypocrite, noticed the crumbs of fine sugar on the monk’s dark robe and glimpsed the rim stain left by a wine goblet on the table. The clerk was sure that this monk liked his stomach as much as the priest at St Lawrence Jewry did his.

‘Father Benedict’s death?’ he asked abruptly.

Adam of Warfield stiffened. ‘I have told Master Cade already,’ the monk whined. ‘We were roused from our dormitory by Master William, the palace steward. We did what we could but the house was gutted by flames.’

‘Don’t you think it was strange,’ Corbett continued, ‘that on the day Father Benedict died, he sent a message to Cade saying something terrible, something quite blasphemous, was happening? I ask you now, Adam of Warfield, what is happening in the King’s abbey which so disturbed that old, saintly priest?’

The sacristan let out a deep breath. Corbett caught the stench of wine fumes.

‘Our Lord the King,’ Corbett continued, ‘had a deep love of Father Benedict and whatever was worrying him now intrigues me. Believe me, I will satisfy my curiosity.’

The sacristan was now agitated, his fingers fluttering above his brown robe. ‘Father Benedict was old,’ he stammered. ‘He imagined things.’

He strained his scrawny neck and Corbett suddenly noticed the faded purple mark on the right side of the sacristan’s throat. How, Corbett wondered, did an ordained priest and monk of Westminster get a love bite on his neck? He looked again and was sure the mark was not some cut or graze caused by shaving. Corbett rose and stared through the small, diamond-shaped window.

‘The Sisters of St Martha, Brother Adam, what do you know of them?’

‘They are a devoted and devout group of ladies who meet in our Chapter House every afternoon. They pray, they do good works, especially amongst the whores and prostitutes of the city.’

‘You support their work?’

‘Of course I do!’

Corbett half turned. ‘Were you shocked by Lady Somerville’s death?’

‘Naturally!’

‘I understand she did work in the laundry? What work, exactly?’ Corbett peered over his shoulder at the sacristan and noticed how pale the man’s face had become. Were there beads of sweat on his forehead? Corbett wondered.

‘Lady Somerville washed and took particular care of altar cloths, napkins, vestments and other liturgical cloths as well as the brothers’ robes.’

‘Do you know what Lady Somerville meant by the phrase “Cacullus non facit monachum”?’

‘The cowl does not make the monk?’ The sacristan smiled thinly. ‘It’s a phrase often used by our enemies who claim there’s more to being a monk than wearing a certain habit.’

‘Is that so?’ Ranulf spoke up. ‘And would you agree, Brother?’

Warfield threw him a look of contempt, and Corbett drummed his fingers on the window sill.

‘So you don’t know what she was referring to?’

‘No, my relationship with the Sisters of St Martha is negligible. I have enough matters in hand. Sometimes I meet them in the Chapter House but that is all.’

‘Well, well, well!’ Corbett walked back to the bench. ‘Nobody at Westminster seems to know anything. Am I right, dear Brother? Well, I wish to see three things: first, Father Benedict’s house; secondly, the door to the crypt and, finally, the Sisters of St Martha. You say they meet every afternoon?’

The sacristan nodded.

‘Then, my dear Brother, let’s go. Let’s begin.’

They walked out of the abbey buildings, Warfield leading them through overgrown gardens into a small orchard.

‘What has happened here?’ Ranulf whispered loudly. ‘This is the King’s abbey, the King’s house, yet nothing has been attended to.’

‘The fault is really the King’s,’ Corbett murmured. ‘He is too busy in Scotland to press Pope Boniface for the right to hold elections. He has withdrawn his household from Westminster; his treasury has no money to pay masons or gardeners. I do not think he knows how bad the situation is. When this matter is over, he will be enlightened.’

‘And the others don’t care,’ Cade added. ‘Our wealthy burgesses regard Westminster as a village, whilst the bishops of Canterbury and London are only too happy to see it decline.’

The orchard thinned and before them, in a small enclosure with its fence broken down, stood the blackened ruins of Father Benedict’s house. Corbett walked slowly around the building. It had not been built with wattle and daub but bricks quarried by the stone cutters, otherwise it would have been reduced to a smouldering heap. Corbett studied the wooden-framed window high in the wall, well over two yards above the vegetable garden.

‘That is the only window?’ he remarked.

‘Yes.’

‘And was the roof thatched, or tiled?’

‘Oh, tiled with red slate.’

Corbett walked up to the front door which still hung askew on its steel hinges. The door was oaken, about two inches thick and reinforced with steel strips.

‘And was there only one door?’

‘Yes! Yes!’

Corbett pushed it to one side and they entered the blackened, ruined house, wrinkling their noses at the stench of burnt wood and stale smoke. The inside of the building had been totally gutted, the white-washed walls blackened and scorched. The stone hearth at the far end had been reduced to crumbling brick.

‘A simple place,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Father Benedict’s bed must have been in the far corner? Next to the hearth? Yes?’

Warfield nodded.

‘He probably ate, slept and studied here?’

‘Yes, Master Corbett, there was only one room.’

‘And on the floor?’

‘Probably rushes.’

Corbett walked over to the near corner and sifted amongst the ashes on the floor. He pulled up a few strands and rubbed them between his fingers; yes, they were rushes and had probably been very dry and would have soon caught fire.

Corbett walked into the centre of the room and stared at the wall underneath the window, where the fire had burnt fiercely, turning the wooden window frame into black feathery ash; the flames had gouged deep black marks on the wall and reduced everything on the floor to a powdery dust. Corbett walked over to the hearth and to the remains of the wooden bed. He stood for a while, ignoring the impatient mutterings of his companions, and scraped his boot amongst the ashes.

‘Bring me a stick, Ranulf!’

The manservant hurried out to the orchard and brought back a long piece of yew which he pruned with his dagger. Corbett began to sift amongst the ashes, digging at the packed earth, concentrating on a line which ran directly from the window; then he went over to where they stood near the door.

‘Father Benedict was murdered,’ he announced.

The sacristan gasped.

‘Oh, yes, Brother Adam. Tell me again what happened when you tried to douse the flames?’

‘Well, we couldn’t get near the door, the heat was so intense. We threw buckets of water at the walls and through the window. It was the only thing we could do.’

‘And then?’

‘Well, the flames died and we forced the door.’

‘It was still locked?’

‘Oh, yes, but loose on its hinges.’

‘And you found the half-burnt body of Father Benedict?’

‘Just inside; the corpse of the cat beside him.’ The sacristan shook his head. ‘I can’t see how he was murdered. The door was locked, there was only one key. Father Benedict would hardly open the door for someone to come in, start a fire, leave and then lock the door behind him!’ The sacristan smiled in triumph as if he had presented some brilliantly lucid syllogism.

‘The murderer didn’t get in,’ Corbett replied. ‘If the fire had started near the hearth, the flames would have been the fiercest there. But look at the wall under the window and the wall directly opposite. Both are very badly burnt, as is the line of floor between. The fire started in the middle of the room. What happened was this; somebody tossed a jar, or skin, of oil, very pure oil because it is hard to detect, through the window into the middle of the room. The jar or skin burst, a tinder or candle was thrown and the dry, oil-drenched rushes soon turned into a raging inferno.’

‘Of course!’ Cade exclaimed. ‘That’s why the cat couldn’t jump through the window, it was too high for it and the floor beneath the window had been saturated by oil.’

‘And the far wall?’ Ranulf explained. ‘It’s badly burnt because of the breeze from the window, which would waft the flames that way.’

‘Nonsense!’ the sacristan exclaimed.

‘No, no,’ Corbett replied. ‘I have examined the floor in the centre of the room beneath the rushes. There’s nothing but packed earth yet the clay there is stained with oil, some of it slightly less burnt.’

‘But,’ the monk protested, ‘Father Benedict reached the door.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Corbett replied. ‘The sound of the oil hitting the floor, and the roar of the flames would have roused him. He seizes his cloak and the key by his bed and, holding the cat, runs towards the door.’

‘What about the wall of flames across the floor?’

‘They would be fierce but, probably, still not fully fanned. Father Benedict would be desperate, he had to brave them before they grew, roaring to the rafters.’

‘How do you know the key was not in the lock?’ Cade asked.

‘Because if it was, Father Benedict would have survived and the murderer would have chosen another scheme.’ Corbett looked at the under-sheriff’s sword belt. ‘Your dagger, Master Cade, it’s of the Italian mode, thin and slender. Can I borrow it?’

Cade shrugged and handed it over.

‘Now,’ Corbett said. ‘Would you all stand outside? Ranulf, cup your hand beneath the keyhole.’

Corbett’s companions, rather bemused, stepped outside the burnt building. Corbett heaved the door closed, holding it fast with one hand before slipping Cade’s thin stiletto through the keyhole. At first it was blocked so Corbett carefully pushed until he heard Ranulf’s exclamation of surprise. The clerk pulled the door open and handed the dagger back.

‘Well, Ranulf, what do you have?’

His manservant showed him a thin strip of half-burnt wood, long and rounded as if cut by a master carpenter.

‘You see, what happened,’ Corbett concluded, ‘was that the murderer knew where Father Benedict kept his key. On the night he murdered the priest, he slipped this piece of wood through the keyhole, went quietly round to the window, threw in the oil and lighted torch then slipped away. Father Benedict reaches the door, the fire raging all around him; he inserts his key but the lock is blocked. He takes it out, perhaps tries again but it is too late.’ Corbett stared at the sacristan. ‘It couldn’t have been there earlier, otherwise Father Benedict wouldn’t have locked the door behind him. On, no, Master Sacristan, Father Benedict was cold-bloodedly murdered. I intend to discover why and by whom!’

Corbett turned at the sound of footsteps. A small, fat monk, the folds of his pasty face betraying both anxiety and self-importance, hurried out of the trees and across to the priest’s house.

‘Brother Warfield! Brother Warfield!’ he gabbled. ‘What is going on here?’ He stopped, his head going back, like that of a small sparrow, lips pursed, little black eyes darting round the group. ‘Who are these people? Do you need help?’

‘No, Brother Richard, I don’t!’ Warfield replied.

The portly monk stuck his thumbs inside the tasselled cord round his waist. ‘Well!’ he exclaimed, staring round the room. ‘I think you do!’

‘Go away, little man!’ Ranulf answered. ‘This is Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, Special Emissary of the King!’

‘I am sorry, so sorry,’ the portly monk stuttered, his eyes pleading with Warfield.

‘Don’t worry, Brother Richard.’ The sacristan clapped him hard on the shoulder. ‘Everything is well here!’ Warfield smiled at Corbett. ‘Brother Richard is my assistant and most zealous in his duties.’

‘Good,’ Corbett snapped. ‘Then both of you can show me the entrance to the crypt.’

Corbett turned away but not before he glimpsed the quick, warning glances which passed between Warfield and his portly assistant.