The Devil's Hunt

Chapter 4

Two hours later, as the rain clouds began to gather, Corbett and his party arrived at Sparrow Hall in Pilchard Lane. The college itself was a gracious, three-storeyed building with a grey slate roof capping yellow sandstone bricks; it boasted a fine main door with a large oriel window above it. The other windows were square and broad, with coloured glass filling the mullions. The hostelry on the other side of the lane was more nondescript. Apparently, its founder had bought three four-storey mansions, each with a brick base, the upper storeys of plaster and wooden beams, and had connected the houses by makeshift wooden galleries. The hostelry lacked the grace of the Hall; some of the windows were shuttered, and others were covered by horn paper.

Corbett, Ranulf and Maltote went down a side lane and into the rear yard, its chipped cobbles covered in mud. This housed stables, forges and store rooms. Scholars, in various forms of dress, lounged in the open doorways. An ostler came across to take their horses. As Corbett dismounted, the scholars took a deeper interest in them, clustering together, whispering and pointing. A brick flew well above their heads and a voice in a Welsh accent shouted, ‘The royal dogs have arrived!’

Ranulf’s hand went to his dagger. The yard fell silent. More students now thronged about. A tall, thickset, young man, languidly pushing back a mop of hair from his ruddy face, sauntered across. He was dressed in the garb of a commoner: tight-fitting hose, soft leather boots, a white cambric shirt covered by a robe which fell just above a protuberant codpiece. He wore a broad leather war belt round his waist, from which a sword and dagger hung, pushed through rings. As he sauntered over, others followed.

The ostler hastily led the horses away, whilst the students ringed Corbett and his companions.

‘It’s a fine day,’ Corbett declared, throwing his cloak back over his shoulders so the students could see his sword. ‘Shouldn’t you be at your studies? The Trivium, the Quadrivium, Grammar and Logic? In the immortal words of Aristotle: “Seeking truth and turning the will to good”.’

The leader of the scholars stopped, nonplussed. He would have liked to have quipped back in the time-honoured fashion. Corbett wagged a finger at him.

‘You have been neglecting your horn book, sir.’

‘That’s correct,’ the young man replied languidly, his voice betraying a soft, Welsh accent. ‘Hall life has been disturbed by the comings and goings of inquisitive, royal clerks.’

‘In which case,’ Ranulf spoke up, stepping forward, ‘you can join us at Woodstock to debate the matter in front of His Grace the King.’

‘Edward of England does not concern me,’ the fellow replied, grinning over his shoulder at his companions. ‘Llewellyn and David are our Princes.’

‘That’s treason,’ Ranulf retorted.

The student leader took a step forward. ‘My name is David Ap Thomas,’ he declared sternly. ‘What’s the matter, clerk, don’t you like the Welsh?’

‘I love them,’ Corbett replied, putting a restraining hand on Ranulf’s shoulder. ‘I am married to the Lady Maeve Ap Llewellyn. Her Uncle Morgan is my kinsman. Yes, I have fought the Welsh; but they were resolute fighters — not bullyboys.’

The scholar stared at him, surprised.

‘Now,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Either stand out of my way, sir…!’

‘Leave him be, ap Thomas!’ a voice shouted.

Richard Norreys shouldered his way through the crowd. The scholars dispersed, not because of Norreys’s arrival, but due to Corbett’s claim to kinship with one of the leading families of South Wales. Norreys was apologetic as he led them across the yard into the downstairs parlour of the hostelry. The passageway was rather dirty, its whitewashed walls marked and stained, but the parlour itself was comfortable. The sandstone floor was scrubbed, and tapestries, shields and weapons hung on the walls. Norreys ushered them across to a table, flicking his fingers at a servitor to bring goblets of white wine and a dish of sugared almonds.

‘I must apologise for Ap Thomas.’ He breathed heavily as he sat down at the table beside Corbett. ‘He’s a Welsh noble and likes to play the part of the swaggart.’

‘Are there many Welsh here?’ Ranulf asked.

‘A good number,’ Norreys replied. ‘When Henry Braose founded the Hall and bought this hostelry, special provision was made in the Foundation Charter for scholars from the shires of South Wales.’ Norreys smiled. ‘Henry felt guilty about the Welsh he killed but… don’t we all, Sir Hugh?’

For a while they discussed the King’s campaigns in Wales. Norreys recalled the mist-filled valleys, treacherous marshes, sudden ambuscades and the soft-footed Welsh fighters, who would steal into the King’s camp at night to cut a throat or take a head.

‘You served there long?’ Corbett asked.

‘Aye, for some time,’ Norreys replied. He spread his hands. ‘That’s how I received preferment here. A benefice for services rendered.’ He looked at the hour candle burning on its nook beside the fireplace. ‘But come, Sir Hugh, we are expected at the Hall at seven o’clock and Master ‘Tripham’s a stickler for punctuality.’ He got to his feet. ‘I have chambers for you,’ Norreys continued. ‘Two chambers on the second floor.’

He led them out and up a wooden staircase. Now and again they had to pause as students rushed by, horn books in their hands, sacks or bags slung over their shoulders.

‘The afternoon schools,’ Norreys explained. He then began to describe how Braose had bought three great mansions with cellars and chambers and united them to form the hostelry.

‘Oh yes, we have everything here,’ he said proudly. ‘Garrets for the commoners, dormitories for the servitors, chambers for the bachelors. All those who have the money to pay.’ He glimpsed Maltote perspiring under the weight of the heavy saddle bags he carried. ‘But come on, come on.’

Norreys led them up to the second gallery. The passageway was dull and damp, the walls mildewed. He pushed open the doors of two rooms; both were no more than austere monastic cells. The first had two truckle beds; the other, Corbett’s, a mattress on the floor. It also possessed a table, chair, chest, two candlesticks and a crucifix on the wall.

‘It’s the best we can do,’ Norreys mumbled. He glanced shamefacedly at Corbett. ‘Sir Hugh, you are not really welcome here, you must know that.’ He hastened on, ‘If it grows cold, I can have braziers brought up. For heaven’s sake, watch the candles, we live in mortal fear of fire. The refectory and tap room are on the ground floor, though Master Tripham will probably invite you to eat at the Hall.’

‘If we could have some water?’ Corbett asked. ‘My companions and I would like to wash.’

Norreys agreed and left them.

Muttering and cursing under their breath, Ranulf and Maltote made themselves as comfortable as possible. Corbett placed the few possessions he had brought in a small battered chest under the arrow slit window. His writing bag he hid under the bolster of his pillow before he went to see Ranulf and Maltote. He stood in the doorway and grinned: Maltote was already fast asleep on his bed, curled up like a child; Ranulf squatted to the side of him, glowering at the wall.

‘Don’t say you wish you were back at Leighton,’ Corbett teased.

‘I can see why you told us to bring little or nothing of value,’ Ranulf replied without turning his head.

‘At Oxford,’ Corbett said, ‘students are not thieves, they are like jackdaws. If they want something, they take it. I began my first Trinity term here in one set of clothes and finished it in another.’

A servant brought up two pewter bowls and jugs of water. Corbett returned to his own chamber. He washed his face and hands, rested for a while and was drifting off to sleep when he was roused by the harsh ringing of a bell. He rose, put his sword belt on and decided to wander around the hostelry. The sprawling mansion immediately reminded Corbett of the maze in Queen Eleanor’s garden at Winchester: there were passageways and galleries, stairways and steps leading hither and thither, past chambers, offices, store rooms — a veritable warren. It was none too clean, reeking of burnt oil and boiled cabbage. He went down to the refectory, a long, white-washed chamber with tables and benches placed along the walls. A few students lounged there, arguing loudly, whilst others lay fast asleep on the rushes in the corner. A servant came over and asked if he wished something to drink but Corbett refused. He went along a passageway and stopped before a great, iron-studded door. He tried the handle but the door was locked.

‘Can I help you?’ Norreys came running up, a bunch of keys jangling in his hand.

‘I’m fascinated by your hostelry, Master Norreys. It’s a veritable warren.’

‘It could be better,’ Norreys replied. ‘But the Masters of the Hall are reluctant to spend more silver.’ He pointed to the door. ‘That leads to the cellars and store rooms. It is kept firmly locked, otherwise the students would steal wine and beer and help themselves to the stores. Do you want to go down? I must warn you, it’s no better than the hostelry itself and you’ll need a candle.’

Corbett shook his head. ‘What were these houses before?’

‘They belonged to a wine merchant. One of the houses was used for storage, and the merchant and his company lived in the other two. And there’s the yard and the cellars beneath.’

‘No gardens?’

‘Oh no, the price of land is rising, Sir Hugh. Five years ago Master Copsale sold the garden plots to the City Council.’

Corbett thanked him and returned to his own chamber. Ranulf and Maltote were awake. After they had unpacked their belongings, they dressed and followed Corbett out of the hostelry into the lane. They paused as a friar hurried by pushing a wheelbarrow, with a sheeted corpse lying in it. Beside the friar went a young boy, struggling to keep a candle alight: at every step the altar boy took, a bell, slung on a cord round his waist, tinkled as a warning. Corbett blessed himself and stared up at the windows of the Halls opposite. The sky was still overcast and he glimpsed the glow of candles. Three debtors, chained together and released from the city prison, hobbled along, begging bowls in their hands. A drunken bailiff swayed behind them; he cursed and yelled as a group of children knocked against him in pursuit of a little monkey dressed in a small jacket and a bell cap. They were throwing sticks and stones and, in turn, were chased by the relic-seller whom Corbett had met earlier at the castle. Corbett tossed a coin into one of the beggars’ bowls and waited for the melee to pass before making his way across and up the lane. He pulled hard at the bell outside the main door of the Hall: this was swung open, and a smiling Master Moth beckoned them in. Corbett was immediately struck by the contrast between the Hall and the hostelry: here, bright oaken wainscoting covered most of the walls, above this hung coloured cloths and tapestries; rush matting lay across the paving stones; candles glowed in brass holders and small, tin pots, full of fragrant herbs, were placed on shelves or in comers.

Moth led them silently into the parlour, which was a comfortable, cosy chamber. Tripham and Lady Mathilda were sitting in box chairs before the fire. Moth, helped by a servant, brought stools for Corbett and his companions. Greetings were stiffly exchanged, the offer of wine and small portions of toasted cheese made and taken. Tripham must have caught Ranulf’s sardonic glance at the luxuries round the room: the tapestries, Turkish rugs, pewter and silver pots glistening on shelves; the small, metal coffers and three long chests standing under a table in one corner.

‘Sir Hugh,’ Tripham apologised, sipping from his wine, ‘I appreciate that the hostelry is, perhaps, not the best or most luxurious of quarters.’

Corbett quietly kicked Ranulf before he could reply.

‘I’ve slept in worse,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Master Norreys does his best!’

‘You see,’ Lady Mathilda spoke up, ‘the statutes of Sparrow Hall make it very clear. My brother, God bless his memory, decreed this was a house of study and, apart from myself, no other visitors can be lodged here.’

‘You are not a visitor,’ Tripham declared tactfully.

Lady Mathilda just sniffed and looked away.

‘How long has the college been founded?’ Corbett asked.

‘Thirty years,’ Lady Mathilda replied. ‘The year after King Edward’s coronation. My brother — ’ her eyes brightened ‘- wanted a place of scholarship, of books and manuscripts. Sparrow Hall has produced clerks, scholars, priests and bishops,’ she continued proudly. ‘My brother would have been pleased, though,’ she added darkly, ‘perhaps his contribution to the hall and its founding have not been fully recognised.’

‘Lady Mathilda,’ Tripham sighed. ‘We have been down this path many a time. Our resources are few.’

‘I still believe,’ Lady Mathilda sniffed, ‘that the Hall could find new resources to found a Chair in the University in my brother’s name.’ She pulled at the skin of her throat. ‘Soon all those who knew my brother will be dead and his great achievements forgotten.’ She glanced at Corbett. ‘The King, too, is ungrateful: a grant of monies…’

‘His Grace cannot grant,’ Corbett replied, ‘what he has not got.’

‘Ah yes,’ Lady Mathilda agreed. ‘The war in Scotland. It’s a pity.’ She picked up her wine cup and stared at the fire. ‘It’s a pity Edward has forgotten my brother and the day he defended the royal standard at Evesham when de Montfort fell.’

‘No one forgets,’ Tripham interrupted tactfully.

‘No, and neither do I,’ Lady Mathilda retorted. ‘Perhaps the Hall’s accounts should be examined more carefully.’

‘What are you implying?’ Tripham’s scraggy neck tensed, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a cork in a pond.

Ranulf and Maltote sat bemused at the rancour between two of their hosts. Corbett, embarrassed, stared at the sparrow carved above the motto on the stone mantelpiece. He translated the Latin, a quotation from the Gospel, ‘Are you not worth more than many sparrows?’ Lady Mathilda must have noticed Corbett’s distraction for she sighed, gesturing at Tripham that these matters would have to wait.

‘Sir Hugh, do you make any sense of Passerel’s death? Could he have been the Bellman?’ Tripham asked. ‘I mean, the attack by the students was unforgiveable. But-’ He pulled a face. ‘Ascham was a well-loved master, child-like in his innocence. He did scrawl most of Passerel’s name on a piece of parchment before he died.’

‘It would be tempting,’ Corbett replied, ‘to claim Passerel as the Bellman; to think that he murdered Ascham because the librarian had discovered his secret identity and that Passerel later fled to St Michael’s where he was murdered out of revenge.’ Corbett put his cup down on the floor. ‘If that was the truth, and I could prove it, the King would dismiss Passerel’s death as a mere nothing. He’d declare that the Bellman had been silenced, that justice had been done and I could leave Oxford.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘Who knows, we could even build a case that Passerel may be behind the deaths of these old beggars who have been found in the woods outside the city.’

‘But would your logic be so flawed?’ a voice called out from behind him.

Corbett turned as Master Leonard Appleston picked up a stool and came across to join them. He introduced himself, giving Corbett and his companions a vigorous shake of the hands.

‘You are skilled in logic?’ Corbett asked.

Appleston’s square, sunburnt face creased into a smile; his eyes took on a rather shy look. He scratched at an angry sore on the corner of his mouth, like some schoolboy wondering whether he should be praised or not.

‘Leonard is a master in logic,’ Lady Mathilda spoke up. ‘His lectures in the schools are most popular.’

‘I heard what you said,’ Appleston declared. ‘It would be neat and tidy if poor Passerel was cast as the assassin, the “fons et origo” of all our troubles.’

‘Do you believe that?’ Corbett asked.

‘If a problem exists,’ Appleston said, smiling at Ranulf and making more room, ‘then a solution must exist.’

‘Aye, and that’s the problem,’ Corbett replied. ‘But what happens if the problem is complex but the solution so simple that you wonder if a problem existed in the first place?’

‘What do you mean?’ Appleston asked, taking a goblet from Master Moth.

Corbett paused to collect his thoughts.

‘Master Appleston, you lecture in the schools on the existence of God?’

‘Yes, my lectures are based on Aquinas’s Summa Theologica.’

‘And you comment on his proofs of God’s existence?’

‘Of course.’

‘In which case,’ Corbett replied, ‘wouldn’t you agree that, if I could prove God exists, God would cease to exist?’

Appleston narrowed his eyes.

‘I mean,’ Corbett continued. ‘If I, who am finite and mortal, can prove, beyond a doubt, that an infinite and immortal being exists, then either I am also infinite and immortal, or that which I am proving can’t exist in the first place. In other words, such slight proof for the existence of God is too simple, and is, therefore, not logical. It’s a bit like me saying I can put a gallon of water into a pint tankard: if I could then it is either not a gallon or the tankard can hold more than a pint.’

‘Concedo,’ Appleston said grudgingly. ‘Though I would have to think about what you said, Sir Hugh.’

‘The same applies to Passerel,’ Corbett added quickly. ‘If he is the Bellman, the assassin of Robert Ascham and John Copsale, not to mention the old beggars, then I would say the solution is simple, too tidy, too neat and, therefore, totally illogical.’

‘I agree,’ Ranulf declared, pulling a face at Maltote.

‘So, who did kill Ascham?’ Tripham asked quietly.

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. ‘That’s why I am here.’ He turned to Tripham. ‘I would like to visit the library tonight, perhaps after dinner?’

‘Of course,’ the Vice-Regent replied. ‘We can take our sweet wine down there: it’s a comfortable chamber.’

Master Moth came over. He tapped Lady Mathilda on the shoulder, making strange signs with his fingers.

‘Dinner will be served soon,’ she declared, getting to her feet. She grasped her cane which stood in the corner of the fireplace. ‘Gentlemen, I shall meet you later.’ She hobbled out, one hand resting on the cane, the other on the arm of her silent servant.

The conversation continued in a rather desultory fashion. Appleston and Tripham asked questions about the court and the price of corn at Leighton Manor. They were joined by other Masters: Aylric Churchley, a Master of the Natural Sciences, thin as an ash pole, with a waspish face and grey tufts of hair standing high on a balding head. He spoke in such a high, squeaky voice Corbett silently had to warn Ranulf and Maltote not to laugh. Peter Langton, a small, wrinkled-browed, narrow-faced man with rheumy eyes, who deferred to everyone, especially Churchley, whom he hailed as Oxford’s greatest physician. Bernard Barnett was the last to arrive, fat-faced with a high forehead; a tub of a man with his startling eyes and protruding lower lip. He had a pugnacious look as if ready to dispute, at the drop of a coin, how many angels could sit on the edge of a pin.

Lady Mathilda returned and Tripham led them out, along the passageway into the dining hall. This was a luxurious, oval-shaped room, cosy and warm. The table down the centre was covered in white samite cloths which shimmered, in the light of the beeswax candles, on the silver and pewter cups, jugs and cutlery. Beautiful hangings and tapestries, depicting scenes from the life of King Arthur, hung above the dark-brown wainscoting. Small rugs covered the floor; sweet-scented braziers stood in each corner while large pots of roses had been placed on the cushioned window seats, their sweet, fragrant smell mingling with the cloying and mouth-watering odours from the buttery at the far end. Tripham sat at the top, Lady Mathilda on his right, Corbett on his left. Ranulf and Maltote were placed at the far end with Richard Norreys who had been supervising the cooks in the kitchen. Tripham said Grace, sketched a hasty blessing and the meal was served: quail soup followed by swan and pheasant in rich wine sauces, and roast beef in mustard. All the time the wine flowed freely, served by silent waiters who stood in the shadows. Corbett tasted every dish and drank sparingly but Ranulf and Maltote fell on the delicious dishes like starving wolves.

Most of the Masters drank deeply and quickly, their faces becoming flushed, their voices rising. Tripham was unusually silent whilst Lady Mathilda, whose rancour against the Vice-Regent was apparent, only nibbled carefully at her food and sipped from her wine cup. Now and again she’d turn and make those strange finger gestures to Master Moth.

Tripham leaned across. ‘Sir Hugh, you wish to talk to us about your presence in Oxford?’

‘Yes, Master, I do.’ Corbett looked down the table. ‘Perhaps now is as good a time as any.’

Tripham rapped the table and asked for silence.

‘Our guest, Sir Hugh Corbett,’ he announced, ‘has certain questions to ask us.’

‘You all know,’ Corbett began brusquely, ‘about the Bellman and his treasonable publications.’

All of the Masters refused to meet his eyes but stared at each other or toyed with their cups or knives.

‘The Bellman,’ Corbett continued, ‘proclaims he is from Sparrow Hall. We know the handwriting to be a clerkly hand, albeit anyone’s, and the parchment expensive; consequently the writer is a man of some wealth and learning.’

‘It’s none of us!’ Churchley screeched, running his fingers round the collar of his dark-blue robe. ‘No man here is a traitor. Satan could claim that he lives in Sparrow Hall but, whether he does or not, is another matter.’

His words were greeted with a murmured assent, even the soft-spoken Langton nodding his head vigorously.

‘So, no one here has any knowledge of the Bellman?’

A chorus of denials greeted his question.

‘He writes and posts his proclamations at night,’ Churchley explained. ‘Sir Hugh, we are all eager for our beds. Even if we wanted to wander abroad, Oxford, after dark, is a dangerous place. Moreover, our doors are locked and bolted. Anyone who left at such a late hour would certainly provoke attention.’

‘Which is why,’ Appleston spoke up hurriedly, ‘the writer may well be a student. Some scholars are poor but others are rich. They have a clerkly hand and, amongst the young, de Montfort still has the status of a martyr.’

‘Is there a curfew at the hostelry?’ Corbett asked Norreys.

‘Of course, Sir Hugh, but proclaiming one and enforcing it on hot-blooded youths is another matter — they can come and go as they wish.’

‘Let us say,’ Corbett said, ‘causa disputandi, that the Bellman is neither a member of Sparrow Hall nor the hostelry — why then should he say he is?’

‘Ah!’ Lady Mathilda sniffed, folding back the voluminous cuffs of her robe. ‘There’s so much nonsense written about de Montfort. When my beloved brother came here and founded the Hall and bought the tenements opposite for the hostelry, a widow woman with a child lived in the wine cellars across the lane. She was quite fair but something of a madcap; apparently her husband had been one of de Montfort’s councillors. My brother, God bless him, had to ask her to leave. He offered her alternative dwellings but she refused them.’ Lady Mathilda ran her finger round the rim of her cup. ‘To cut a long story short, Sir Hugh, the woman took to wandering the streets with her boy, until one winter’s night he died. She brought his little corpse down to the lane. She had a hand-bell and began to ring it. A crowd assembled, my brother and myself included. Then she lit a candle, fashioned, so she claimed, from the fat of a hanged man, and she cursed both my brother and Sparrow Hall. She vowed that one day the Bellman would come and wreak revenge, both for her and for the so-called glorious memory of Earl Simon.’

‘What happened to her?’ Corbett asked.

Lady Mathilda grinned; in the flickering candlelight she reminded Corbett of a cat, with narrowed eyes, the skin of her face drawn tight, one hand curled like a claw on the table.

‘Now that’s a coincidence, Sir Hugh. She entered the nunnery at Godstowe but, because of her extravagances, left there. She is now an anchorite at St Michael’s Church. Oh yes! The same place in which Passerel was poisoned.’

‘Why the Bellman?’ Maltote, usually quiet but now emboldened by drink, spoke up. ‘Why did the anchorite refer to the Bellman?’

‘Because,’ Tripham intervened quickly, ‘in London, the Bellman stands outside the Fleet and Newgate prisons on the night before execution day. He warns the prisoners in the condemned cell that they are about to die.’

‘It’s not only that,’ Langton spoke up shyly. ‘Sir Hugh, many years ago when I was a mere stripling, I was an apprentice to a scrivener near St Paul’s. When de Montfort raised the banner of rebellion against the King, the trained bands of London were summoned by his herald, who called himself the Bellman.’

Corbett smiled his agreement but secretly wondered how many at Sparrow Hall had fought or supported the dead earl.

‘So, you know nothing,’ he asked, ‘about the present Bellman or these gruesome deaths amongst the beggars?’

‘Come, come!’ Churchley tapped the table. ‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh! Why should any man here want to take the heads of such destitute people?’

‘Oxford is full of covens and groups,’ Appleston spoke up. ‘The young dabble in strange rites and practices. We have men from the eastern marches whose Christianity, to put it bluntly, is wafer thin.’

‘Let us return to more familiar domestic matters,’ Corbett replied. ‘Master John Copsale’s death?’

‘He had a weak heart,’ Churchley declared. ‘I often made him a concoction of digitalis to temper the heat and make the blood flow more evenly. Sir Hugh, I was Copsale’s physician. He could have died at any time: when I dressed his corpse for burial, I noticed nothing amiss!’

‘Where was he buried?’ Corbett asked.

‘In the churchyard of St Mary’s. Passerel will also be buried there. The Hall owns a plot of land adjoining the cemetery.’

‘Did Passerel say anything?’ Ranulf spoke up from the end of the table. ‘Anything at all to explain why Ascham should write his name, or most of it, on a piece of parchment?’

‘He hotly denied any blame,’ Norreys replied. ‘Every time he came over to check on the stores or sign the accounts, the poor fellow would begin a speech in his own defence.’

‘We all agreed with him,’ Tripham said. ‘The day Ascham was killed, Passerel was travelling back from Abingdon.’

‘Ascham’s corpse must have been cold,’ Churchley spoke up, ‘when Passerel arrived back about five o’clock. It was he who initiated the search for poor Robert, and when we forced the door Ascham was as cold as ice.’

‘What time do you think he died?’ Corbett asked.

‘We know,’ Tripham replied. ‘He went into the library — oh, between one and two o’clock in the afternoon. He locked and bolted the library door behind him. He must have been searching for something but exactly what he never mentioned. Now, for some of that afternoon, I was with Lady Mathilda discussing the Hall’s revenues.’ He glared meaningfully to his right. ‘We then went down to the buttery. Passerel burst in, saying the library was locked and he could get no answer from Ascham.’

‘And where were the rest of you?’

The mumbled replies told him little. Norreys had been across in the hostelry doing his accounts: the rest had been in their chambers before going down to the buttery.

‘I ordered the door to be broken down,’ Tripham declared. ‘When we went in, Ascham was lying in a pool of blood, the letter beside him; the candle was burnt down and the garden window was shuttered.’

‘I examined him,’ Churchley spoke up. ‘It was just after five o’clock in the evening when we broke in. He must have been dead for about an hour.’

‘And what happened on the day Passerel fled to St Michael’s?’ Corbett asked.

‘The scholars,’ Tripham replied, ‘loved old Ascham. On the day in question, a mob gathered threatening violence.’

‘Couldn’t you have sent to the Sheriff for help?’

‘Aye, and we’d still be waiting,’ Appelston replied. ‘I told Passerel to flee: it seemed the best course of action.’

‘We thought it wise to let hot blood cool,’ Tripham added. ‘The following morning, I would have petitioned for help.’ He tapped the table cloth. ‘In the circumstances, it’s difficult to blame the students.’

Corbett pushed his wine cup away. At the far end of the table Maltote and Ranulf looked at him expectantly. Maltote was completely bemused. Ranulf was grinning, running his tongue round his lips. As he often whispered to Maltote, ‘I love to see old Master Long Face get to the questioning. A true lawyer he is, with those sharp, hooded eyes. He sits and questions and then he’ll go away and brood.’ Ranulf took great pleasure in what was happening. Apart from Norreys, the rest of the Masters had ignored him as if he did not exist. Suddenly a screech owl called outside and Ranulf shivered. Wasn’t Uncle Morgan always saying that a screech owl’s call was the harbinger of death?