The Mysterium

9

Corbett hurried back up the stairs and along the gallery to the oyer and terminer chamber, where Chanson was sitting just within the door gnawing a piece of bread filched from the kitchens. He chewed the crust like some angry dog. Ranulf was laughing at him while sorting out the manuscripts on the table. He immediately told Corbett about the King’s visit. Corbett stood chewing the corner of his lip, studying Ranulf intently. His comrade nourished burning ambitions, which Edward was always eager to exploit.

‘Is that all, Ranulf?’ he asked.

‘Why yes, Sir Hugh. The King seemed in good humour,’ Ranulf replied evasively. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘And there was never anyone more given to double-dealing than he,’ Corbett murmured.

‘Master?’

‘Oh, just a line from Scripture about one of Israel’s kings. Now, the Mouseman. .’ Corbett swiftly told them what he’d learnt, impressing upon Ranulf that when the Mouseman appeared at the Chancery of the Green Wax the following day, he was to be given every help and assistance. Ranulf assured him that he would be. Corbett then sent Chanson down to the kitchen with his seal, asking the cooks to provide them with what he called ‘a feast for the King’s good servants’. A short while later Chanson returned with two servants trailing behind him bearing trays carrying pots of hot quail covered in a spicy sauce, dishes of vegetables, small white rolls in napkins to keep them warm, pots of butter and a flagon of the best claret with three goblets. Ranulf had cleared the chancery table, pulling back the leather cover, and Corbett ushered Chanson to his seat, saying that it was time they feasted like princes. They ate and drank in silence. Now and again Ranulf would ask a question about what the Mouseman had said, but Corbett just shrugged and said that they would have to wait and see if his information fitted with the rest. Corbett ate and drank slowly. The more he’d reflected during his time in the abbey, the more he believed the roots of this mystery lay with Evesham and the events of twenty years ago. Yet where should he begin to dig? How could he delve deep and unmask an evil that had lain dormant for decades until abruptly manifesting itself in horrid murder?

Once they’d finished their supper, Chanson offered to take the platters and goblets down to the kitchen. Knowing that the groom wanted to sit and gossip with the other clerks of the kitchen and stable, Corbett let him go. Then he and Ranulf washed their hands at the lavarium and prepared the chancery table. Ranulf sat in Corbett’s chair, whilst Sir Hugh walked up and down trying to marshal his thoughts.

‘The beginning. .’ He paused. ‘What do we have here, Ranulf? The Mysterium Rei — the Mystery of the Thing. It’s well named. Over twenty years ago a murderer prowled London, a professional assassin who carried out crimes on behalf of the rich and powerful. The Mysterium would remove undesirables, individuals the Great Ones wanted dead: a business rival, or a wife who’d served her purpose. He seemed to enjoy his work. He didn’t just kill silently, he left his own message. Why such revelling in heinous sin?’

Ranulf paused in his writing and lifted his head. ‘You’re saying he could have worked more secretly?’

‘Instead he had to boast, to proclaim. I detect a relish, a deep pleasure in what he did, a pride in his bloody handiwork. Most murderers kill stealthily; the Mysterium was arrogant, openly baiting judges, sheriffs and the Crown itself. According to what we know, Burnell the old chancellor hired an ambitious clerk, Walter Evesham, with his faithful lieutenant Ignacio Engleat, to trap the Mysterium. Evesham dedicated all his energies to the task. He must have studied the killer very closely. We now know how the Mysterium worked, but at the time, Evesham didn’t. What he did was watch and wait, sitting like some spider in the chancery listening for news from the city. One day he was fortunate. A merchant’s wife was murdered. The Mysterium left his taunting message, and although merchant Chauntoys might be suspected, he could go on oath that when his wife was killed he was elsewhere. Evesham’s logic was brilliantly simple. He waited for that merchant to return to London and brought him under close scrutiny. For a while Chauntoys acted the role of the grieving widower, but one day, like a fox hidden in the brambles, he decided to break cover. He went to the Liber Albus in Southwark, Evesham followed and lo and behold, in the same tavern, he found the clerk Boniface Ippegrave.’

‘Why was Evesham,’ Ranulf interrupted ‘and therefore Chancellor Burnell, so trusting in his belief that the Mysterium was a chancery clerk?’

‘You heard the King, Ranulf; the chancery receives all kinds of gossip: who hates whom, rivalries, animosities, husband and wife at each other’s throats.’

‘True, master, but so does the Guildhall and its clerks. Why was Evesham so insistent that the Mysterium must be a chancery clerk?’

Corbett paused in his pacing. ‘You are right,’ he conceded. ‘Clerks in the Guildhall also hear the gossip of the city, but that will have to wait. To return to what actually happened. Evesham arrests both Boniface and Chauntoys. The merchant acts guilty; he cannot really explain why he is there. More importantly, he is carrying a heavy purse of gold, an amount he would not take to a Southwark tavern unless he truly had to. Above all he holds a scrap of parchment informing him where to leave that gold. Chauntoys blusters but his guilt is obvious. Boniface, however, carries only a message that could have been scrawled by anyone, saying how his presence in that particular tavern at that hour would be for the greater profit of both himself and the King.

‘Evesham believes he has been successful. He has taken a comitatus with him. Some bailiffs return by barge across the river, others escort Chauntoys and Boniface over London Bridge and up towards Newgate. Now we don’t know exactly what happened. Boniface is simply under arrest; he has not been indicted, and also because he is a clerk, he is not chained or bound. He escapes and flees to St Botulph’s, where he claims sanctuary.’

‘Is St Botulph’s the nearest church?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I don’t think so, but Boniface knew the church and its parson; perhaps he thought he’d be safer there. You heard Sandewic: St Botulph’s is a secure place. Anyway, Evesham is beside himself with rage. He surrounds that church, allows no one to enter except himself, Engleat and the priest. Others visit, Staunton and Blandeford, but they are turned away. Adelicia also approaches. Evesham demands some token of recognition. Adelicia hands over her mother’s ring, which, according to Cuthbert, Evesham definitely gave to Boniface, because he saw him studying it. Sandewic at the Tower has been alerted, and St Botulph’s, its four doors in particular, is circled in a ring of steel. Nonetheless, on the third morning, when Evesham and Parson Tunstall enter, Boniface has vanished and hasn’t been seen since, either alive or dead.’

‘Could Mouseman be correct about a secret passageway?’ Ranulf asked, pausing as Chanson came back through the door. The clerk of the stables slumped down on a stool, crossed his arms and promptly fell asleep. Ranulf grinned and winked at his master.

‘Such a rumour would certainly solve the problem,’ Corbett conceded, ‘but according to what we know, I doubt if there is any such passageway. What we do know is that Evesham was furious. He berated Parson Cuthbert and Adelicia, but they could not help. Brother Cuthbert, a broken man, retires as a recluse to Syon Abbey. A short while later, Adelicia, distraught by what has happened, takes the veil as an anchorite to pray for justice.’

‘And Boniface?’

‘He protests his innocence from the moment of capture to that enigmatic message he left in the Book of the Gospels at St Botulph’s: “I stand in the centre guiltless and point to the four corners.” Nevertheless,’ Corbett continued, ‘whatever his excuse, he was found in that Southwark tavern. Now he may well have escaped; he may have returned. He allegedly visited his sister Adelicia and gave her their mother’s ring. However, if he has truly returned, he has now changed his plea to guilty.‘

‘Do you think he was?’ Ranulf glanced up.

‘Well,’ Corbett sighed, ‘there was the gold, and those scraps of evidence found in his chancery chamber. The old clerk Rastall, who was no one’s fool, detected nothing left there to incriminate him. The great hoarding at St Paul’s? How did Boniface learn about that? Evesham only discovered the method the Mysterium used when Chauntoys confessed in return for his life, so that is most damning. Then there’s the crude map of London showing where some of the murders took place.’

‘That still does not make him the Mysterium,’ Ranulf declared.

‘True,’ Corbett admitted, ‘but there are those other lists of names, Staunton and Blandeford, and that final scrap of parchment with the name of a woman, Emma, followed by Odo Furnival, Stephen Bassetlawe, William Rescales. Who were those? I also wonder what the enigmatic “B” and “M” means, or that square containing the first nine letters of the alphabet. Scraps,’ he murmured, ‘from twenty years ago.’ He sat down on a stool. ‘Let’s go back to Adelicia’s mysterious midnight visitor. Was it Boniface? And why the interest in the woman Beatrice; her name has never appeared before.’ He shook his head. ‘The mysteries of twenty years ago, like those of the present, are impenetrable. I am anxious, Ranulf. Is this one mystery we may just have to leave?’

Ranulf smiled. ‘We have not yet finished. Let’s continue.’

‘True,’ Corbett agreed. ‘So, item — Evesham: why was he in unholy alliance with Waldene and Hubert? For God’s sake, a chief justice of King’s Bench. And who betrayed him? Who was this writer from the Land of Cockaigne?’

‘The clerk Lapwing?’

‘Lapwing was definitely Staunton’s spy, but he openly admits he had no knowledge of Cockaigne. We will return to Lapwing later; let’s concentrate on Evesham. He is disgraced and resigns from his offices. The King allows him to destroy all his records — a great tragedy; those manuscripts might have helped us. Our noble judge then leaves his house, his pretty wife, faithless though she was, his status and wealth, to hide in Syon Abbey as a hermit. He chooses a place close to two people whose lives he has destroyed, Cuthbert and Adelicia.’ Corbett paused.

‘Item — what really happened in the Chapel of St Lazarus at Syon Abbey? We know that Cuthbert and Adelicia met secretly. The murderer must also have known this, but how? Once Brother Cuthbert was occupied elsewhere, the assassin went down into that cell. Evesham did not resist but allowed him in; he must have done. The assassin kills Evesham and leaves. Only later does Cuthbert, whatever he told us, with the help of Adelicia, cover up the crime by posing another mystery, which, they hoped, couldn’t be solved. Our assassin, however, is still determined. On the same evening he deals out gruesome death to Ignacio Engleat, and then disappears for a while.’ Corbett took a drink from his goblet, swirling the wine around his mouth. In front of him flickered the shadow of his quarry. He loved being in pursuit of an assassin, and despite all his anxieties was determined to catch him.

‘Master?’

‘Item — the Newgate riot. What was really being planned? Waldene and Hubert were lowered into the pits, a living death. Who agitated their followers with the rumour that some of them were about to turn King’s evidence? Who supplied them with weapons? Who fed them the lie that if they fled to St Botulph’s, they’d find safety through a secret passage out of that church?’

‘Master, there still might be one.’

‘I doubt it,’ Corbett retorted. ‘And so we move on. Item — who killed Waldene and Hubert? Why? Why were Evesham’s widow Clarice and her steward Richard Fink so barbarously murdered? Why did the assassin leave their heads in the baptismal bowl at St Botulph’s? And why the attack on Parson John?’

‘Because he was Evesham’s son; the same reason Clarice and Fink were killed,’ Ranulf observed. ‘Whilst Waldene and Hubert were his allies.’

‘True, true.’ Corbett nodded. ‘And so we move to other conundrums. Is Boniface Ippegrave really alive and bent on murderous slaughter? If not, who has assumed his name and identity. Brother Cuthbert? Parson John?’

‘Look at Cuthbert’s hands,’ Ranulf pointed out. ‘Could he hold a knife? Parson John is as timid as a rabbit pursued by a fox. He was bound and gagged at St Botulph’s.’

‘What about Staunton and Blandeford? Their names pepper this story,’ continued Corbett. ‘They run like a refrain through this murderous tale. They are mentioned in Boniface’s lists; they were clerks who dealt with the city. Staunton, now a judge, negotiates directly with the Great Ones at the Guildhall. They were the officials who received the information to indict Evesham. Nor must we forget their creature Lapwing, our wandering clerk who has returned to London to look after his ageing, ailing mother. He offered his services to our worthy colleagues to spy on Waldene and Hubert.’ Corbett watched Ranulf’s pen flicker over the surface of the manuscript. ‘Round and round,’ he murmured, ‘and there’s the other matter, the King’s great interest in this. Ranulf, what does it all mean? Where can we look? Evesham’s personal records have been destroyed. I suspect that any found in the chancery are not worth a pot of bird seed. Strange. .’ Corbett paused. ‘So little evidence has remained. In the chancery there’s Evesham’s full, self-congratulatory report but little else. The most interesting evidence is what was actually found in Boniface’s coffer, which was kept and preserved because of the thoroughness of old Rastall. Apart from that, both Evesham and his papers have been removed for ever. We cannot question his widow or her steward, whilst I doubt the other servants know very much. Cuthbert acts very warily; he remains a closed book, which, at this moment in time, I cannot open. Parson John may tell us something. Adelicia may have a few more items or scraps about Boniface,’ he added. ‘But we don’t really know if Boniface is alive or dead. Someone may have just assumed his name. Are any of the people we’ve mentioned the murderer, or has one of them hired a professional killer? I am not even sure about his grace the King and his role in these matters.’

‘You could go to Newgate,’ Ranulf offered. ‘You could question the keeper.’

‘I doubt it, Ranulf. I suspect what happened at Newgate is now well hidden.’

‘What do you mean, master?’

‘I have a suspicion, deep in my heart, that the riot at Newgate was what the King wanted.’

‘Master, you have no proof!’

‘I have admitted that, Ranulf. What if Waldene and Hubert had died in the pit, of gaol fever, as hundreds do every year? What if their gangs were destroyed by royal archers?’

‘But they were.’

‘Precisely, Ranulf. We destroyed both covens, we executed them, but Evesham’s death meant there was no case against Waldene and Hubert. The King couldn’t very well bring them to trial, which he didn’t really want to for fear of further scandal, nor could he detain that precious pair without trial and so create more public furore. He had to release them. He could not prove they had done any wrong with Evesham, whilst they were certainly not involved in the riot. This, in turn, begs another question. What if some royal executioner was responsible for what happened in the Angel’s Salutation?’

‘You’re saying the King is involved in murder?’

‘I know Edward.’ Corbett ran a finger around the rim of his goblet. ‘A prince devoted to the law but one who wishes to keep things silent, hidden. Ah well.’ He drummed his hands on the tabletop. ‘Ranulf, stay in the chancery and go back through the records. Look for anything you can discover on Evesham, Blandeford, Staunton, Hubert the Monk, Waldene — it may be laborious, but,’ he pointed to the now snoring Chanson, ‘he can help. First of all find out about Chauntoys, the merchant arrested with Boniface in the Southwark tavern. Perhaps he left a widow. She may be able to help. In the meantime I will wait for a mistake. All murderers are arrogant, proud as Satan. They invariably do something that betrays them, the Judas kiss of their own malevolence, a mistake, an error that traps them.’

‘And you hope our assassin will do this?’

‘Yes I do, Ranulf. There are three paths to follow here. First, what happened twenty years ago. Second, the recent deaths of Evesham and Engleat. Both murders are understandable in the sense that both scoundrels must have made enemies. What I cannot understand, and this is our third path, are the deaths of Waldene and Hubert, Clarice and Richard Fink.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Were those four people killed to silence them, as an act of revenge, or both? Remember, Ranulf, the assassin took great pains and dangerous risks in executing them.’ Corbett paused, narrowing his eyes. ‘True, I might regret this, but I wish he would strike again, make a mistake, something we can seize on, something out of the ordinary, a possible key to all these mysteries. Finally there is the question that keeps nagging my mind, gnawing away at my heart, one that would take us back to the very beginning. ’

‘Which is, master?’

‘For the sake of argument, what if Boniface Ippegrave was completely and utterly innocent?’

‘I can follow your logic,’ Ranulf conceded ruefully. ‘But if Boniface wasn’t the Mysterium, who was? Who is?’

‘I’ve no evidence, no proof, nothing at all,’ Corbett murmured, ‘but something tells me to start there. I want to see things the way Boniface Ippegrave may have seen them. Perhaps that’s the best way forward. .’

Miles Fleschner, Clerk of St Botulph’s, left the priest house of his parish church and hurried through the narrow, dark, emptying streets. He paused at a tavern, the Scarlet Wyvern, and hurriedly drank a tankard of strong ale and wolfed down a platter of bread and cheese. All replete and refreshed, he then unsheathed his dagger and hurried out into the night-bound street. A river mist curled and trailed along the narrow alleys and lanes leading down to the Thames, but Fleschner was comfortable enough. The taverns were still busy, their half-opened doors and shutters allowing out shafts of light. Now and again he’d catch glimpses of the merry, boisterous life within. A tavern master stood beside a leather tank of live fish positioned near the entrance so that customers could choose one for their own dish. On the floor nearby a slattern placed a trancher smeared with bird lime, a lighted candle in the middle, to attract and kill flies and other insects. On the hook of the door hung garments belonging to customers who still owed monies for drinks, waiting to be redeemed. The slattern glanced up and smiled; Fleschner nodded in acknowledgement and hurried on. In truth, he thought, he should be sheltering in such a warm tavern, or, better still, be back in his own narrow house in Cripplegate, toasting his toes before a roaring fire and savouring the odours of cooked goose, yet he had to do this. He must return to Westminster, seek out that royal clerk and confess everything. It was best that way. He had been in turmoil ever since Evesham’s death. Old sins had been dragged up, ancient doors unlocked, dark memories stirred. Evil deeds were waiting to be purged, confessed and atoned for. Fleschner was determined on that.

The parish clerk reached the narrow approaches to Thames Street. A hog-caller was blocking the way; loud and angry, he was shouting abuse at a singing clerk, who was desperately trying to organise his small choir outside a tavern. A group of mourners had also become involved in the tumult as they tried to negotiate a path for a corpse sewn in its deerskin shroud and laid out on a long, two-wheeled funeral cart. Despite the turmoil, Fleschner found the dancing torchlight, the shouts, the very presence of these people comforting. He slipped by them down a needle-thin runnel, holding out his dagger, a warning to any night-walker lurking in the recesses of the walls soaring up on either side. He also watched the ground underfoot, pitted and rutted, strewn with every kind of filth, which exuded a rancid smell despite the scattering of saltpetre.

He safely reached Thames Street and sighed in relief. Dung carts were still out clearing the heaps of dirty offal over which cats and rats fought, whilst kites and other scavenger birds floated above them, sinister shadows in the fading light. Fleschner was aware of the hot sweat drying on him. He’d done well. He’d overcome his fears. He had taken Parson John back to the deserted priest house, putting the anguished man to bed, giving him a cup of wine laced with the opiate the priest had brought from a cupboard. He had left him on his cot bed in that narrow chamber muttering about sin and the devil, and had then made a decision about his own doubts and suspicions, the anxieties he nourished. Corbett would surely listen to him.

Fleschner glanced along Thames Street. People moved, flitting shapes in the poor light. He was nearly there. He’d get to the river steps at Queenshithe, hire a barge and make his way up to Westminster. Night or not, he’d seek Corbett out like a penitent would a shriving priest and confess all. He crossed Thames Street and hastened down another runnel. It was then he heard a sound behind him and made to turn, but it was too late. A crashing blow to his head sent him spinning to the ground.

When he awoke, Fleschner throbbed with pain. He was bruised and cold and he realised that some time had passed. Blood trickled down his face. He tried to speak but he couldn’t. It was as if his tongue was clipped by a brooch. He went to move his hands but they were bound, his ankles too. He blinked. Again a trickle of blood snaked down his nose; the cut on his forehead was very sore. He startled and gagged as a rat slithered across his legs and disappeared into the darkness, and the full horror of what was happening swept through him. He recalled Parson John bound and gagged, the bloody cut to his forehead. That ‘M’ was already inscribed on his own skin. A shape moved out of the darkness.

‘Please,’ Fleschner pleaded, ‘for the love of God.’

‘Too late,’ hissed a voice. ‘Too little, too late. Vengeance has come, Master Fleschner, tribulation time!’

His captor gripped him by the back of his cloak, and he was dragged further down the runnel and forced up on to a barrel against the wall, where a noose was looped around his neck. He realised with horror that the other end was slung over an iron bracket high on the wall. He screamed as the barrel was kicked from beneath him, and jerked and struggled frantically, but the noose tightened swiftly around his throat.

When at last Fleschner’s body stopped twitching and trembling, his murderer, who had watched fascinated, pinned a scrap of parchment to the dead man’s cloak and disappeared into the night.

Hugh Corbett knelt beside Fleschner’s corpse, drew his dagger and sawed at the noose still tight around the dead man’s throat. The coarse rope had squeezed tight, scoring the skin. The mottled face was hideously covered with a light frost, which caught the sheer horror of violent death. Corbett closed his eyes, crossed himself and murmured the requiem. He felt sorry for this poor, fussy man, seized in the dead of night and executed like some common felon. He gazed up at the iron bracket from which a length of rough oiled cordage still dangled.

‘What a place to die,’ he murmured. He stared along the filthy alleyway running down to the river-soaked quayside of Queenshithe. It was still early in the morning; a mist curled, the light remained a dull grey. A short distance away a group of women huddled around Fleschner’s widow, who was sobbing uncontrollably. Corbett could hear their words of comfort. He glanced up at the bailiff, face almost hidden by the cowl of his heavy cloak.

‘This is all you found?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir, doing my morning watch. Usually very quiet, nothing but cats, rats and the occasional drunken sailor with his whore. At first I thought my eyes were deceiving me. I just saw him, cloak fluttering, body swaying in the river breeze, so I came over.’

Corbett tried to ignore Fleschner’s horrid face. He unpinned the scrap of parchment and stared at those words scrawled in blue-green ink: Mysterium Rei — the Mystery of the Thing. He put this into his wallet, then rose and walked across to the group of women. They were a desolate sight, wrapped in heavy cloaks, hoods protecting their pallid faces against the biting river wind. They were all comforting Mistress Fleschner, a plain-faced woman, her red-rimmed eyes still full of shock at her husband’s sudden, brutal death. Corbett grasped her gloved hand. When he introduced himself and offered his condolences, Mistress Fleschner abruptly withdrew her hand.

‘Sir, royal clerks have never brought me or mine good fortune.’

‘Mistress, I am sorry to hear that. What do you mean?’

‘Evesham.’ She spat the word out. ‘Master Miles has never been the same since he visited our home.’

‘When was this?’

Mistress Fleschner swallowed hard, dabbing her eyes. ‘Years ago, when Evesham’s villainy was green and fresh. He visited us often. No, sir, I don’t know why. Master Miles never said. I tried to discover but he remained tight-lipped, so why should I worry? Soon afterwards he resigned his office as coroner. I was pleased; no more sitting over corpses dragged from the river or horribly murdered. He could spend more time with me. He was happy to be parish clerk at St Botulph’s. I thought that was where he was last night. I know he was with Parson John. He must have comforted and looked after him. I thought he would come straight home afterwards or send me a message, but oh no, and now. .’ She burst into tears and crept back amongst the other women.

Corbett bowed and walked over to where the bailiff, now joined by his companions, was organising the removal of the corpse. He stared at the pitiful remains of Miles Fleschner being bundled on to a makeshift stretcher and covered with a piece of rough sacking. The chatter amongst the bailiffs was that Fleschner had been murdered by footpads who’d decided to mock their victim by hanging him from the iron bracket. Corbett knew different, but why? What had Fleschner to do with the other deaths? He glanced back to where Mistress Fleschner was still being fussed by the other women. They would accompany her husband’s remains to the corpse house of the nearest church. He glanced beyond them at the mist boiling over the river. Queenshithe was coming to life. Figures trailed here and there, the odd shout, the rattle of a wheelbarrow, the clatter of a cart.The city would soon be wakening. He heard a sob and glanced pitifully at Mistress Fleschner as she knelt and placed her hands on the covered corpse of her husband. He recalled her words. Had Fleschner been killed not because of any connection with St Botulph’s but because he was once coroner in Cripplegate? Was that the reason? Had the assassin made a mistake at last?

Corbett studied the bailiffs and chose the youngest, a bright lad. He drew him away from the rest and handed over a seal cast and a coin, then gripped the young man by his shoulder.

‘Your name?’

‘John, sir, John-atte-Somerhill.’

‘Well, John-atte-Somerhill,’ Corbett smiled, ‘I want you to memorise this.’ He pressed the bailiff’s hand. ‘Take a wherry to Westminster. Show this seal to any guard or bailiff who tries to stop you. Ask for Ranulf-atte-Newgate, Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax.’ He made the bailiff repeat the name and title. ‘You’ll find him busy already. Show him the seal and ask him to go to the archives at the Guildhall. He is to ask for all the coroner rolls from when Master Miles Fleschner was coroner in Cripplegate. Do you understand that?’ He made the young man repeat it, and once he was satisfied, let him go.

Corbett made his farewells of the rest and walked back up the lane towards Cheapside. The previous evening Ranulf had scoured the chancery records and discovered that the widow of the merchant arrested with Boniface in Southwark still lived in a splendid mansion in Milk Street off Cheapside. She must know something. Although hungry and unshaven, Corbett felt almost elated. Fleschner’s murder, he reasoned, was another move forward across this murderous chessboard, for it opened the door to other paths. Corbett was determined to follow these.

He glanced around. The city was stirring. Whores and pimps, topers and cunning men, all the creatures of the night were scuttling back into the dark. Doors were being opened, lanterns doused, buckets emptied into the sewer channels running down the centre of the streets. Apprentices and slatterns, faces heavy with sleep, were busy fetching water, buying milk from the carriers or hurrying through the murky lanes to the bakers and cookshops where the ovens and spits had been fired. A multitude of odours seeped through the misty morning air. Bells rang. Carts and barrows were on the move. Horses and donkeys brayed. People called out greetings. Sheriff’s men were roughly organising the night-walkers, drunks and whores caught breaking the curfew, herding them up to the stocks. The bells of St Paul’s boomed out their summons to the Jesus Mass. Corbett decided to attend. He went through the great gates, past the noisy Sanctuary, where wolfsheads were scrambling across the high wall one step ahead of the greedy clutches of bailiffs and bounty-hunters. At the Great Cross in the centre of the cemetery, a city herald was proclaiming how a certain corner in Lothbury, where a Scottish traitor had been executed on a movable gallows, was not a holy site, a martyr’s shrine. The gibbet, the herald bellowed, had been burnt, whilst gong carts would deposit a load of filth on the spot. Any citizen who insisted on regarding that place as sacred would be viewed as outside the protection of both the Crown and Holy Mother Church.

Corbett went in through the ‘Si Quis’ door, where lawyers and scribes were beginning to gather, for the nave of St Paul’s was truly a place of business rather than a house of prayer. The church was gloomy, lit fitfully by dancing torch and candle flame. Corbett moved up under the carved rood screen with its stark depiction of the crucified Christ. The sanctuary mass was about to begin. He knelt by a pillar and watched the old priest unfold the dramatic enactment of Christ’s passion and death. The Book of Gospels was passed around to be kissed before the Eucharist. Corbett tried to concentrate on the liturgy, but memories, images, scraps of conversations milled around in his tired brain, sharpening his impatience with the task in hand. As soon as Mass was finished, he left and broke his fast at a cookshop on a pastry filled with fresh spiced mince and a cup of wine to warm his belly, then made his way leisurely through the colourful bustle towards Milk Street.