Satan's Fire

Chapter 4

At Framlingham, the Templar serjeant led Corbett up the dark mahogany staircase and along a bare, hollow-sounding gallery. Crosses and shields bearing the escutcheons of different knights hung on the walls, interspersed by the stuffed heads of wolves and stags which stared glassily down at him. Only a window at the far end lit the gallery and gave it an eerie atmosphere, where light and darkness mixed so mysteriously. On corners and in doorways, men-at-arms stood on guard, silent as statues. They went up another short flight of stairs and into the council chamber. Oval-shaped, the walls were bare apart from two great banners bearing the Templar insignia. There was no fireplace, just an open stone hearth with a flue high in the roof; it was a bleak, awesome room, bereft of furniture and carpets, the windows mere arrow-slits. It smelt strangely of sizzled fat, which curdled Corbett’s stomach and brought back memories of the burning villages in Scotland. The Templar commanders, sitting in heavy carved choir-stalls formed in the shape of a horseshoe, fell silent as he entered. De Molay, in the centre, waved Corbett forward to a stall on his immediate right. The clerk made his way past a table which bore a corpse covered by a sarcenet, gold-edged pall and ringed by purple wax candles. A ghastly sight, the source of the sour smell, made rather pathetic by the dirty boots peeping out from beneath the cloth.

‘We thought you’d come, Sir Hugh.’ De Molay gestured at the table. ‘We are holding a coroner’s court according to the rule of our Order. The keeper of the manor here, Sir Guido Reverchien, was mysteriously killed this morning, burnt alive in the centre of the maze.’

Corbett glanced round at the Templar commanders; they looked alike with their stony, sunburn faces. Not one of them made a gesture of welcome.

‘Every morning, just before dawn,’ de Molay continued, ‘whatever the weather, Sir Guido did his own private pilgrimage to the centre of the maze. Over the years he’d come to know it so well, he could find his way in the dark, chanting psalms and carrying his beads.’

Corbett looked down at the burial pall. He’d heard about the construction of such mazes, so those who were unable to perform their vow to go on pilgrimages or Crusade, could make reparation by following the tortuous path of a carefully contrived maze to a cross or statue of Christ in the centre.

‘How could a man meet such a death in the centre of a maze?’ Corbett asked.

‘That is why we are assembled,’ Legrave explained. ‘Apparently Sir Guido reached the centre. He had lit the candles at the foot of the cross when this mysterious fire engulfed him.’

‘And no one else was present?’ Corbett asked.

‘Nobody,’ Legrave replied. ‘Very few people knew the mysteries of that maze. His old friend Odo Cressingham, our archivist, used to stand on guard at the entrance. No one had gone into the maze before Sir Guido, and no one followed him. Odo was sitting on a turf seat, as he did every morning: Sir Guido’s knees and legs would be sore by the time he left the maze and he always required help to go back to the refectory. Odo said it was a beautiful morning; the sky was lighting up when he heard Sir Guido’s terrible screams. Standing on the turf seat, Odo could see a heavy pall of smoke rising from the centre. He raised the alarm. By the time he and some serjeants reached the centre, this was what they found.’ Legrave got up and lifted back the pall.

Corbett took one look and turned away. Reverchien’s body had been reduced to a cinder. From the frizzled scalp to those pathetic boots, the fire had burnt away all features and reduced flesh, fat and muscle to a cindery ash. If it hadn’t been for the shape of the head and the holes where the eyes, nose and mouth had been, Corbett would have thought the corpse was a blackened log.

‘Cover it!’ de Molay ordered. ‘Our brother Guido has gone. His soul is in Christ’s hands. We must decide how he died.’

‘Shouldn’t the corpse be handed over to the city coroner?’ Corbett asked.

‘We have our rights,’ Branquier snapped. ‘Approved by the Crown.’

Corbett wiped his lips on the back of his hands.

‘And why are you here?’ the treasurer continued harshly.

‘Let’s be courteous to our guest,’ William Symmes intervened.

Sitting next to Corbett, he smiled across the choir-stall, but then the clerk started as a small, furry bundle leapt from Symmes’s lap into his. Corbett’s consternation eased the tension. Symmes sprang to his feet apologising, and deftly plucked the little weasel from Corbett’s lap.

‘It’s my pet,’ Symmes explained.

Corbett peered over the stall at the weasel’s small, russet body, its white pointed features, twitching nose and the unblinking stare of those little black eyes. Symmes cradled it as if it was a baby, stroking it gently.

‘He’s always like this,’ Symmes explained. ‘Curious but friendly.’

De Molay rapped his fingers on the side of the stall and all eyes turned to him.

‘You are here, aren’t you, Sir Hugh, because of recent happenings in the city? The attack on the king!’

‘Aye, by a serjeant of your Order, Walter Murston.’ Corbett ignored the indrawn hiss of breath. ‘According to the evidence, Murston fired two crossbow bolts at the king as the royal procession was moving up Trinity.’

‘And?’

‘By the time I reached the tavern garret where Murston was lurking, he, too, had been killed by a mysterious fire which consumed the top half of his body.’

‘How do you know it was Murston?’ Legrave asked.

‘We found his saddlebag, Templar’s surcoat and a list of provisions in his name. I am sure,’ Corbett added, ‘that if you search, you will find the serjeant gone and your armoury lacking an arbalest.’ The clerk stared across at Branquier. ‘And you will not be sitting in judgement on his corpse. Sir John de Warrenne, Earl Marshall of England, has ordered it to be gibbeted on the Pavement in York.’

De Molay leaned back in his choir-stall. Corbett saw how his saintly, ascetic face had now turned an ashen grey. Dark rings under the grand master’s eyes showed he had slept very little, and betrayed the anxieties seething within him. You know, don’t you, Corbett thought; you know there’s something rotten here. Something festering within your Order.

De Molay drew his breath in. ‘Murston was one of my men,’ he explained. ‘A member of my retinue. He was of Gascon birth and belonged to the French chapter of our Order.’

‘Why should he try to kill our king?’ Corbett asked.

De Molay tapped the side of his head. ‘Murston served in Outremer: the heat there can boil a man’s brain. He was a good serjeant but his wits were slightly addled.’

‘The same could be said of many in York, but they do not try to commit treason and regicide.’

‘There are those in our Order,’ Legrave spoke up, ‘who claim the Western princes’ lack of support cost Christendom the city of Acre. The Templar Order lost many good knights at Acre, not to mention treasure, as well as their foothold in the Holy Land. If Acre had been relieved. .’ Legrave wrinkled his brow. ‘If Edward of England had done more,’ he continued, ‘perhaps that tragedy would never have occurred.’

‘But that was twelve years ago!’ Corbett exclaimed.

‘Some wounds fester,’ Baddlesmere snapped. ‘Others heal quickly. Murston was one of those who felt betrayed.’

‘In which case,’ Corbett continued, ‘there are others, aren’t there? Somebody else was with him.’

‘What proof do you have of that?’ Symmes shouted.

‘I simply don’t believe that fire consumes every would-be murderer, even if their intended victim is a crowned king.’

‘But you have no proof,’ Legrave said.

‘No, I don’t. But I do possess proof that, as I came through York earlier today, I received the Assassins’ warning as well. A message thrust into my hand. Someone scrawled it out then paid a beggar to give it to me. A short while later,’ Corbett continued, ‘a crossbow bolt narrowly missed my head. This was not imagination, I have all the proof I need.’ Corbett held up his hand bearing the king’s ring.

‘I see it,’ de Molay remarked softly. ‘You act for the king in this matter?’

‘So, let’s not sit here engaging in tittle-tattle,’ Corbett said. ‘Some days ago, a grisly murder occurred on the road outside York near Botham Bar. A man’s body was cut into two, the top half consumed by fire. Only a trained knight, with a two-handed sword, could have performed such a terrible feat.’ He glanced at de Molay. ‘You have recently all come from France, Grand Master.’

De Molay nodded, running his fingers through his beard.

‘We attended a grand chapter there,’ Branquier explained.

‘Aye, and shortly afterwards,’ Corbett replied, ‘a Templar serjeant tried to kill Philip of France.’

‘Rumour,’ Branquier scoffed. ‘More of your tittle-tattle, Master Clerk.’

‘You will hear the truth soon enough,’ Corbett replied. ‘We have news from France. This Templar serjeant has been captured and handed over to the Inquisition. He confessed that there’s a coven within your Order of high-ranking knights who dabble in black magic and wage a secret war against God’s anointed princes.’

Corbett’s words created an uproar. Legrave and Symmes sprang to their feet. The latter still stroked his pet weasel, so lovingly that Corbett idly wondered if it could be his familiar, but he dismissed the thought as both unfair and superstitious.

Richard Branquier put his face in his hands: he glared through his fingers at Corbett with such intense hatred that the clerk wished he had brought Ranulf and Maltote with him. Old Baddlesmere just sat shaking his head. Only when de Molay brought his high-heeled boots crashing down to the floor and shouted for silence, did the knights resume their seats.

‘We heard about this attack,’ he announced. ‘Sooner or later the Temple in Paris will send us the truth of these matters, though Edward of England’s own emissary would never lie. What else do you know, Sir Hugh?’

‘The French Templar confessed that members of this coven are led by a high-ranking officer who calls himself Sagittarius, or the Bowman.’ Corbett turned and jabbed a finger at de Molay. ‘You, Sire, know there is something wrong. It’s written on your face: that’s why your soldiers now patrol the grounds and heavily armed men stand guard in the galleries outside. What do you fear?’

‘Nothing but superstition,’ de Molay snapped back, ‘of course.’ He shrugged. ‘There are Templars who are bitter at what happened at Acre and elsewhere, just as there are English barons who do not want peace with France.’

‘Is that why you acceded so quickly to the king’s demand for money?’ Corbett asked. ‘Are you trying to buy his protection?’

This time Corbett knew he had hit his mark. There were no dramatic outbursts or cries of disapproval.

De Molay smiled faintly. ‘Sir Hugh,’ he replied. ‘Templars are fighting monks. All of us here are warrior-priests. We came into this order for one purpose, and one purpose only: to defend Jerusalem and the Holy Places. To protect Christ’s fief from the infidel. Now look at us. . Merchants, bankers, farmers. Of course, we hear the rising tide of protest. They call us idle, time-wasters! But what can we do? Men like Guido Reverchien, Murston, myself; all the knights in this room who would love to give our lives on the walls of Jerusalem and spill our blood so the likes of you can kneel and kiss the ground in the Holy Sepulchre. It is politic,’ he added slowly, ‘for us to seek out friends in high places, whether it be Philip of France or Edward of England.’

‘We are the king’s loyal subjects.’ Legrave’s boyish face looked even more youthful.

‘Then you can prove it,’ Corbett replied. ‘Where were you all, today, between the hours of ten o’clock and two o‘clock, the time of the attacks on both the king and myself?’

‘Why single us out?’ Baddlesmere snapped. ‘We are not the only Templars.’

‘You were in France and Philip was attacked. Murston was from Framlingham Manor. He carried a purse of silver, far too much for a common serjeant. Above all, the murderous attack outside Botham Bar was, I believe, carried out by a knight. More importantly, the only people who knew which street the king would use in going to the archbishop’s palace were me, John de Warrenne and yourselves.’

‘Nonsense!’ Baddlesmere exclaimed.

Corbett shook his head. ‘No, sir, the only time that route was mentioned was when you were present in the priory yesterday afternoon. I deliberately arranged it so that the king could take four, even five routes through the city. The decision to go up Trinity was reached just before the king met you. It was announced publicly only very shortly before the king entered York, yet Murston was in that tavern from the night before.’

The Templars now looked frightened. Baddlesmere shuffled his feet, Branquier fingered his lips, Legrave stared in outrage at Jacques de Molay, whilst Symmes sat, head bowed, stroking and muttering under his breath to his pet weasel.

‘If what you say is true,’ de Molay remarked, ‘the traitor must be in this room.’

‘You are forgetting one thing, Master Clerk,’ Branquier pointed down to the corpse covered by the pall. ‘Guido Reverchien was killed this morning just before dawn. Concedo, there is a link between the death of the stranger outside Botham Bar, that of Murston, and the mysterious death of Guido Reverchien. However, you cannot prove any person here was present on the road outside Botham Bar or with Murston. On the other hand, we can prove, every man in this room, that when Sir Guido Reverchien died we were lodged at St Leonard’s Priory.’ He saw the surprise on Corbett’s face. ‘Didn’t you know that, Clerk? We stayed there overnight. We arrived back here, shortly before you did, to discover the tragedy.’

‘And, before you ask,’ de Molay intervened, ‘this morning we were in the city. We had business there with our bankers.’

‘Together?’ Corbett asked, trying to conceal his confusion.

De Molay shrugged. ‘Of course not. Legrave came with me, my colleagues went hither and thither. There was business to be done.’

‘So, any one of you,’ Corbett asked, ‘could have been with Murston? Or written that message or loosed a crossbow bolt at me?’

‘Sir Hugh,’ de Molay almost shouted, raising his voice over the cries of protest, ‘you have no proof of these matters!’

‘I returned here just after noon,’ Branquier protested, ‘to speak to Brother Odo our archivist.’

‘And the rest?’ Corbett asked.

Different replies were given; clearly all the Templars had been back at Framlingham shortly before Corbett’s arrival.

‘We heard about Guido’s death,’ Branquier explained. ‘We deemed it mysterious. The gates were locked, the guards doubled and this court held.’

‘You may well be innocent,’ Corbett replied, ‘but I act on orders from my king: no Templar may leave the grounds of Framlingham Manor until this matter is resolved. None of you is to enter the city of York.’

‘Agreed,’ de Molay answered quickly. ‘And I suppose you and your companions are to be our guests?’

‘Until these matters are resolved,’ Corbett replied. ‘Yes, we are.’

‘In which case Ralph,’ de Molay gestured at Legrave, ‘will show you to our guesthouse.’

Corbett pointed to the corpse. ‘And your companion’s death?’

De Molay pulled a face and got to his feet. ‘Either an act of God or. .’

‘Murder,’ Corbett added.

‘Yes, Sir Hugh, murder. In which case we can use your skills. After Legrave has shown you your chambers, you are free to go into the maze. A rope has been laid, as a guide, from the centre to the entrance. Use that and you’ll not get lost!’

Corbett followed Legrave to the door.

‘Sir Hugh!’ De Molay came forward. ‘Tomorrow morning, the brothers will sing a Requiem Mass for Sir Guido. You are most welcome to attend. As for the rest, you are an honoured guest. However, we ask you to observe the courtesies. We are a monastic Order; certain parts of this building are our enclosure: outsiders are not permitted to enter.’

Corbett nodded and followed Legrave out into the corridor and back to the hallway where Ranulf and Maltote were sitting in a small recess just inside the front door. Legrave took them all out across the gravel path to the bottom floor of the east wing.

‘They are just cells,’ Legrave explained. He opened one door. ‘Sir Hugh, your servants can share this.’

He then pushed open another chamber door and ushered Corbett into a large, cavernous cell with a single arrow-slit window. The walls were lime-washed. A large crucifix hung above the trestle bed; at the foot of this stood a large, leather chest with an iron-bound coffer on the table beside it. Beneath the window was a writing table and a throne-like chair, its back and arms intricately carved.

‘You may join us in the refectory for meals,’ Legrave told him. He looked over his shoulder at Maltote and Ranulf who were still standing in the corridor. He closed the door and leaned against it, his eyes crinkled into a smile.

‘Sir Hugh, do not take offence at the reception given. Our Order is in turmoil. We are like a ship without a rudder, blown this way and that by different winds. The Holy Land is lost. The Infidels squat in our sacred places and what are we supposed to do now? Many of our companions left family, home and hearth to become Templars. This is their family, yet all they can see is their beloved Order being plundered by princes.’

‘There is still no excuse for murder or treason,’ Corbett retorted.

‘No, no, there isn’t, but that, Sir Hugh, is still to be proved. Anyway, you’ll hear the bells ring for supper.’ And with that Legrave slipped quietly out of the room.

Ranulf and Maltote entered, carrying Corbett’s saddlebags.

‘The horses are stabled,’ Maltote said. ‘Including that vicious brute of a sumpter pony: it gave the stable boys all the devil’s bother.’

‘What do you think, Master?’ Ranulf asked, placing Corbett’s saddlebags into the great trunk and pulling across a stool.

‘Mysterious,’ Corbett replied. ‘The Templars are a closed book: hard-bitten, fighting men. They don’t like us. They resent our interference, yet, beneath it all, there is something wrong.’

‘You mean the death of the keeper? We heard all about it,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Oh, not from the Templars, they’re all tight-lipped and soft-footed, but from the ordinary servants.’

‘And did you learn anything?’

‘No, they are just terrified. The usual mumblings about strange lights at night, comings and goings. Apparently, all was peace and quiet until de Molay and the commanders arrived. Usually, the manor is left empty under its keeper and a few servants. Now everything has been turned topsy-turvy. They believe the keeper was murdered by black magic, consumed by flames sent up from hell. They are already deserting, refusing to work here.’

Corbett stared out of the window. The sky was scarred with the red-gold flashes of a setting sun. He wanted to lie down and compose his thoughts but he kept remembering that grisly burden lying on the table in the council chamber.

‘Look, Ranulf, Maltote, unpack our belongings. Lock the door after me. I am going down to the maze. Meanwhile you two can try blundering about, acting the innocent.’ Corbett winked at Maltote. ‘For you, that won’t be hard. Try and see where you can go. Ranulf, if you are turned away, don’t argue. We’ll meet back here within the hour.’

Corbett left the guesthouse and walked round the manor. He sauntered by the stables, smithies, outhouses and, going through a huge gate, entered a large garden, a place of silent peace, beautifully laid out. It contained a tunnelled arbour along one side, covered by white roses, lily of the valley and honeysuckle. Corbett sat down on a turf seat and stared round in admiration.

‘Oh,’ he whispered. ‘If only Maeve could see this!’

His wife had a passion for gardens, yet this was better than any Corbett had seen even in Edward’s palaces. There were chequerboard beds in one corner, and the sweet fragrance from the herbs growing there hung heavily in the evening air. After a while Corbett rose, walked across and stared down at the periwinkle, polypody, fennel, cowslip and white orris. Next to these were nerbers, small raised flower beds containing yarrow, daisy and Lady’s bedstraw. Corbett walked on, into a small orchard with apple, pear and black mulberry trees, all providing cool shade against the brightness of the setting sun. He looked back towards the manor, its arrow-slit windows and small bays full of glass, and wondered if he was being watched.

He left the garden through a small postern gate built into the wall. This led to a meadow, which sloped down to a small copse at the edge of a broad, shimmering lake. From the nearby byres, Corbett heard the cattle lowing as they were brought in for the night. A man was singing and, on the breeze, he heard the crash of a blacksmith’s hammer on the anvil. An idyllic scene which brought back bitter-sweet memories of his own manor at Leighton. Nevertheless, Corbett felt uneasy: he was sure someone was studying his every movement. He turned right and walked behind the manor house to a fringe of trees. Behind these stood the maze, a sea of high, green, prickly hedgerows which stretched out to the curtain wall of the manor. He walked along, staring into each entrance, then he found the long line of rope lying on the ground. Corbett made his way, following the rope as it twisted through the hedgerows.

‘Lord save us!’ Corbett whispered as he stared up at the thick green bushes on either side. ‘Guido Reverchien must have been a glutton for punishment.’

He started as a bird flew out of the hedge and soared above him in a whirr or wings. The sound reminded Corbett of a crossbow bolt. He walked on: the maze became silent, as if he was lost in some magical, secret forest. He followed the rope along the path. The ominous silence seemed to intensify; he felt his heart skip a beat and sweat prickle the nape of his neck. Shadows were beginning to fall and, in some places, the high hedgerows blocked the rays of the dying sun. Corbett trudged on. He was regretting not waiting till the following morning when suddenly he heard a crunch on the gravel. Corbett whirled round. Was someone following him? Or did the sound come from some bird or animal on the other side of the hedgerow? He stood listening for any noise then, satisfied, walked on. At last the rope snaked round a corner and into the centre of the maze. A large stone crucifix stood here; in front of it were paved steps on which Reverchien must have knelt. Now the stonework and the heavy iron candelabra were cracked and scorched. Corbett stared up at the carved face of his Saviour.

‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘How can an old soldier saying his prayers be consumed by a mysterious fire?’

Corbett studied the area where the fire had blazed: he could not detect how the inferno had been caused. The candles were gone, mere streaks of wax: these might spark or scorch but not turn a man into a living flame. Corbett sat on a turf seat and tried to visualise the scene: Reverchien would have come out along the same path he had, chanting his psalms, his beads in his hand. Dawn would be breaking, there would be enough light for Reverchien to notice anyone hiding in this small enclosure. Moreover, although Reverchien was old, he had been a soldier: his hearing would be sharp and sensitive. He would know if someone had followed him through the maze. Yet if the killer was a Templar commander, one of the five he had met in the council chamber, he could not have possibly been here when Reverchien had died. Corbett stared at the great scorch-mark.

‘But what happens,’ he murmured, ‘if there was more than one killer? If there was a coven here at Framlingham? If someone entered the maze long before Sir Guido?’

But if that was the case, the killer would have to have got out again, and that would have been impossible without being detected.

Corbett looked up at the sky. As he did so, he heard the crunch of a boot on gravel from behind the wall of privet, then a creak, like a door opening. Corbett immediately threw himself to the right as a long yew arrow smashed into the cross. Corbett moved behind this, drawing his dagger. Again the crunch on the gravel and an arrow whipped by his head into the privet beyond. Corbett did not wait for a third but ran to the entrance where he could see the rope lying. He fled, keeping his eyes on that rope as it wound and snaked through the maze. Behind him Corbett heard the sounds of quiet pursuit. He turned a corner and suddenly the rope was no longer there. Corbett stopped, sobbing for breath. Should he go to the left or the right? He tried to climb the hedge but the branches were stubby, pointed, and cut his hands. He found it impossible to gain a foothold. Corbett crouched, fighting for breath, trying to calm the thudding of his heart. He remembered how far he had run and quickly gauged that he must be somewhere near the entrance. However, if he took the wrong path he could find himself lost, trapped, a clear target for the assassin. For a while Corbett waited, straining his ears, listening for any sound: all he could hear was the cawing of the crows and an occasional rustle as some bird nesting in the hedgerow burst up into the sky.

At last Corbett felt he was calm enough to move. He took off his cloak and began to cut strips of cloth from it, which he tied around twigs.

‘At least,’ he muttered, ‘I will know if I am going round in circles.’

He crept forward, trying to recall how he had entered the maze.

‘Turning left,’ he whispered. ‘I kept turning left.’

He chose the path to his right and began to work his way forward. Now and again he lost his way, coming round to find a strip of cloth hanging from the bush. He cursed and tried again, a mixture of trial and error. Only once did he hear the pursuer. A crunch of gravel and his heart skipped a beat, the assailant was now in front of him. Darkness was beginning to fall. Somewhere a dog howled mournfully as the daylight began to fade. After a while Corbett felt secure, no longer pursued or watched. He realised the rope had been removed, not to trap him, but as a means of delaying him, should he survive and the assailant had to flee. Corbett edged forward, then he heard Ranulf’s voice.

‘Master?’

‘Here!’ Corbett shouted and, doffing his cloak, waved it high above his head.

‘I saw that!’ Ranulf shouted back.

‘Keep shouting!’ Corbett ordered.

Ranulf happily obliged, bawling out encouragement as Corbett made his way, following the sound of Ranulf’s voice. The hedgerows thinned and he was out on the path where Ranulf and Maltote stood, grinning from ear to ear.

‘You should be more careful,’ his manservant exclaimed.

‘I was bloody careful,’ Corbett grunted. ‘Some bastard removed the rope and tried to kill me.’

Ranulf looked round. ‘Then where is he? He must be still in the maze.’

‘No, he’s gone. Ranulf, did you see anyone?’

‘Only a gardener pushing a wheelbarrow.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘He wore a cowl and cloak, Master. But the manor is full of servants.’

Corbett closed his eyes. He remembered seeing a wheelbarrow near the maze, covered by a dirty sheet.

‘Why should they kill me?’ he rasped. ‘If this secret coven of Templars wants the destruction of the king, how can murdering me bring that about?’

‘They don’t want you to investigate.’

‘But the king will send someone else. Why create more suspicion?’ Corbett glanced up at the darkened sky. ‘Well, they failed for the second time today. That’s the last time I’m wandering round this benighted manor by myself. Well, what did you find?’

A bell began to toll, the sign for evening supper. They walked back to the main entrance, Ranulf explaining how they had wandered the galleries and passageways. He paused, clutching his master’s arm.

‘Framlingham is a mysterious place. There are chambers, stairways, cellars, even a dungeon. The place is well guarded: armed men everywhere. Never once did they try to stop us, except when we tried to climb to the garret at the top of the manor. The stairway is guarded by soldiers. They were polite and shook their heads. When I asked them why not, they just smiled and told me to mind my own business.’

‘Oh, and tell him the other thing,’ Maltote interrupted.

‘Oh, yes, Master.’ Ranulf leaned closer. ‘On the second floor of the main building there are eight windows.’

‘So?’ Corbett asked.

‘But, Master, on the gallery inside there are only seven chambers.’