The Devil's Hunt

Chapter 12

Ranulf sat just inside the church of St Michael. He crouched at the base of a pillar and stared across at the side chapel, disturbed by the colourful painting there. The church was dark except for two lighted candles, which glowed like the eyes of some beast lurking in the gloom. The candles lit up the lurid wall painting of Christ at the Last Judgement, coming with his angels to pronounce eternal doom, life or damnation. Ghostly skeletons, clothed in shrouds, lifted their hands in supplication to angels swooping above them, swords raised. On Christ’s left, goats ridden by fleshless hags mixed with demons, swarming for the last harrowing of souls before the doors to eternity closed for ever.

‘Remember, man, that thou art dust and into dust thou shalt return!’

Ranulf looked over his shoulder at the small chink of light from the anchorite’s window.

‘For death shall come!’ the anchorite intoned. ‘Sprung like a trap upon every living soul upon the earth!’

‘Go to your prayers, old woman!’ Ranulf shouted back.

‘And I pray for you,’ Magdalena retorted. ‘Passerel prayed here but he died: the assassin slid in like a viper, with not a sound, even when he stumbled against the iron boot bar just within the door. So pray!’

‘I need your prayers,’ Ranulf briskly replied.

He stared down the long nave of the church at the huge cross which hung above the high altar. He was reflecting on what the anchorite had said when he heard a sound and turned, but it was only a rat climbing out of the parish coffin that stood on a set of trestles in the transept. Ranulf ran a finger round his lips. He found it difficult to pray for himself, never mind poor Maltote. He shifted slightly to the left so he could see the statue of the Virgin and Child where it stood before a lighted oil lamp to the left of the high altar. Ranulf found it hard to recite the Ave Maria: what memories did he have of motherhood except of a foul-tempered woman who slapped him on his face and threw him out into the streets? One day Ranulf had returned and found her dead of the pestilence. He had just stood and watched as the corpse collectors came and took her off in a barrow to join the rest of the bodies in the great lime pits outside Charterhouse.

The sacristy door opened and Father Vincent came out. He genuflected before the rood screen and came down the church. Ranulf rose to meet him, not wishing to startle the priest.

‘Who is it?’ Father Vincent stopped, peering through the darkness.

‘Ranulf-atte-Newgate!’

‘I thought I heard a noise,’ Father Vincent said. He jingled the keys in his hands. ‘I must lock up now.’ He came closer and saw the book Ranulf was carrying. ‘You are at your devotions, sir?’

‘He’s praying!’ Magdalena shouted. ‘He’s praying for God’s judgement on Sparrow Hall!’

‘It’s the Confessions,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘St Augustine’s Confessions. I borrowed it from the library at Sparrow Hall.’

The priest took the book and weighed it in his hands. ‘Will this help you catch the assassin?’ he asked quietly.

‘I’m not here for that, Father. I came to pray.’

‘And do you want me to hear your confession?’ The priest’s tired, old eyes held those of Ranulf’s. ‘Do you want to be shriven, Ranulf-atte-Newgate?’

‘I have many sins, Father.’

‘Nothing can be refused absolution,’ the priest replied.

‘I have lusted. I have wenched. I have drunk.’ Ranulf took the book back. ‘And, above all, Father, I have killed. I killed a man this afternoon.’

The priest stepped back.

‘It was in self defence,’ Ranulf explained. ‘I had to kill him, Father.’

‘If that is so,’ Father Vincent replied, ‘there is no sin.’

‘And I intend to kill again,’ Ranulf added. ‘I intend to hunt down my friend’s assassin and carry out an execution.’

‘That must be done by the due process of law,’ the priest hastily replied.

‘I will kill him, Father.’

The priest crossed himself. ‘Then I cannot give you absolution, my son.’

‘No, Father, I don’t suppose you can.’ Ranulf genuflected and, without a backward glance, walked out of the church.

Corbett sat at his desk and pulled the two fat tallow candles closer so they bathed the piece of parchment in front of him in their light. Outside in the yard, dogs yapped at the moon. Now and again the sounds of revelry and drinking could be heard from the taproom below. Corbett had opened the shutters. The night air was soft, warm, mingling the smell of the yard with the more fragrant odours from the kitchen and herb garden. Corbett felt uneasy. He stared down at the blank piece of vellum and tried to marshal his thoughts.

‘What have we here?’ he whispered. He dipped his quill into the ink pot.

Item — The self-proclaimed Bellman nails his letters to the doors of churches and Halls all over Oxford. Vicious attacks on the King but who, apart from the King, really cares?

Item — which of the masters from Sparrow Hall could move so quickly round Oxford? Tripham? Appleston? Surely not Barnett who seems to spend his life torn between sin and penance for it? Or the Lady Mathilda, with her cane tapping on the cobbles? Or the silent Master Moth? Yet he seems witless and unable to read? Item — Ascham knew something. What book was he looking for? Why did he write ‘PASSER…’ in his own blood as he lay dying? And why was Passerel killed so silently in St Michael’s church?

Corbett lifted his quill. Ranulf had gone there, saying he needed to pray. Corbett hoped he’d be safe. He smiled grimly as he recalled Ranulf’s cold ruthlessness when dealing with Norreys.

Item — Langton? Why was he poisoned? And why was he carrying a warning letter to myself?

Item — All these deaths are the work of the Bellman. But why?

Corbett put the pen down and rubbed his face. He looked at the hour candle but it was so battered Corbett could hardly distinguish the hour marks. He rose, took off his jerkin, crossed himself and lay down on the bed. He would rest for a while and, when Ranulf returned, continue with his work. He thought of Maeve, Eleanor and Uncle Morgan at Leighton. Perhaps Maeve would be in the solar talking to her uncle? Or in her bed chamber? Maeve always took so long to come to bed, her mind constantly busy, getting things ready for the following day. Corbett closed his eyes, determined to sleep only for a short while.

When he awoke the shutters were closed and the candles doused. Ranulf lay fast asleep in his bed near the door. Corbett heard sounds from the yard below. He opened the shutters and was momentarily dazzled by the sunlight.

‘God have mercy,’ he murmured, ‘but I slept well and deep.’

‘Gone into the west,’ Ranulf joked as he threw his blankets off the bed. ‘I was back before midnight, Master. The taproom was empty. You were sleeping like the dead.’

Ranulf realised what he had said and apologised. He went down the passageway and came back with a fresh jug of water. Corbett decided not to shave but washed himself hurriedly. He changed his shirt and linen and, leaving Ranulf to his own ablutions, went down to the deserted taproom. He was half-way through a bowl of hot broth when Bullock strode into the room snapping his fingers.

‘Sir Hugh, you had better come! And you!’ he barked at Ranulf who had just come down the stairs. ‘We’ve found the Bellman!’

Corbett pushed away the bowl and jumped up.

‘The Bellman? How?’

‘Follow me!’

They hurried after him into the street, Ranulf running back for their war belts. He caught them up just as they entered the lane leading to Sparrow Hall.

‘Who is it?’ Corbett clutched at the Sheriff’s sleeve.

‘It’s Appleston. You know, de Montfort’s bastard son!’

‘And you have proof?’

‘All the proof in the world,’ the Sheriff retorted. ‘But much good it will do either him or you.’

Tripham, Churchley, Barnett and Lady Mathilda were waiting for them in the small parlour.

‘We found him just after dawn,’ Tripham bleated, getting to his feet, wringing his hands together. ‘So many deaths!’ he wailed. The Vice-Regent’s face was white and haggard. ‘So many deaths! So many deaths! The King will not accept this.’

‘Another murder,’ Corbett asked, staring round the group.

‘No murder,’ Lady Mathilda replied. ‘Appleston took the coward’s way out. Master Alfred Tripham will show you.’

The Vice-Regent led them up the stairs. On the first gallery two servants busily folding cloths from a chest stood up and flattened themselves against the wall as if they did not wish to be seen. Bullock pushed open a door. The chamber within was luxurious: it contained a four-poster bed with the curtains pulled, shelves laden with books, pewter plates and cups, stools and a cushioned chair before the elegant writing table under the window. On either side of it stood half-open coffers. Bullock pulled back the curtains of the bed. Appleston lay there, so serenely Corbett thought he was asleep. Bullock, grumbling under his breath, went and pulled back the shutters.

‘Don’t touch the cup on the table,’ he warned as Corbett picked it up and sniffed at it.

He caught the acrid tang beneath the claret.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘I am a sheriff, not an apothecary!’ Bullock snapped. ‘But Churchley claims it’s a form of sleeping potion, the kind which provides eternal sleep.’

Corbett sat on the bed. He gently eased back the blankets and loosened the buttons of Appleston’s nightshirt.

‘Is all this really necessary?’ Tripham asked.

‘Yes, I think it is,’ Corbett replied.

Pulling up the nightshirt he studied the corpse. Corbett could find no mark of violence. The skin was slightly clammy, the face pale, the lips half-open and turning purplish, but nothing significant. If it had not been for the cup, Corbett would have thought Appleston had died silently in his sleep.

‘And why do you think he’s the Bellman?’

‘Look at the desk,’ Tripham replied.

Corbett did so. A piece of parchment, neatly cut, caught his eye: the writing on it was the same as on the Bellman’s proclamation. He also noticed the ink jar and quill lying beside it.

‘“The Bellman cometh and goeth,”’ he read aloud. “‘He sounds his warnings and proclaims the truth yet the darkness always comes. Who knows when he will return?” Slightly enigmatic,’ Corbett observed.

He went back to the bed and picked up Appleston’s hand and noticed the black ink stains on the fingers: flecks of ink also stained the white linen nightshirt.

‘And there’s more,’ Bullock declared.

He began to open chests and coffers, taking out rolls of vellum, pots of black ink. He also pushed scraps of yellowing parchment and thrust them into Corbett’s hand.

‘Draft copies of the Bellman’s proclamations.’ He pointed to a roll of vellum lying beside the desk. ‘Extracts from the chronicles about de Montfort’s life. And, more importantly-’

Bullock went into a coffer and rummaged about. He brought out what looked like a small triptych. However, when Corbett opened it, instead of a picture of the crucifix-ion in the centre with Mary and John on the side panels, there was a crudely depicted portrait of de Montfort portrayed as a saint; on either side stood hosts of people, hands outstretched, scrolls coming out of their mouths which bore the words, ‘Laudate!’ ‘Laudate!’ Praise! Praise!

Corbett joined in the search. Tripham stood by the door bleating protests. Bullock relished turning over coffers and chests. In the end Corbett piled all that they’d found on the desk.

‘So Appleston was the Bellman,’ he concluded. ‘We knew him to be the illegitimate son of de Montfort and there is no doubt he had a special love for the Earl. The scrolls, the writing implements all seem to indicate he was the Bellman.’

‘You are not so sure?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Oh, I may accept that he’s the Bellman,’ Corbett replied. ‘But why did he commit suicide? For that’s what the verdict will be, yes? Appleston realises he could no longer continue his subterfuge. Accordingly, he draws up a small memorandum proclaiming the truth, takes a potion and dies peacefully in his sleep.’ He glanced at Tripham. ‘Was the door locked or unlocked?’

‘Unlocked, Sir Hugh.’

Corbett sat down on a stool and scratched the end of his nose.

‘Here’s a man who is going to commit suicide,’ he declared. ‘He’s written his death warrant — you see the ink stains on his fingers. Most of the wine has been drunk. Appleston does not bother to die dramatically but climbs into bed.’ Corbett stared at the candlestick, he noticed how the wax had burnt down. ‘If you could all leave. Master Sheriff, you too.’

Bullock was about to protest.

‘Please,’ Corbett added. ‘I promise I will not keep you long.’

Bullock followed Tripham out of the chamber. Ranulf closed the door behind them.

‘You don’t believe it was suicide, do you, Master?’

‘No, I don’t,’ Corbett replied. ‘It’s not logical. Most assassins value their lives. The Bellman has enjoyed the game. He has killed in secret under the cloak of darkness. So why should he go so quietly into the night? Oh-’ Corbett nodded. ‘There’s a lot of evidence against him. His parentage, the documents in this chamber. But there again, Ranulf, if you were the bastard son of de Montfort, you’d be proud of it too, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes, yes, I would.’

‘So, tell me, Ranulf, if you were going to commit suicide, if you were going to write the last note of your life, you’d want to do it undisturbed surely? You’d lock and bolt the door. But Appleston did neither. He climbed into bed without dousing the candle. Above all, if a man was about to die, why change into his night attire?’ Corbett walked across to the door. On one peg hung a Master’s cloak bearing the badge of the Hall and, on the other, a shirt, jerkin and hose. Corbett examined these carefully.

‘They are all clean,’ he murmured.

He looked round the room and glimpsed a straw basket in the far corner under the lavarium. He went across and pulled this out, emptying the contents on to the floor. He picked up a soiled shirt and hose.

‘This is what Appleston wore yesterday.’ Corbett put them back in the basket. ‘Appleston also arranged fresh clothes for the morrow.’

‘Perhaps he’s a man of routine,’ Ranulf replied. ‘I have heard of a similar case in Cripplegate when a mother baked bread, even though she had decided to take her life before morning.’

‘Perhaps.’ Corbett walked round the room. He sat at the desk and sifted through pieces of parchment. ‘But let’s say — ’ he waved a piece of vellum in his fingers ‘- Causa Disputandi, that Appleston was the Bellman. Bullock came in here and immediately found the evidence. Why make it so apparent?’

‘Appleston was past caring,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Don’t forget, Master, he must have calculated we were closing in. We’d found out his secret…’

‘But I’m not closing in,’ Corbett commented drily. ‘I’m stumbling around in the dark as much as ever.’

‘Yes, yes. But, Master, let’s say we left Oxford and took horse to Woodstock and told the King what we knew. What would have happened?’

‘The Masters here would have been arrested.’ Corbett nodded. ‘I follow your drift, Ranulf. The King would have been deeply interested in Appleston. He would have been tempted to lodge him in the Tower with the Torturers until the truth was out. Indeed, Edward would have been beside himself to learn that a bastard son of the great de Montfort might have been plotting against him.’

Corbett saw Ranulf’s boots scuff the bed tapestries and, going across, he lifted the sheets and blankets. Beneath the mattress, built into the wooden bedstead, was a small drawer. Corbett told Ranulf to move and they both crouched and tried to open it. The drawer was locked but Ranulf took a small pin out of his purse and inserted it carefully in the lock. At first he had no luck but, drawing it out, he inserted it again more carefully. Corbett heard a click and Ranulf pulled the drawer open. They took it out and placed it on the bed. Ranulf glimpsed Appleston’s dead face and, feeling guilty, pulled the sheet over it. The small drawer contained a few items: a lock of hair in a leather pouch; a ring bearing the insignia of a white lion rampant; a pilgrim’s medal from Compostella in Spain; an ivory-handled dagger in a clasp bearing the same escutcheon as the ring.

‘De Montfort’s arms,’ Corbett remarked. ‘Probably relics of the great Earl.’

He took out the book and opened it. Bound in calf-skin, with small glass jewels embedded in the brown leather cover, the pages inside were stained and marked, the writing in different hands. Corbett took this over to the light.

‘It’s a collection of tracts,’ he remarked, ‘collected and bound together in one volume.’ He turned to the front of the book. ‘And this did not belong to Appleston, it’s the property of the hall.’

‘Is that what Ascham was studying?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Perhaps?’ Corbett replied, leafing through the pages. ‘They are tracts,’ he declared, ‘written and circulated in London during de Montfort’s civil war with the King. They are written by different people, most of them are anonymous.’

‘Anything from the Bellman?’ Ranulf asked.

‘No, but one writer calls himself Gabriel, taking the name of Heaven’s chief herald,’ Corbett replied. ‘Ah!’ He smiled. ‘They are savage criticisms of the King’s government,’ he continued. ‘Nothing original — the usual list of royal abuses and expressions of support for de Montfort.’

‘So?’ Ranulf asked.

‘What is interesting, my dear Ranulf, is that they are the source of the Bellman’s proclamations. He simply copied them out, transcribing them for his own use.’

‘And did Appleston do that?’

‘I don’t know. But one thing we can establish is how long Appleston has had this book. We must look in the library at the register of books that have been borrowed.’ Corbett turned the pages of the book over. On the back of the various tracts was scribbled: ‘Ad dominum per manus P.P.’

Ranulf came across and looked over his shoulder.

‘What does that mean, Master?’

‘Nothing,’ Corbett replied. ‘I suspect that these tracts were collected by royal adherents in London and sent to Braose. He collected them and later had them bound in one volume.’

‘More evidence against Appleston?’

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. ‘Ranulf, go down to the library and ask to see the register. Tell them not to disturb us as yet.’

Ranulf hurried off. Corbett put the book back on the table. Was Appleston the assassin? He closed his eyes and put his face in his hands. Think, he urged: Appleston is the bastard son of de Montfort. He hates the Braose family and the King. He decides to resurrect the memory of his dead father. He takes a book from the hall library, assumes the anonymous name of the Bellman and begins to write tracts. At night he slips out of the Hall and posts these round Oxford. He enjoys himself, baiting the King and bringing Sparrow Hall into disrepute.

Corbett took his hands away from his face and stared at the corpse stiffening under the sheets on the bed. Ascham must have grown suspicious, perhaps he had missed the book. He let his suspicions show so, one evening, Appleston goes out into the garden and sulks between the line of bushes and the library wall. He taps on the shutters. Ascham opens them and Appleston puts a crossbow bolt straight into the man’s chest. But what about the scrawled word ‘PASSER’…? Corbett recalled the library window and felt a tingle of excitement in his belly.

‘Of course,’ he whispered. ‘Appleston was athletic, vigorous. He could have climbed in, taken Ascham’s finger, dipped it into a pool of blood and written those letters himself, so that the poor bursar took the blame. After all it was Appleston who told Passerel to flee to the church. Did Appleston go back, late at night, with a poisoned jug of wine? And what of Langton?’ Corbett didn’t know why the murdered master would have been carrying a letter from him to the Bellman. However, it would have been easy for anyone in that library to slip a potion into Langton’s wine cup.

Corbett got to his feet. And the slingshot fired at them? Hadn’t Appleston spent his youth in the countryside? Perhaps he had grown quite skilled in the use of the sling? Appleston knew that Corbett had learnt about his parentage and, fearful that all would be discovered, had he decided to take his own life? Corbett heard footsteps outside and Ranulf returned.

‘Well?’ Corbett asked.

‘The book is in Appleston’s name,’ Ranulf declared. ‘But listen, Master, the entry is only for yesterday morning. It was two entries down from mine.’

Corbett sighed in disappointment. ‘And there’s no other sign?’

‘No. The title of the book is Litterae atque Tractatus Londoniensis, Letters and Tracts from the city of London. I looked through the register very quickly. No one else has signed it out.’ Ranulf jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘And Master Tripham is getting restless. He wants to know what to do with the corpse.’

‘Tell him to send up a servitor,’ Corbett ordered. ‘The one who looked after Appleston.’

Ranulf left. A short while later he returned with the servitor; a lanky, cadaverous-faced individual with strands of red hair across his bald pate, and a face as white as a sheet. His cheeks and crooked nose were savagely pitted with pimples and sores. His lower lip trembled and Corbett had to sit him down and reassure him that he had nothing to fear. The man gulped, his bulbous eyes constantly watching Ranulf as if he feared he was going to be tried and executed on the spot.

‘I did nothing to frighten him, Master,’ Ranulf said as he leaned against the door. ‘Apparently his name is Granvel. He was Appleston’s servitor.’

‘Is that true?’ Corbett asked gently.

The man nodded.

‘And how long have you served him?’

‘I have been two years at Sparrow Hall.’ Granvel’s voice had a broad, rustic twang. ‘Master Appleston was a good man. He was always kind; he never beat me even when I made a mistake.’

‘Did he talk to you?’ Corbett asked. ‘I mean, about what he did?’

‘Never, never, always please and thank you. Presents at Easter, mid-summer and Christmas. Now and again the occasional shilling when the fair came to Oxford. And he took me once to see a mummers’ play in St Mary’s Church. That’s all I know, Master. I always cleaned his room and he told me never to touch his papers or books.’

‘And last night?’

‘All was normal, Master, except Master Appleston came back very irate. It was dark…’

‘Excuse me,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘Did Master Appleston ever leave late at night? I mean, go out into the city?’

‘Not that I know of.’ The man’s head went back. ‘He wasn’t like that, sir. Not like that Master Churchley, hot as a sparrow he is and lecherous to boot. Master Appleston was a gentleman and a scholar. He loved his books, he did. I mean a real gentleman, sir. He even emptied his own chamber pot out of the window. Didn’t leave it full for some poor servant to do, like the others.’

Corbett tried not to look at Ranulf who, head bowed, was laughing quietly to himself.

‘But last night something was wrong?’

‘Oh yes. Master Appleston came back after dark. I think he’d been out somewhere to eat.’ Granvel lowered his voice. ‘All those strange doings, Master, at the Hall.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘And, before you ask, I know nothing about it nor do any of the servants.’ He winked slyly. ‘Oh, we’ve heard all about the Bellman, sir. But how could someone leave the Hall at night? All the doors are locked and bolted.’

Corbett pulled a face but Granvel was quick.

‘Oh, I suppose, Master, if someone wanted to leave they could do. I am just saying it’s difficult to do so without being seen by someone.’

‘You mean the Bellman?’

‘Of course! We’ve all heard about the proclamations but we can’t read. I’ve wondered, like the rest, how on earth someone could enter and leave Sparrow Hall at their will?’

Corbett looked at Ranulf who shook his head. Corbett dipped into his purse and handed a coin over. Granvel, now relaxed, warmed to his task.

‘The same goes for the poisoning of old Master Langton. How could the wine be poisoned? Everyone drank from the same jug. Anyway,’ he continued almost at a gabble, ‘as I said, last night Master Appleston comes back, angry he was. Some of the soldiers round the Hall were fairly rough. They seized Master Appleston by the cloak and knocked that sore on his mouth. Well, Master Appleston comes into the parlour, breathing thunder he was: with the sore beside his mouth reopened and bleeding. He complained to Master Tripham: said he knew there had to be soldiers but that being manhandled was another matter.’

‘And then he had something to eat?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh no, Master,’ Granvel gabbled on. ‘That’s what I said earlier. Strange doings here. Everyone frightened of every one else. No, he came up to his room and prepared for bed. I brought him some fresh water and he changed. He had his shift and furred robe on when I came up with a goblet of wine.’

Corbett pointed to the goblet on the table beside the bed.

‘That goblet?’

‘Yes, sir, that’s the one. There are plenty in the kitchen. Master Appleston was sitting at his desk. I put the wine down and left.’

‘And that was it?’

‘Oh no, Master.’ Granvel smiled in a fine display of the only two teeth in his head. ‘Master Tripham came up to see him.’

‘And who else?’

‘Master Churchley brought a tincture, some camomile, I believe, for the sore on Appleston’s mouth.’

‘And there was someone else, wasn’t there?’

‘Oh yes, yes, that fat Sheriff comes into the hall, squat little toad he is. “I want to see Master Tripham!” he shouts. “Aye,” Master Tripham replies, “And I want to see you, Sir Walter. There’s a fair argument over Master Appleston’s treatment”.’

‘And then what?’

Granvel shifted on his stool. ‘Well, “Bugger it!” the Sheriff says. “I’ll apologise to Master Appleston myself!”’ Granvel shrugged. ‘I took him up to the room then stayed in the passageway.’

‘Oh come, Master Granvel! You did listen in?’

The man smiled, his eyes on the second coin in Corbett’s fingers.

‘Well, it was hard not to, Master. I didn’t hear distinct words but voices were raised. And then — Bullock by name, Bullock by nature — the fat Sheriff fairly sweeps out of the room and nearly knocks me down.’ Granvel spread his hands. ‘After that, Master, I returned to my quarters below stairs. Except for my usual visit.’

‘Usual visit?’ Corbett asked.

‘Well yes, sir, it’s in the regulations of the Hall. You know how these Masters study by candlelight. After midnight, I, like the rest, go up to check on my master’s chamber.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing. I tapped on the door. I tried the latch but it was bolted.’

‘Was that usual?’

‘Sometimes, when Master Appleston had a visitor in the room or did not want to be disturbed. So I went away.’

‘But the room was locked?’

‘Oh yes. So I thought, I’d leave it for an hour and when I returned the door was unlocked. I opened it gently and peered in. The candles were doused, there were no lights, so I closed the door quickly and went to bed myself.’

‘And you know nothing else?’

‘I knows nothing else, Master.’

Corbett handed over the coin. ‘Then keep your mouth shut, Master Granvel. I thank you for what you have said.’

Ranulf opened the door and the servant scuttled out.

‘So, Master?’

Corbett shook his head. ‘When I was a boy, Ranulf, there was a murder in my village. No one knew who did it. A ploughman had been found in the great meadow outside the village, a knife between his ribs. My father and others took the knife out and brought the corpse back to the church. Our priest then made each of the villagers walk around the corpse. He was invoking the ancient belief that a corpse will always bleed in the presence of its murderer. I remember it well.’ Corbett paused. ‘I stood at the back of the church, watching my parents and all the adults walk slowly round the corpse. Candles flickering at the head and foot of the coffin made the old church fill with shadows.’

‘And did the corpse bleed?’

‘No, it didn’t, Ranulf. However, as the men walked by, our priest, a shrewd old man, noticed that one villager was not wearing his knife sheath. He took him aside and, in the presence of the reeve, carefully scrutinised him. Blood which couldn’t be accounted for was found on the man’s tunic; moreover, he couldn’t explain where his knife was. He later confessed to the murder and fled for sanctuary.’

‘And you think the same will happen here?’

Corbett smiled and went up and pulled back the sheets.

‘Study his face, Ranulf. What do you see? Examine particularly his lips.’

‘There’s a sore.’ Ranulf pointed to the bloody scab. ‘Not properly healed.’

‘Yes, I thought of that when Granvel mentioned the tincture of camomile. It looks as if it has been rubbed.’

‘But Granvel explained that?’

Corbett shook his head. ‘Look at the cup, Ranulf — there’s no blood mark round the rim. Would a man as neat and precise as Appleston go to sleep with a sore still bleeding? More importantly-’ Corbett began to pull the bolsters away from underneath the dead man’s head. There were four all together. Corbett turned these over and sighed in satisfaction: in the middle of one bolster were faint blots of blood, pieces of hardened scab still caught in the linen.

‘Master Appleston didn’t commit suicide,’ Corbett declared. ‘I’ll tell you what happened, Ranulf. Late last night someone came here. A friendly visit — perhaps bringing a wine jug. Whoever it was filled Appleston’s cup not only with wine but with a heavy sleeping draught. Appleston fell into a deep sleep and then the assassin, our Bellman, took a bolster, held it over Appleston’s face and quietly smothered him: that’s why the room was locked when Granvel returned.’