Murder Wears a Cowl

Chapter 7

An hour later a disgruntled, uneasy Corbett left the house quietly vowing he would have words with Ranulf who was still sleeping off the after-effects of last night’s drinking. Maeve was now engrossed in the preparations for ‘dear’ Uncle’s arrival and Corbett was determined to untangle the web of mysteries confronting him. He crossed the thronged marketplace of West Cheap, stopping to enquire from the beadles of any news in the city, but they shook their heads.

‘Nothing, sir.’ was the reply. ‘A house was broken into in Three Needle Street, two rogues armed with catapults broke a window in Lothbury and a student from Oxford became drunk and played the bagpipes in Bishopsgate.’

Corbett smiled his thanks and moved on across into Wood Street then Gracechurch Street, dodging and moving aside as the timber merchants opened their stalls and prepared for a brisk day’s business. He asked directions from a loud-mouthed apprentice, the boy shook his head, shouting that he didn’t know where any Frenchman lived. A maid, carrying buckets of fresh water up from the Conduit, showed him the house de Craon had rented, a small, two-storied building, tightly wedged between two shops, dishevelled and rather crumbling. Corbett grinned to himself, the bells of the church were still ringing for the first Mass of the day and he hoped he was early enough to rouse de Craon from a peaceful sleep. He lifted the great brass door-knocker and brought it down with a crash then quickly repeated the action. He heard footsteps, the door was thrown open and de Craon appeared, fully dressed in a dark red cote-hardie and leather breeches pushed into soft black riding boots. His cunning, foxlike face gave Corbett the falsest of smiles.

‘My dear Hugh, we have been waiting for you.’ He clasped Corbett’s hand, holding it tightly between his. ‘Hugh, you look tired. Or should it be Lord Corbett?’ The Frenchman’s close-set, green eyes glittered with amused malice. ‘Oh, yes, we’ve heard the news. Come in! Come in!’

Corbett followed the man, who would love to kill him, into a small, downstairs chamber. The room was shabby; the rushes on the floor were dirty, the fire a pile of cold ash, the walls cracked and peeled and the chair de Craon pulled out from a table looked splintered and wobbled dangerously.

‘Sit down! Sit down!’

Corbett, ever watchful, accepted de Craon’s invitation whilst the Frenchman sat on the corner of a table swinging his legs. The clerk just wished the Frenchman would wipe that sly malicious smile off his face. De Craon clapped his hands.

‘Well, Hugh, is this a courtesy call? Oh,’ he leaned forward and touched Corbett on the hand, ‘I have met the Lady Maeve. Your daughter, she is beautiful. She takes after her mother. You want some wine?’

‘No!’

De Craon’s smile faded. ‘Fine, Corbett, what do you want?’

‘Why are you here, de Craon?’

‘I bring messages of courtesy and friendship from my master, the King of France.’

‘That’s a lie!’

De Craon glared at Corbett. ‘One of these days, Hugh,’ he said in a mock whisper. ‘One of these days I’ll make you choke on your insults!’

Now Corbett smiled. ‘Promises, promises, de Craon! You still haven’t told me why you are in England and why you tarry in London.’

De Craon stood up and walked to the other side of the table.

‘We have French merchants living here, they have interests which affect King Philip. You English are known for being hostile to foreigners.’

‘Then, de Craon, you should be careful!’

‘Oh, Hugh, I am and so should you. Where’s your shadow, Ranulf?’

‘At the top of the street,’ Corbett lied. ‘Sitting in a tavern with a group of royal archers waiting for me to return.’

De Craon cocked his head to one side. ‘You were in Winchester, now you are in London. Why should the King send his most trusted clerk and Keeper of the Secret Seal back to the city?’ De Craon held a finger to his lips. ‘There are the murders,’ he continued, as if talking to himself. ‘I know the fat ones in the city do not want their secret sins brought to light. There’s the death of Lady Somerville and, of course, the mysterious fire at the house of the King’s old chaplain, Father Benedict.’ De Craon preened himself, running a hand through his thinning red hair. ‘Now what else could there be?’ he asked in mock wonderment.

‘Richard Puddlicott.’

De Craon’s mouth opened and closed. ‘Ah, yes, Puddlicott.’

‘You know Puddlicott?’

‘Of course.’ The Frenchman smiled. ‘A well-known English criminal. What do you call his type, a confidence trickster? He is wanted in Paris by our Provost as he is in London by your Sheriff.’

‘For what reason?’

‘For the same reasons as in London.’

‘Then why?’ Corbett asked slowly, ‘was Puddlicott seen being entertained by your King’s closest counsellor, Master William Nogaret?’

De Craon refused to be flustered. ‘Puddlicott is a criminal but a valuable one. He sells secrets to us. What he thinks is valuable information, just as surely as your master buys secrets from traitorous Frenchmen.’

Corbett heard a sound and stood up. He felt nervous in this silent, dusty house. He turned, staring at the doorway, just as a stranger slipped like a shadow into the room.

‘Ah, Raoul.’ De Craon went round the table. ‘Master Corbett, or rather Sir Hugh Corbett, can I present Raoul, Vicomte de Nevers, King Philip’s special envoy to Flanders and the Low Countries.’

De Nevers shook Corbett’s hand warmly and the clerk took an immediate liking to him. In looks he resembled Maltote but was thinner, leaner, his hair was blond, his features regular, rather boyish, though Corbett noted the shrewd eyes and the firm set to mouth and chin. He could see why Maeve had liked him. He had a lazy charm and a frank, open demeanour which contrasted sharply with de Craon’s subtle falseness.

‘Before you ask why Raoul is in England, de Craon murmured, ‘I’ll be honest. Next spring King Philip intends to move into Flanders. He has certain rights there which-’

‘Which King Edward does not recognise,’ Corbett interrupted.

‘True! True!’ de Nevers replied in broken English. ‘But our master wishes to keep an eye on Flemish merchants. We know they come to London. We watch their movements and we bring messages for your King, how ill advised he would be to give these merchants any solace or comfort.’

Corbett stared at both men. They could be telling the truth, he thought, or at least part of it and de Nevers made more sense than de Craon. English envoys watched Scottish merchants in Paris, so why shouldn’t the French watch Flemish merchants in London? Corbett picked up his cloak.

‘Monsieur de Craon, Monsieur de Nevers, I wish you a safe stay in London but I also bring warnings from my master. You are protected by letters of safe conduct. Monsieur de Craon, you know the rules of the game. If you are found interfering in anything you shouldn’t be, then I will personally escort you to the nearest port and send you packing back to France.’ Corbett sketched a bow at both men and, before they could answer, made his own way out of the house.

Corbett stood in the street and breathed a sigh of relief. He was pleased that he had surprised both de Craon and his companion for he was sure that they were involved in some villainy, but only time would reveal what it was. He picked his way round the mounds of refuse and stared curiously at the empty dung cart, a tired-looking horse between the shafts, which stood on the other side of the street. He looked back at de Craon’s house. There was something wrong but he couldn’t place it. He’d glimpsed some detail which didn’t fit. He shrugged. ‘Only time will tell,’ he muttered.

Staring up and down the street, he noticed the mounds of refuse piled high on either side of the sewer, then he walked gingerly down the street, keeping a wary eye as windows above were suddenly opened and the contents of night pots thrown out to drench the cobbles and passers-by with their filth. He stopped at a cookshop on the corner of Wood Street and bought a pie but then threw it into a sewer when his teeth crunched on something hard.

‘Bastard officials!’ he grumbled. He wished the beadles and Guild members would take as much care on what was sold in the streets as they did about their precious reputations. He turned and went back up the Shambles, stopping for a while to watch a man, dressed completely in black, the whitened bones of a skeleton painted garishly on his garb, dance a macabre jig whilst his companion tapped a drum and a boy on a reedy flute blew an eerie death march. Corbett pushed his way through the crowds round the butchers’ stalls, keeping one hand on his purse and a wary eye on the rubbish underfoot. Outside Newgate a crowd had gathered to greet the death carts taking felons up to the scaffold at Smithfield or down the city to the Elms. He remembered the mad beggar man the night before and, shivering, he hurried on.

Corbett now wished Ranulf was with him. At the corner of Cock Lane, the blowsy harridans and common whores were already touting for business, the white paint on their faces so thick it cracked in places, their shaven heads covered with red or orange wigs.

‘A penny for a tumble!’ one shrieked at Corbett.

‘Tuppence and you can do anything you like!’

‘Don’t worry,’ another cackled. ‘It won’t take long!’

Corbett went over to the group. He smiled, trying to hide his disgust at the sour smell from their clothes, ignoring the black paint round their eyes which was beginning to run and stain their painted cheeks.

‘Good morning, ladies,’ he greeted the group.

The women looked at each other speechlessly before bursting into shrieks of laughter.

‘Oh, good morning, sir!’ they chorused back, flouncing their bright red skirts and bowing in mock curtseys.

‘What do you want?’ A large fat woman, round as a barrel of lard, pushed her way forward, her lips, parted in a false smile, showing blackened stumps of teeth.

‘Which one of us takes your fancy?’ She turned and grinned at her companions. ‘For a shilling you can have the lot of us, a good baker’s dozen!

More shrieks of laughter greeted her sally. Corbett tried to hide his embarrassment and looked away.

‘My lady,’ he murmured, ‘I’d probably exhaust you.’ He smiled at the rest. ‘I mean all of you.’

The laughter and the catcalls died as a silver coin appeared between Corbett’s fingers. ‘For the moment, my beauties, accept my profound apologies for being unable to give you my custom, but this silver piece,’ he gazed round the group, ‘this silver piece is for anyone who can provide information about the death of Agnes. You know, the girl killed in the church near Greyfriars.’

The whores now shrank back like a group of frightened children.

‘I mean no harm,’ Corbett continued gently. ‘I am the King’s man. I work with the under-sheriff, Alexander Cade.’

‘You mean Big Lance!’ the tub of lard shouted back.

Corbett stared at her curiously.

‘Oh, yes, that’s what we call him. A good jouster, Master Cade. I can tell you.’

A young girl, no more than fifteen or sixteen summers, her thin bony body dressed in rags, pushed her way to the front. ‘I can tell you about Agnes.’

Corbett held the silver coin before her eyes. ‘I am waiting, child.’

The girl smiled; her pallid, white face suddenly looked pathetic and vulnerable. For a few seconds her eyes lost their watchful hardness.

‘Down there,’ the girl pointed. ‘Next to the apothecary. Agnes had a garret.’ She wiped her runny nose on the back of her hands. ‘She always claimed to be better than any of us. Oh, yes, a regular lady with her own chamber and her fine gowns.’

‘What else do you know?’

‘Agnes became frightened. She said she had seen something.’ The girl’s mouth became slack and she shook her head. ‘I don’t know what but it was after one of the other girls was killed. Anyway, she refused to go out. She paid one of the boys, an urchin, to watch the door.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s all I know.’ Her grimy hand came out. ‘Please, sir,’ she whispered eagerly. ‘May I have the coin?’

Corbett pressed it into her hand, and, unsheathing his dagger, he walked away down the darkened alleyway. At the shop next to the apothecary’s he stopped and stared up at the rotting wood and crumbling plaster, before knocking on the door. A toothless old hag answered, her eyes small black buttons in a yellowing, lined face. A regular nightbird, Corbett thought, one of the old hags who rented out chambers to street-walkers, took their money and turned a blind eye to what they did. Of course, at first, the old hag knew nothing but, when coins changed hands, she suddenly remembered everything. Corbett listened to her chatter. The hag told him nothing he hadn’t already learnt from the whore but, for another coin, she showed Corbett Agnes’s chamber. There was nothing there; the dead girl’s possessions, together with every stick of furniture, had been moved and the clerk realised the old woman was just playing him like a landed fish.

Outside in the street, Corbett leaned against the wall of the house and stared around. The place was filthy. He glimpsed things in the sewer, floating on top of the greenish water, which made his stomach turn and he pinched his nose at the terrible smell from the refuse piled high against the walls. He felt sure he was being watched and glanced cautiously up the narrow alleyways which fed into Cock Lane. He walked a little way up the street, his hand against the wall of the house, pulling it away quickly as his fingers touched something warm and furry. He turned, muttering a curse at the rat which scuttled between the crevices, then walked back to the apothecary’s. Yes, he had seen it: the small shadow in one of the alleyways.

‘This is going to be an expensive morning,’ he murmured. He took another coin out of his purse and held it up. ‘I know you are there, boy!’ he called out. ‘You still watch the house don’t you? I mean no harm.’ He spoke softly, wishing to avoid the prostitutes still gathered at the mouth of Cock Lane and the hungry-eyed faces which peered down from the casement windows. ‘Come here, boy!’ Corbett urged. ‘You will be well rewarded.’

The beggar lad crept out of the alleyway. He was barefoot, his face so thin his large eyes made him look like some baby owl frightened by the light. He nervously plucked at the rough sacking which served as a cloak. He thrust his little hand forward.

‘Thank you, sir.’

The voice was reedy and Corbett recognised the professional beggar. The poor child was probably despatched on to the streets by his parents to beg for alms. Corbett crouched in the doorway of the apothecary’s shop and waved the lad forward. The boy, wary of the dangers of the street, edged cautiously near, his eyes glued on the silver piece. Corbett quickly reached out, seized the boy’s thin arm and felt a twinge of compassion. All skin and bone; how long, he thought, would this child last in the next severe winter?

‘Come on!’ he urged swiftly. ‘I mean you no harm. Look, here’s a silver piece. I’ll give you another if you tell me the truth.’

The boy sucked the knuckle of his free hand.

‘You knew Agnes, the girl who died?’

The boy nodded.

‘What was she frightened of?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Why did she stay in her room?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What do you know?’

‘A man came.’

‘What kind of man?’

‘A priest, a brother. He was tall and wore a cowl, but he left very quickly.’

‘And what else happened?’

‘Agnes gave me a message.’

‘What was it?’

‘Just a scrap of parchment, sir. I was to take it to Westminster.’

‘To whom?’

‘I don’t know.’ The large eyes welled with tears. ‘I did something wrong. I didn’t mean to but I was hungry. I dropped the message in a sewer and spent the money the girl gave me at a bread shop.’

Corbett smiled. ‘Can you read?’

‘No, but Agnes could write. She was clever. She could read a few words and write some. She said if I kept guarding her door she would teach me one day.’

‘But you don’t know to whom the message was to be sent?’

‘I think it was to a woman?’

‘Why?’

‘Because Agnes told me to take it to the Chapter House late in the afternoon.’ The boy screwed his face up. ‘Agnes said she would know.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Yes, Master, honestly. Please,’ the boy whined, ‘let go my wrist. You promised me a coin.’

Corbett handed it over, the boy scampered away.

‘If you are ever hungry,’ Corbett called out, watching the pathetic stick-like legs, ‘come to Corbett’s house in Bread Street. Tell the servants the master sent you.’

The boy turned, running like the wind up one of the dark runnels.

Corbett got to his feet and walked back, stopping at a small tavern near the bridge over Holborn. He went inside, ordered a jug of ale and sat beneath the room’s only window. In the far corner a group of tinkers were baiting a huge, slavering bull mastiff, enraging it by offering it meat, then pulling it away so the dog’s sharp teeth narrowly missed their darting fingers. Corbett watched their cruelty and thought about the beggar boy, Agnes’s dreadful death and the hideous awfulness of the whores in Cock Lane. Was Brother Thomas right? he reflected. Did the stinking rottenness of the city spawn some of the evil which stalked the streets? He sipped at the blackjack, trying to close his mind to the growling of the dog and the taunts of the tinkers. So, Agnes had seen something? She had hidden away in her chamber and been visited by a man dressed like a monk or priest. Was that the killer? If so, why hadn’t he struck then? Because the house was being watched? But surely Agnes would refuse to open the door? The latter was the most logical, he concluded. So why had the man gone to that house in Cock Lane? Of course, Corbett put the tankard down, Agnes had been lured to her death; the killer had probably slipped her a message, perhaps in someone else’s name, telling her to meet him in that church near Greyfriars. Corbett ran his fingers round the rim of the tankard and tried to sketch out the bare details behind the murder. Agnes had known something so she had hidden away, sending messages to someone who would help, one of the Sisters of St Martha, Lady Fitzwarren or maybe de Lacey but the boy had dropped it. He closed his eyes, what next? Somehow the killer had known that Agnes posed danger so he had visited her chamber. The message he had left had been cryptic; the poor girl, barely literate, was not skilled enough to distinguish different handwriting and the rest would be simple. Agnes would have gone to the church looking for salvation and the killer would have been waiting.

Corbett suddenly looked up at the screams and yells coming from the far corner of the tap room. He smiled to himself. Sometimes justice was done, for the bull mastiff had broken loose, seized one of his tormenter’s arms and the tap-room door was already splattered with blood. Corbett drained his blackjack and left the noisy confusion behind. He had one further call to make and followed the street up through the city limits round by the Priory of St John of Jerusalem to the other side of Smithfield. Here he asked directions from a water tippler for the whereabouts of Somerville’s House. The fellow knew it well and Corbett, keeping well away from the crowds thronging down to Smithfield, crossed Aldersgate into Barbican Street.

The Somerville House was a splendid building though its windows were now all shuttered and great folds of black lawn had been nailed to the wooden beams as a sign of mourning. A tearful maid opened the door and ushered him up to a small but opulently furnished solar on the second floor. The room reminded Corbett of how Maeve had beautified his own house in Bread Street though this chamber looked unkempt as if it hadn’t been cleaned for days. Wine stains marked the table and some of the tapestry-covered chairs. The hangings on the wall looked dusty and dishevelled whilst the fire had not been lit or the grate cleaned.

‘You wanted to see me?’

Corbett turned and stared at the young man standing in the doorway.

‘My name is Gilbert Somerville. The maid said you were Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s Emissary.’

The young man offered a limp handshake. Corbett stared at the black, dishevelled hair, the white puffy cheeks, red-rimmed eyes and slack mouth and jaw. A wine toper, Corbett concluded. A son grieving for his mother but someone who loved his claret to the exclusion of everything else.

‘I am sorry.’ The young man tugged at his fur-lined robe as he ushered Corbett to a seat. ‘I slept late. Please sit down.’ The young man scratched his stubbled cheek. ‘My mother’s funeral was yesterday,’ he murmured. ‘The house is still not clean, I. .’ his voice trailed away.

‘My condolences, Master Gilbert.’

‘Sir Gilbert,’ the young man interrupted.

‘My condolences on your mother’s death, Sir Gilbert. But I believe you returned in the early hours of Tuesday, May twelfth, found your mother not in her chamber and organised a search?’

‘Yes. The servants found her near the scaffold at Smithfield.’

‘Before her death did your mother act, or speak, out of character?’

‘My mother hardly ever spoke to me so I left her alone.’

Corbett saw the anger and the hurt in the young man’s eyes.

‘She’s gone now,’ Corbett replied gently. ‘Why such a discord between a mother and her only son?’

‘In her eyes I was not my father.’

No, no, you’re not, Corbett thought. He had vague recollections of the elder Somerville. A tall, brisk fighting man who had given the kingdom good service in the closing years of the Welsh wars. Corbett vaguely remembered seeing him, striding through the chancery offices, or arm-in-arm with the King in some camp, or walking the corridors of a castle or palace.

‘Does the proverb “The cowl does not make the monk” mean anything to you?’

Somerville pulled a wry mouth. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘Did your mother have any confidants here in her household?’

The young man looked sourly at Corbett. ‘No, she did not, she was of the old school, Master Corbett.’

‘Sir Hugh Corbett!’

‘Touche!’ the young man replied. ‘No, Sir Hugh, my mother kept herself to herself, the only people she spoke to were the Sisters of the Order of St Martha.’

Corbett stared at the young man. ‘So, you have no idea about the who, why or how of your mother’s murder?’

‘No, I do not.’

Corbett chilled at this arrogant young man’s curt dismissal of his mother’s violent death and stared around the chamber.

‘Did your mother have any private papers?’

‘Yes, she did but I have been through them. There’s nothing there.’

‘Don’t you want vengeance for your mother’s death?’

The young man shrugged one shoulder. ‘Of course, but you are Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Secrets. I have every confidence in you, Clerk. You will find the killer. You resemble my father. You scurry about like the King’s whippet, fetching this or carrying that. The killer will be found and I shall take a flagon of wine down to the Elms to watch the bastard hang.’

Corbett rose, kicking over the stool behind him.

‘Sir Gilbert, I bid you adieu.’ He turned and walked towards the door.

‘Corbett!’

The clerk carried on walking, he reached the foot of the stairs before Somerville caught up with him.

‘Sir Hugh, please.’

Corbett turned. ‘I am sorry your mother’s dead,’ he said quietly. ‘But, Sir, I find your conduct disgraceful.’

The young man’s eyes slid away. ‘You don’t understand,’ he murmured. ‘Father did this! Father did that! Yes, my mother’s dead. So what, clerk? In her eyes I was always dead.’

Corbett gazed at the young man and idly wondered if he had enough hate to commit murder. The young man’s bleary eyes caught his.

‘Oh, no!’ he muttered. ‘I can guess what you’re thinking, Master Clerk. In my eyes my mother didn’t exist so why should I kill her? But wait, I have something for you.’ He ran up the stairs and returned a few minutes later with a scrap of parchment in his hands. ‘Take this,’ he mumbled. ‘Study it and use it whatever way you wish. There’s no further reason for you to stay or return.’

Corbett sketched a bow, closed the door behind him and left.

He reached St Martin’s Lane before he stopped to examine the scrap of parchment. It was a list of clothing, probably drawn up by Lady Somerville in connection with her work at the abbey, but she had roughly etched crude drawings of monks with the hands joined as if in prayer. They were childish and clumsy except, now and again, instead of drawing the tonsured head of a monk, Lady Somerville had drawn the face of a crow, a fox, a pig or a dog. But what really fascinated him was that in the centre of this group, taller than the rest, was a figure dressed in a monk’s habit and cowl, the hood pushed back to reveal the slavering jaws of a fierce wolf. Corbett studied the piece of parchment and tried to follow the logic of the dead woman’s thoughts. Had she been listing items from the laundry and this had jolted a memory? Corbett shook his head.

‘Whatever it is,’ he mumbled, ‘the Lady Somerville’s perception of our brothers at Westminster left a great deal to be desired.’

‘What’s that? What’s that?’

Corbett stared as a small beggar woman, holding a battered wooden doll, jumped up and down in front of him.

‘What’s that? What’s that?’ she repeated. ‘Do you like my baby?’

Corbett gazed around and realised the crowds were thronging about him. He tossed a penny at the beggar woman and walked briskly back to Bread Street.

Corbett sensed the confusion as soon as he entered his house. He heard the shrieks from the solar, recognising the clear but powerful voice of Ranulf’s young son. Griffin dolefully confirmed the news: Ranulf and Maltote were busy playing with the young boy and were supposed to be looking after baby Eleanor whilst Lady Maeve was in the garden. Corbett followed him out. Maeve was busy amongst the lilies and marigolds, roses and gillyflowers. He stood and watched her. She was busy talking to the maid Anna and, in the dying sunlight, Corbett stood under the porch and admired how Maeve had transformed an overgrown moorland into a beautiful garden with gravel paths, sapling apple trees and climbing vines along a wall which caught the sun. Further down, beyond where a small orchard would grow, Maeve had directed the builders to erect a great white-washed dovecote next to a long row of beehives. Maeve turned as if she sensed his presence.

‘Hugh! Hugh! Come here! Look!’ She pointed towards the ground. ‘The herbs have lasted.’

Corbett gazed at the mustard, parsley, sage, garlic, fennel, hyssop and borage she had planted the previous year.

‘You see!’ Maeve cried triumphantly. ‘They have grown.’ She turned, her beautiful face flushed with the heat and exertions from her work. ‘If all goes well, at Michaelmas we’ll have more than salt to flavour the meat.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘You look tired, Hugh?’ Maeve took off the thick woollen gloves she was using and handed a small trowel to Anna who had been helping her weed amongst the sprouting herb beds. ‘Come.’ She wiped her brow on the back of her hand.

‘A cool tankard of ale. Anna and I have prepared supper.’

By the time he had washed and refreshed himself, Corbett felt better though the evening meal was a riotous one. Young Ranulf shouted all the way through and baby Eleanor, supposedly asleep in her cot, gurgled with laughter at his antics before bawling for her own food, pieces of sugar-loaf soaked in milk. Any conversation was impossible, for Ranulf had regained his good humour — too quickly, Corbett thought suspiciously — and insisted on telling everyone about Maltote’s recent clumsiness with a dagger. At last the meal ended, Corbett snapping that Maeve and Ranulf should join him in the solar.

‘Your day went well, Ranulf?’ he asked innocently, closing the door behind him.

‘Yes, yes, it did.’

Corbett gazed round the beautiful room. Maeve stared at him curiously as if she failed to understand her husband’s irritation and bad temper.

‘I am sorry,’ Corbett muttered. ‘But this problem seems to pose few solutions. The killer could be anyone. All I have established is that he wears a hood and a cowl.’

‘So it could be a monk?’ Ranulf interrupted.

‘For God’s sake, Ranulf!’ Corbett snapped back. ‘Every man in the city possesses a hood and cowl!’ He settled himself on a stool. ‘And what have you done?’

Ranulf grinned from ear to ear. Corbett groaned to himself.

‘I used my initiative, Master. You may remember Lady Fitzwarren said we were welcome to view her work? Well, I paid a courtesy visit to the Lady Mary Neville.’

Maeve covered her mouth with her hand. Corbett stared down at the floor.

‘The day is not yet done, Master. Lady Fitzwarren has issued an invitation for you to join her at the hospital of St Katherine by the Tower. Who knows,’ Ranulf beamed, ‘we might find out more.’

Corbett covered his face with his hands.