Murder Wears a Cowl

Chapter 8

Corbett raised his head and gazed furiously at Ranulf.

‘I do not wish,’ he roared, ‘to be travelling round the city at the dead of night!’ He glared at Maeve who stood behind Ranulf, pushing the cuff of her sleeve into her mouth to stop her laughter.

‘But, Master, I thought it would help? We need to question both ladies, particularly Lady Mary. After all, she was the last person to see the Somerville woman alive.’

Corbett scuffed the toe of his boot on the carpet. Below, in the small hall, he could still hear Eleanor bawling and young Ranulf’s shrieks of delight. He glared at Ranulf and then at Maeve. Perhaps, he thought, it was best if they left; the house was in turmoil; Maeve had her mind set on her uncle’s imminent arrival and both children were in full voice. Corbett would have no peace and there were pressing matters to attend to.

‘Fine,’ he agreed. ‘But send Maltote ahead of us. Before we visit the Sisters of St Martha, I wish to meet the following: William of Senche, Brother Adam Warfield and his fat friend, Brother Richard. Tell these three redoubtable characters from Westminster that they are to meet me at The Three Cranes tavern in The Vintry. They will object, they will make excuses, they will inform you about what duties they have to perform, they may even be drunk. Tell them I don’t give a sod! They are summoned on the King’s authority and either they come or they spend the next two weeks in the Fleet, be they priest, monk or parish official!’

Ranulf, grinning from ear to ear, scampered off. In his chamber he washed carefully, changed his robes and preened himself in the metal disc which served as a mirror. ‘So far, so good,’ he murmured. He could not forget the Lady Mary and she had been so welcoming when he had paid her a courtesy visit on behalf of his master earlier in the day. Of course, Ranulf had told Lady Mary that Corbett had sent him. He only hoped his master didn’t interrogate the lady too closely, but, even in her dark house-gown, Lady Mary had been a vision of loveliness. She had sat opposite him in her small parlour serving him a cup of chilled Alsace wine and offering him sugared marzipan on a silver dish. Ranulf had acted his part, telling her how he was the son of a knight who had fallen on hard times. How he was now well placed in the Chancery, earned good fees and that he placed his good services entirely at her disposal. The Lady Mary had fluttered her eyelashes and he had trotted back to Bread Street like Galahad returning to Camelot.

Ranulf now pressed his damp hair into place and liberally sprinkled his doublet with rose water. He clambered downstairs to kiss his offspring good night and hustle a complaining Maltote out of the door and across to the tavern for their horses.

Corbett left the house an hour later, still disgruntled at Maeve’s total absorption with her uncle’s visit and nursing a sore elbow where young Ranulf, who had inveigled him into a short game in the buttery, had thrown his toy sword at him. ‘A sad day,’ Corbett grumbled, ‘when a man can’t find peace in his own home.’

Still muttering curses, he pulled his cloak around him and made his way across Trinity through the darkened streets to Old Fish Street and into The Vintry and the welcoming warmth of The Three Cranes tavern. He must have been there an hour, sitting in a darkened recess beside the great open hearth, before Ranulf and Maltote joined him, leading his three disgruntled visitors: William the Steward was half-drunk whilst the two monks looked peeved and red-faced at being unceremoniously dragged away from their evening meal. Corbett made them welcome and ordered tankards of watered ale for, by the looks of William’s flushed face, bleary eyes and fiery red nose, if the steward took any more wine he would fall into a drunken stupor. The sacristan was the only one of the three who appeared to have his wits about him.

‘We have been summoned here,’ he drew his dark robes about him, ‘without good cause or reason.’

Corbett made a face. ‘Monk, the King has summoned you here. So, if you object, take it up with him.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Honest answers to honest questions.’

‘I have answered your questions.’

‘What’s been happening at Westminster Abbey and Palace?’

‘What do you mean?’

Corbett drew Somerville’s drawing from his purse and tossed it at the sacristan, pushing the thick tallow candle closer so the monk could study it.

‘What do you make of that, Adam of Warfield?’

The sacristan studied it. ‘A crude drawing,’ he snapped.

Corbett saw he was blustering and sensed his fear. Brother Richard leaned over and, bleary-eyed, also examined the drawing.

‘Scandalous!’ he mumbled. ‘Whoever drew this offends the Church.’

‘Lady Somerville drew it,’ Corbett replied. ‘A high-ranking member of the Sisters of St Martha. She worked in the vestry and laundry of the abbey. What did she discover, this widow of good repute, this pious noblewoman? What did she see which made her draw such a cruel parody of so-called “men of God”? Master William, perhaps you can help?’

The steward shook his head and Ranulf, sitting behind Corbett’s visitors, smirked from ear to ear. He always enjoyed such occasions, when the so-called ‘pious’, the self-seeking, high and mighty, were brought to account. Corbett was forever quoting St Augustine: ‘Quis custodiet custodes?’ ‘Who shall guard the guards?’ Ranulf was forever repeating it and he couldn’t resist choosing this occasion to murmur it into the ear of Adam of Warfield. The monk turned, his lip curling like a dog.

‘Shut up, knave!’ he snarled.

‘Enough!’ Corbett ordered. ‘Brother Adam, Brother Richard, Master William, did you know any of the whores recently murdered in the city?’

‘No!’ they chorused in unison.

‘Do the names Agnes or Isabeau mean anything to you?’

Adam of Warfield shot to his feet. ‘We are men of God!’ he snapped. ‘We are priests, monks bound by chastity. Why should we have anything to do with whores, prostitutes and courtesans?’ He leaned over the table, his eyes glaring with hatred. ‘Do you have any more questions, clerk?’

Corbett made a face. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘But you still haven’t answered the ones I have asked.’

‘We don’t know any whores.’

‘And you know nothing about Lady Somerville’s death?’

‘No, we do not!’ the monk shouted, disturbing the other drinkers.

‘Or what she meant by “The cowl does not make the monk”?’

‘Master Corbett, I am leaving. Master William, Brother Richard?’

The monk swept towards the door, his two tipsy companions staggering behind him. As the monk’s robe swirled about him, Corbett caught a glimpse of his high-heeled, costly Spanish leather riding boots and the beautiful gilded spurs attached to the heels.

‘Monk!’ Corbett bellowed, now rising.

‘What is it, clerk?’

‘You also took a vow of poverty. You have eaten and drunk well before you came. Your companion, Brother Richard, is tipsy and you wear boots even the King himself would envy.’

‘My business, clerk.’

Corbett waited until the priest was almost at the door.

‘One last question, Adam of Warfield!’

The sacristan turned and leaned against the lintel, a smug smile on his face. After all, he had come to see this clerk, he had answered his questions and the matter was now ended.

‘For God’s sake, clerk, what is it?’

Corbett walked across the quiet tap room and grasped the half-open door. He pushed his face close to the monk’s. ‘Do you,’ he hissed, ‘know anyone called Richard Puddlicott?’

‘No, I do not.’ Warfield turned and walked into the tavern yard, slamming the door behind him.

Corbett rejoined his companions. Ranulf still smirking, Maltote, as usual, sitting, mouth half-open, he was still unused to his strange master dealing so brusquely with the great ones of the land. Corbett sat down and leaned back against the bench.

‘You learnt nothing, Master?’ Ranulf taunted slyly.

‘No, I learnt three things. First, Adam of Warfield and his companions, or at least one of them, knew the dead whores. You see, Ranulf, although he was angry, Brother Adam never queried why I asked him. I never actually told him that Agnes and Isabeau were two whores, so why did he reach that conclusion?’

Ranulf’s smile faded. ‘Yes, yes, he did. And what else?’

‘Secondly, something is going on in the abbey. I don’t know what. Again, Adam of Warfield didn’t ask me the reason for that question. Like any guilty man he wanted to keep his answers short and brief.’

‘In other words,’ Maltote interrupted like some school-boy solving a problem, ‘least said soonest mended!’

‘Exactly!’

‘What else?’ Ranulf asked crossly, glaring at Maltote.

‘More importantly. .’ Corbett looked across the tavern at a slattern in the corner clearing a table. ‘Girl, come here!’

The serving girl hurried over. Corbett slipped a penny into the pocket of her dirty apron.

‘Tell me, girl, do you know Richard Puddlicott?’

‘No, sir, who is he?’

‘It does not matter,’ Corbett replied. ‘I just wondered. You see,’ Corbett murmured as the girl walked away, ‘when I asked her about Puddlicott, she immediately answered my question with another one. Our good sacristan never did that about the whores, about their names, about what might be going on in the abbey and, most importantly, why I should be asking about a complete stranger named Richard Puddlicott.’ Corbett drained his tankard, picked up his cloak and got to his feet. ‘At last we have made some progress,’ he murmured. ‘But God knows where it will lead us.’

Corbett, Ranulf and Maltote hired a wherry from Queenshithe and made their way up river, disembarking at the Custom House near the Wool Quay. They walked along the riverside, past the darkening mass of the great Tower and out through open fields to where the lights of the hospital of St Katherine beckoned. Ranulf kept silent, sulking, for he always loved to catch his master out and matters were not helped by Maltote openly preening himself. At St Katherine’s a porter let them through and took them across to the small church which stood next to the main hospital building.

‘The Sisters always meet here,’ he announced. ‘I believe they’ve arrived already.’

Corbett pulled open the door and walked into the porch. The church was simple enough; a long, narrow, vaulted nave under a soaring hammer-beamed roof, a chancel screen at the far end and fat rounded pillars down each side of the nave. Most of the Sisters were already assembled. At first, Corbett and his companions were ignored as the ladies scurried around, lighting braziers, pushing long trestle tables together. On these they piled clean clothes and cut up long loaves of bread, putting out bowls of salt, dishes of dried meat and bowls of apples and pears sliced and covered with sugar. Lady Fitzwarren came in through a side door, smiled and waved at them. Behind her, Lady Mary looked coyly at Ranulf.

‘You have come to watch, Sir Hugh?’

‘Aye, Madam. But also to ask you some questions.’

Fitzwarren’s smile faded. ‘When I’m ready! When I’m ready!’ she snapped. ‘The wine jug’s not yet out! I think the weather will change and we could have a busy night.’

Corbett and his companions had to sit on a bench and kick their heels before Fitzwarren and Lady Mary joined them.

‘Well, Sir Hugh, what questions do you still have?’

Corbett caught the exasperation in her voice.

‘First, Lady Mary, you were with Lady Somerville the night she died?’

The woman nodded.

‘And you left St Bartholomew’s, when?’

‘About a quarter of an hour after Lady Somerville.’

‘And you noticed nothing untoward?’

‘Nothing at all. It was pitch dark. I hired a boy to carry a torch and made my way home to Farringdon.’

‘Lady Fitzwarren, did you know any of the girls who died?’

‘Some, but you must remember the victims were all petty courtesans. We tend to meet the most degraded.’

‘Did you know Agnes, the girl killed in the church near Greyfriars?’

‘Yes, I did, and strange you mention her name. After her death I had a garbled message from someone who knew her that she wanted to speak to me.’

‘Who gave the message?’

Lady Fitzwarren shook her head. ‘I meet so many girls, it was one of them.’

‘So you never met Agnes?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Is there anything else, Lady Catherine?’

‘Such as what?’

‘Well, you meet in Westminster Chapter House. Have you noticed anything untoward in the abbey or palace?’

‘Well, they’re fairly deserted,’ Lady Mary interrupted. ‘The old abbot is ill and they have no prior, the King should really return to Westminster.’

Lady Fitzwarren stared at her companion, then back at Corbett.

‘Sir Hugh, I think there is something you should know,’ the woman lowered her voice as Lady de Lacey swept into the church as briskly as a March breeze. ‘Over a year ago,’ Lady Fitzwarren continued in a half-whisper, ‘just after these terrible murders began, Lady Mary, here, heard a rumour, a story quite common amongst the street-walkers and courtesans, how certain girls had been taken to the abbey, or rather the palace, for parties and roistering which lasted all night.’ The woman shrugged. ‘You know how it is, Sir Hugh. A common occurrence. Royal palaces are often left deserted, especially in time of war. The stewards and officials become lazy and decide to amuse themselves at the expense of their betters.’ She smiled thinly. ‘I believe even Christ told parables about it.’ Fitzwarren looked over her shoulder and waved at Lady de Lacey who was shouting for her attention. ‘That’s all I know, Sir Hugh. But, tell me, do you have any idea of who is responsible for these terrible murders?’

‘No, my Lady, but I hope to prevent any more.’

‘In which case I wish you well, Master Clerk.’

‘Oh, Lady Catherine?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you or the Lady Mary know anything about the French envoy, Sir Amaury de Craon? Or a man known as Richard Puddlicott?’

Both women shook their heads.

‘De Craon means nothing to me,’ Lady Fitzwarren answered quickly. ‘But I have heard of Puddlicott. He’s a villain, a trickster. Some of the street-girls talk about him with as much awe and respect as I would the King.’

Corbett nodded and watched the two women walk away. He sat down on the bench and glanced at Ranulf who appeared to be blind and deaf to everything except the Lady Mary Neville. Corbett blinked and looked away. He had seen Ranulf drunk, angry, sad, lecherous and maudlin but never lovelorn and he still found it difficult to accept that Ranulf was so love-struck. Corbett sighed and diverted his mind to what he had just learnt. Everything pointed to something amiss at Westminster. Lady Fitzwarren was right: it was quite common for officials in deserted royal palaces to spend their time roistering — on one occasion he had acted as a marshal of the royal household in bringing such malefactors to judgement — but did the solution to these terrible murders lie in such roistering? Had the monks of Westminster become involved in these all-night revelries? Had something happened and the murders been committed to silence clacking tongues and scandalous whispers?

The door of the hospital opened slowly and Corbett gazed speechlessly at the two harridans who staggered into the church; their clothes were mere rags around their emaciated bodies, their hair was thin and straggly, they looked like twin witches with their hooked noses, rheumy eyes and slack, slavering mouths. They chattered and cackled like half-wits, crawling towards the tables, snatching mouthfuls of bread and slurping noisily from pewter wine cups. The stench of their unwashed bodies drew even Ranulf from his reverie.

‘Sweet Lord!’ he muttered. ‘We needn’t wait until death, Master, to see visions of hell!’

Lady de Lacey noticed their revulsion and strode over.

‘Master Corbett, how old would you say those women were?’

‘They are ancient crones.’

‘No, no. Both have yet to reach their thirty-fifth year. They are street-walkers raddled and ageing, rotting with disease, the discarded objects of men’s lust.’

Corbett shook his head. ‘I disagree.’

‘What do you mean? Men have exploited them!’

‘And they have exploited men — though, I suspect, where men had the choice, they had none.’

De Lacey stared at him shrewdly.

‘So-called “good men” used these women,’ Corbett continued. ‘Upright citizens, burgesses who sit on the council, walk in the Guild processions, who go to Mass on Sundays, arm-in-arm with their wives, their children running before them.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘And such men are liars and their marriages are empty.’

‘Most marriages are,’ de Lacey retorted. ‘A wife is like a chattel, a piece of land, a possession, a horse, a cow, a stretch of river.’

Corbett thought of Maeve and grinned. ‘Not all wives.’

‘The Church says so: Gratian wrote that women are subject to their husbands. They are their property!’

‘The law of England,’ Corbett replied, ‘also says that a man guilty of treason should be hanged, drawn and quartered but that does not mean it is right.’ He smiled at de Lacey. ‘You should read St Bonaventure, my Lady. He says “between husband and wife there should be the most singular friendship in the world”.’

De Lacey’s harsh face broke into a genuine smile. ‘Ah,’ she replied as she turned away, ‘and if pigs flew, there would be plenty of pork in the trees!’

Corbett watched her go over and talk gently to one of the old crones.

‘She’s formidable,’ Ranulf muttered.

‘Most saints are, Ranulf. Come, let us go.’

Later that night Corbett lay beside a sleeping Maeve in their great four-poster bed, staring up at the dark tapestry awning above him. He had chased the problems facing him round and round his tired mind but, though he had suspicions, there were no firm conclusions, nothing he could really grasp. He remembered the sights at St Katherine’s, the two ancient street-walkers, Lady de Lacey’s gentle care and his remarks that a man and wife should be the best of friends. He glanced at Maeve sleeping quietly beside him. Was this true? he wondered. Strange; he kept remembering Mary, his first wife, and the memories had become more distinct after his meeting with the Lady Neville. Corbett closed his eyes, he couldn’t go down that path, the past was best left alone. He chewed his lip and wondered what to do when this business was over. He had seen the filth, the degradation of the street-walkers. Perhaps he should do something and not just turn up his nose and walk on the other side of the street. In France, he thought, at least they tried to control the situation, an official known as the King of Riddles imposed some sort of order and afforded a little protection to the ladies of the night. In Florence, action was more drastic, brothels were controlled by the city authorities who actually appointed clerks to work in what was termed ‘the Office of the Night’. But surely the Church could do something apart from just condemn? Hospitals, refuges? He must advise the King that something should be done, but what? Corbett’s mind drifted sleepily over the possibilities.

At the very moment their master was slipping into sleep, Maltote and Ranulf, with rags wrapped round their boots to muffle their footsteps, stole downstairs, unlocked the side door and crept out into the darkened street. Ranulf ordered Maltote to keep his mutterings and curses to himself as they slipped along Bread Street where Ranulf had hidden a nosegay of roses in a small crevice in the alleyway. He had stolen these earlier from a merchant’s garden in West Cheap. Ranulf sighed with relief, the flowers were undisturbed, and they continued on up the alleyways, passages and runnels to the old city wall, past the Fleet prison and into Shoe Lane where Lady Mary Neville lived. Ranulf refused to let Maltote even whisper, keeping a wary eye on the watch and one hand on his dagger against the footpads, cutpurses and sturdy beggars who prowled the night looking for prey.

Outside the darkened house, Ranulf stopped and, using his old skills as a burglar, carefully edged up the wall, securing footholds in the white lathed plaster and on the rim of the supporting black beams; hissing and muttering, he told Maltote to climb on a lower window sill and hand up the roses the young messenger was forlornly holding. Ranulf worked expertly, using the many holds and gaps in the plaster around the window sill of what he guessed to be Lady Mary’s bedchamber, until the whole area was circled by a garland of roses. Some would fall but Ranulf had taken enough to intrigue and fascinate this only love of his life. He then jumped down, laughing softly and, with Maltote in tow, hurried back to Bread Street.

In another part of the city, Hawisa, a young courtesan, recently arrived in London from Worcester, tripped along Monkwell Street near Cripplegate. She had spent the evening comforting an elderly merchant in the room behind his shop whilst his wife and family had gone on a pilgrimage to St Thomas of Canterbury. Hawisa lifted the hem of her murrey skirt, taking great care as she picked her way round the mounds of refuse, jumping and giggling with fright as the rats scurried back to their holes. At last she reached the end house built against the old crumbling city wall and the basement cellar the wool merchant had bought for her. Hawisa was tired and so glad to be home in a chamber which she had decorated and furnished to suit her own comfort. She put the key in the lock, turned it, then froze as she heard a sound behind her. Another rat? Or someone else? She stopped, certain it was a footfall she had heard in the street above her. She stepped out of the porch and looked back up the darkened steps. Nothing. She went back and fumbled with her key then started as she felt a light touch on her shoulder.

‘Hawisa,’ the voice whispered, ‘I have been waiting for you!’

Hawisa smiled, face up, just as the killer’s knife swept towards her neck, ripping it in one long, bloody gash.