The Mysterium

12

‘Master? Master?’ Ranulf’s voice echoed, followed by a pounding on the corpse door. ‘Sir Hugh!’

Corbett hurried across and unlocked the door. Ranulf almost knocked him aside as he strode into the church followed by Chanson.

‘Master, what’s happened here? We’ve been to the north door. There’s a war dog lying outside, its throat slashed.’ He glanced across at Griffyths’ corpse and hurried over. ‘Jesu miserere,’ he murmured. ‘Sir Hugh, what happened here?’

Corbett swayed on his feet, and Ranulf caught him.

‘Come,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘Chanson, tell Sir Ralph to stay outside. He is not to come in here, not yet.’ He lowered Corbett to the ground, leaning his master back against the church wall.

For a while Corbett fought the urge to be sick, to retch, to vomit out the tension he felt. At last he felt better.

‘Apart from the war dog you saw nothing else?’ he asked.

‘A crossbow bolt in the sacristy door.’

Corbett told him what had happened. Ranulf, crouching beside him, listened intently.

‘You shouldn’t have come. .’ he said when Corbett had finished.

‘Don’t lecture me, don’t preach. Griffyths has gone to God, and I think this mystery is clearing. Look,’ Corbett clambered to his feet, ‘first Sir Ralph.’

They went out into the cemetery, where the constable had already set up camp beneath the yew trees. His men had collected dry bracken and were starting a fire. Sandewic rose as Corbett approached.

‘Sir Ralph, I am pleased you’re here.’ Corbett grasped Sandewic’s hand and led him away, Ranulf and Chanson following.

Corbett pithily described what had happened.

‘The war hound is dead,’ Ranulf commented. ‘The lime did terrible damage to its throat and eyes. Its owner put the beast out of its misery with a mercy cut.’

‘And who is its owner?’ Corbett paused as starlings burst out from a nearby tree.

‘Boniface perhaps? He’s returned and is lurking in hiding. I’ve heard of such assassins. .’ Ranulf’s voice trailed away. He was concerned about Corbett, his lack of colour, the nervous twitch to his eyes and lips.

‘We could scout the entire ward,’ Sandewic grumbled, ‘but what good would that do? Sir Hugh, what do you want with me? You asked for a comitatus. .?’

Corbett stared up at the church tower. He must be done with this. He wanted to warm himself before a fire, but the ghosts were gathering about him. Somewhere here, in this churchyard, lay the rotting corpse of Boniface Ippegrave, a good clerk, a man of integrity. His flesh must have long decayed but his soul, like some tongue of flame hungry for dry wood, surely demanded justice.

‘Sir Hugh?’

Corbett smiled, stretched across and pulled up Chanson’s cowl. The Clerk of the Stables looked surprised.

‘Pull it tighter,’ Corbett ordered. ‘Ranulf, do up your cloak and cover your head with the hood.’ He turned to the constable. ‘Divide your men. You must place a close guard around the church.’ He paused as the corpse door opened and two of Sandewic’s men brought out Griffyths’ body shrouded under the archer’s cloak.

‘Sir Ralph, before we begin, send poor Griffyths’ remains to the corpse house near the King’s Chapel at Westminster.’

‘And for the rest?’

‘Divide your comitatus. Guard the north door, sacristy door, front door and corpse door. Tell your guards that they must not allow Chanson out of St Botulph’s.’

‘But they don’t know him.’

Corbett pointed to Ranulf. ‘Our cloaks are Benedictine black, Chanson’s is Lincoln green. He must not leave. Do you understand? ’

Sandewic grinned, shrugged and sauntered off. He knew Corbett of old. The clerk could be capricious and eccentric yet ruthless in his pursuit of the truth.

‘Well, Chanson?’ Corbett tapped the surprised groom on the shoulder. ‘Go on, enter the church. Oh, Sir Ralph,’ he called. The constable turned. ‘Chanson will pretend to be in sanctuary. No one except Ranulf and myself may visit him, you understand?’

The constable raised a hand.

‘Go into the church, Chanson.’ Corbett gestured at the corpse door. ‘Sit on the sanctuary steps.’

‘Master, this is a place of blood.’

‘You can always sing,’ teased Ranulf. ‘Sir Hugh, what is this?’

‘I will show you how Boniface disappeared. Do you remember Adelicia’s night visitor, the prowler in the woods? He claimed to be Boniface. When asked how he disappeared from St Botulph’s, he replied that he simply walked through the door. Whoever he was, that stranger was telling the truth, as we shall prove.’

Corbett ushered the reluctant Chanson into the church and closed the door, then he and Ranulf went round checking on all the other doors. A small group of Sandewic’s archers had assembled near the still battered front porch, but Corbett, now recovering from the attack, laughingly reassured them that if Chanson did escape, it would not be through there.

Once Griffyths’ corpse had been honourably removed and Sandewic’s men were in place, Corbett and Ranulf went in and out of the various doors muffled and cowled in their heavy cloaks. Sandewic, taking up his command at the north door, watched fascinated. The grizzled constable was already relishing the story he would tell the King next time they were in their cups. On one occasion Corbett paused to inspect the corpse of the war hound, which Sandewic’s men had sprawled across an old tombstone. On another, Sandewic, at Corbett’s invitation, followed them as near as he could into the church and listened to Corbett and Ranulf trying to cheer the disconsolate Chanson. The clerks would then separate to wander in and out of the church or across the sprawling cemetery. At last Corbett approached Sandewic.

‘Master Constable, your prisoner has escaped!’

Sandewic, muttering curses, stormed through the corpse door and stared around in surprise.

‘It’s empty!’ he shouted. ‘Sir Hugh, where is your clerk? Where’s Chanson?’ He went back shouting the groom’s name, his voice echoing vainly through that sombre church.

‘Go on,’ Corbett urged, ‘bring your men in. Search this church from door to door, every crevice, nook and cranny. See if you can find Chanson.’

Sandewic, baffled, did as he was told. The bells of other churches were ringing out the hours before he came back shaking his head.

‘He’s disappeared,’ he exclaimed, ‘just like Boniface Ippegrave did. Sir Hugh, is he hiding here?’

‘I will tell you,’ Corbett took off his gauntlets, ‘but not here. Sir Ralph, tell your lieutenant to lock the church and take your men back for a blackjack of ale at the Tower. You, my friend,’ he touched the constable’s whiskered face, ‘will join me and my companions in the most cheerful tavern we can find.’

A short while later, closeted in a partitioned area to the left of the great roaring fire in the taproom of the Golden Thistle, Corbett finished the last morsels of his delicious venison. He cleaned his horn spoon, slipped it back into his belt pouch, grasped his blackjack of ale and sat back. The tavern was small, clean and sweet-smelling, a stark contrast to that icy, ghostly church and cemetery. He waited for his companions, equally ravenous, to finish their own food before toasting them with his tankard. Sandewic kept staring at Chanson, shaking his head in disbelief. He was brimming with questions about how the clerk had disappeared from St Botulph’s. Chanson had been waiting for them here, crouched on a stool next to the spit boy, advising him how to baste the pork with mingled spices that gave the taproom its mouth-watering aromas.

‘Sir Ralph, I’ll tell you in a while,’ began Corbett, ‘but first I want to go back twenty years.’ The rest, nursing their tankards, listened intently. Corbett closed his eyes, then opened them and smiled around. ‘Boniface Ippegrave was not the Mysterium; Walter Evesham was.’

‘Never!’ Sandewic exclaimed. ‘Walter Evesham may have been a rogue, but a professional assassin. . He was the one-’

‘Yes, Sir Ralph, he was the one who trapped Boniface Ippegrave. He committed him into custody but allowed him to escape to sanctuary at St Botulph’s. Let me explain. Sir Ralph, you have fought in Wales and Scotland. Soldiers kill because they have to, because they are frightened or to defend themselves. Sometimes, sodden with ale or blood lust, they can commit horrible crimes, but in the main, most people don’t want to kill for the sake of it. However, whilst serving with the King’s troops I — and I am sure you too, Sir Ralph — came across those who love the smell of blood. They take to killing as a bird to flying. They enjoy it. They relish it. I remember one serjeant-at-arms who loved to hang Welsh prisoners taken in battle. He’d kick them off the scaffold, closely savour their every struggle and watch the life light fade in their eyes. No one was safe from him, women, children, even those of his own kind who refused to carry out his orders. I believe Evesham was of similar ilk. I have a friend, a physician,’ Corbett sipped from his tankard, ‘at St Bartholomew’s in Smithfield. One night, while sharing a jug of ale with him, he talked about such men, who appear to have two souls, conflicting personalities. Like the old Roman god Janus, they glance either way at the same time. They can be charming, intelligent, courteous, but change their circumstances and they become angry, homicidal, violent and vengeful. I believe Walter Evesham was one of these, two souls in one body: the upright judge, the faithful clerk, but beneath that a killer, a murderer, someone who relished mayhem. A soul who’d have liked nothing better than to see the world burning, and he certainly did his best to achieve that.’ He paused and drew a deep breath.

‘Evesham was born on the Welsh March at the manor of Ingachin. He served in the royal levies in Wales, where his appetite for blood was probably whetted. He journeyed to London. A mailed clerk, he soon secured employment in the chancery at Westminster. He was lonely but he was ambitious, hungry for power. He was attracted to both the law and its opposite, the very mayhem it tries to control. He was also a man in a hurry. I suspect that from the very beginning he mixed with the underworld, the wolfsheads and outlaws. It would be so easy. I recently walked from the palace to the abbey, passing through the Sanctuary, which shelters men who would do anything for a favour or a silver coin. Evesham recognised that and relished it. I am also certain that in those early days he met those limbs of Satan — what Ranulf would describe as two cheeks of the same arse — Giles Waldene and Hubert the Monk. They too were beginning their career of lawlessness. A friendship developed between this pair and the royal clerk, but more of that in a while.’

‘Those three names,’ Ranulf asked, ‘Bassetlawe, Furnival and Rescales?’

‘I suspect, though I have no evidence, that Evesham killed them. The coroner ruled that they died natural deaths. Of course all three were bachelors, old men; who would care? Evesham did. He saw them as obstacles to his promotion, so all three went into the dark. Evesham also moved in courtly circles, where he met his darling Clarice, but he was already married to Emma. Now there is nothing like a marriage to help a good man up the slippery ladder of preferment. Evesham, although he had a child by the Lady Emma, found his first marriage irksome. A rising star in the court and chancery, he wanted to begin again. Lady Emma and her maid Beatrice were out doing good, visiting the almshouses, when they were attacked.’

‘By Waldene and Hubert?’

‘I suspect so. I have no proof, not yet. Lady Emma died in that violent affray. Fleschner, Coroner of Cripplegate at the time, hastily dismissed the incident in four lines. I suspect that both he and his inquiry were controlled, or rather hindered, by Evesham. Emma’s death, lamentable indeed, was dismissed as just another hideous street attack. Was the finger of suspicion pointed at the mysterious Beatrice, who simply disappeared? I don’t know — not yet. Walter Evesham acted the grieving husband, throwing his hands in the air, wailing and moaning, pleading to the King for justice. Secretly, though, he rejoiced. He was now the lonely widower, free to go hunting for a more profitable dowry. Even more important,’ Corbett placed his tankard back on the table, ‘an unholy pact had been created between Evesham, Waldene and Hubert the Monk. They were hand in glove in their villainy. At the same time Evesham was very able, erudite and skilled. He soon won the attention of old Burnell, the chancellor, but he wanted more. You see, he just didn’t kill for profit. He murdered because he enjoyed it. I cannot plumb the machinations of his dark soul, but he wanted to taunt both the very Crown and the lord he served, and so the Mysterium emerged.

‘Now, London is a seething pot of intrigue, murderous mayhem and unrest. Intense rivalries divide the Guilds, the merchants, the city fathers. The Great Ones at the Guildhall are not above using the likes of Waldene and Hubert the Monk for swordplay in Cheapside or elsewhere. However, if a merchant hires a dagger man, and that dagger man is caught, he will confess all. Evesham was cunning and subtle. He would approach a merchant and send him a short, curt message: “Your enemy is my enemy. St Paul’s VI, 2” or something similar. Of course the merchant or city father concerned would be intrigued. It might take some time to work out the reference to St Paul, but we all know about the great hoarding. Perhaps Evesham then sent another message explaining in greater detail what he was offering: the removal of a rival, a wife, someone who threatened his client. Let us say the merchant concerned agreed-’

‘But master, one of those merchants could have gone to Burnell or the King.’

‘Perhaps they did, but I doubt it. Nobody wants to be associated with killing, not openly. Nobody wants to admit that their rivalry with someone or their hatred for another person has turned murderous. Evesham may have been wicked, but he was a shrewd observer of human frailty. He’d scrutinise his client very closely. Someone like the merchant Chauntoys, full of resentment at being cuckolded. Down he’d go to St Paul’s and place the name of his enemy in that square. Then he would wait for Evesham to kill, or have killed, the chosen victim.’

‘Do you think,’ Sandewic observed, fascinated by Corbett’s revelation, ‘that those two miscreants Waldene and Hubert the Monk were party to such slayings?’

‘They were certainly involved in Lady Emma’s death, I’m sure of it. Mouseman claimed that Evesham and the two gang-leaders had been friends and allies for many a day.’

‘And Engleat?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Evesham’s faithful shadow? Of course, and indeed, once a murder has been committed, everyone involved is party to it, an accomplice; they too can go to the scaffold. Participation ensures silence and silence is taken as consent.’

‘And the tag?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Mysterium Rei — the Mystery of the Thing?’

‘Oh, that was Evesham. He was boasting. He couldn’t stop proclaiming how clever he was, how subtle. Ranulf, how many murderers have we trapped because they all share that one sin, the arrogance of Lucifer? They glory in what they’ve done because they see themselves as almost God-like, being able to dispense life and death at a whim.’ Corbett paused, crossing his arms. ‘Nor must we forget that Evesham liked the rich things of life: an elegant mansion, costly tapestries from Bruges, oaken furniture, the exquisite furnishings of the best craftsmen. He would revel in opulent robes, the finest food and wine. Moreover, he would use the profits of his murderous affrays to ease his way even further along the passageways of power into the heart of the chancery, the court and the Guildhall. Just think — and I am sure it happened — how many suppers he would host, banquets he would arrange, costly gifts for this bishop or that lord, presents to leading citizens, even our noble King. Evesham had a great deal to gain and very little to lose. After all, who would suspect such an upright, loyal, skilled clerk? True, someone like Engleat, Giles Waldene or Hubert the Monk might be tempted to turn King’s Approver and seek a reward, or even blackmail Evesham, but that would be highly dangerous.’

‘They were all members of the same pack, weren’t they?’ Chanson spoke up. ‘Like wild dogs that roam the streets.’

‘Precisely, Chanson. They were probably terrified of Evesham. They were also his accomplices. What would they have to gain through betrayal? If Evesham went down, so would they. I am sure they were generously rewarded for their murderous cooper — ation. So the Mysterium emerges in the city as a skilled assassin. You can just imagine how Evesham would enjoy himself, relishing the prospect of living a secret life. The humble clerk from the lonely manor on the Welsh March now a leading luminary at Westminster. Of course, he must have known that sooner or later the Crown would intervene. Burnell wanted the assassin trapped. Only then would Evesham consider that the Mysterium had served his purpose and it was time for him to disappear.

‘Burnell made careful enquiry amongst the clerks of the chancery, looking for someone to track the Mysterium down. Boniface Ippegrave became devoted to the task. I am not too sure why.’ Corbett unfolded his arms and sighed heavily. ‘I have as yet no evidence for this. In the schools of Oxford my hypothesis would be rejected as mere speculation. Somehow, and as yet I cannot explain why, Ippegrave concluded that the Mysterium was a chancery clerk. He listed suspects, men such as Staunton and Blandeford, ambitious young officials, but he also began to look very carefully at Walter Evesham. He kept his own records, some of which have undoubtedly been destroyed, but fragments remain. On one list are the names of fellow clerks, on another Evesham’s possible victims: Emma, Bassetlawe, Furnival, Rescales. He brought Evesham under closer scrutiny, and Evesham, no fool, recognised the danger. Boniface Ippegrave had to be dealt with. Already the rumour was circulating in the chancery that the Mysterium might be a clerk at Westminster. Who started that? Boniface, Evesham? I don’t really know, but Evesham was intent on silencing Ippegrave once and for all and at the same time bringing the Mysterium’s murderous foray to a satisfactory close.’

‘Evesham would like that, wouldn’t he?’ Ranulf intervened. ‘He would find it amusing, clever and subtle to rid himself of a dangerous rival, bring the Mysterium’s career to an end and then be hailed as the person responsible for it.’

‘True, Ranulf, and it was so easy to accomplish. Walter Evesham sends the merchant Chauntoys a message. He kills Chauntoys’ wife, then sets up both lure and trap. He orders Chauntoys to bring payment to the Liber Albus and at the same time hires some scrivener in the city to send a note to Boniface Ippegrave to the effect that his presence at a certain time in that same tavern would be of great profit to himself and the King. Boniface rose to the bait; he might even have thought he would learn vital information about the Mysterium.’ Corbett paused to drink from his tankard.

‘We all know what happened next. The merchant and Ippegrave are arrested and brought across the river into London. Now Ippegrave may have suspected Evesham, but Evesham played a very subtle trick. Chauntoys’ widow informed me how surprised Boniface seemed, as well as about hushed conversations between Evesham and his quarry. I believe Evesham told Ippegrave that he didn’t really believe he was guilty, that he would provide the opportunity for him to escape and he should take sanctuary in St Botulph’s until this matter was cleared up and the mystery resolved.’

‘Would Boniface believe that?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Why not? If he was taken to Newgate, what further opportunity would he have to establish his innocence? Would he even survive such a pestilential place? If he could lodge in St Botulph’s, his own parish church, close to his sister, something might be done. I am sure Evesham had a number of choices open to him. If Boniface hadn’t escaped, something else would have happened. So Ippegrave flees to St Botulph’s and takes sanctuary. Evesham acts like virtue outraged, the honest royal official, furious at his prisoner’s escape. He summons the watch, as well as troops from the Tower. He has the church surrounded, every door and window closely guarded. No one, not even Adelicia, is allowed to see Boniface; only the parson, who brings the sanctuary man food and looks after his basic needs.’

‘But the ring Adelicia brought?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes, the ring. Again I can’t answer that, not yet. You see,’ he continued, grasping his blackjack and taking a generous mouthful, ‘Evesham and Engleat had decided that Boniface Ippegrave must not leave that church alive. Perhaps when Boniface first escaped he was in a panic, fearful. Now he had had time to think. Only God knows what happened in that church, what hushed conversations took place. Boniface certainly realised the pressing danger.’

‘Couldn’t he have appealed to Parson Cuthbert?’ Ranulf asked.

‘What could he say? What proof could he offer? Any counter-allegation made against Evesham would be dismissed as a guilty person trying to pass the blame elsewhere. What Boniface did was open the Book of the Gospels and write that riddle. Remember what he inscribed: “I stand in the centre guiltless and point to the four corners.” At the time neither Cuthbert nor Adelicia knew what he meant. However, when I sifted amongst Boniface’s papers I came across a scrap of parchment, a square of letters: ABC DEF GHI. It’s one of those puzzles much loved by clerks and scholars. Now, again I have no evidence, but if Boniface claims he was standing in the centre, that’s the letter E. Was he implying that Evesham was the Mysterium? He reinforces that by saying “I point to the four corners”, where the letters are AC GI. As they stand, these don’t mean much, but all four letters appear in Ingachin, Evesham’s manor, the birthplace he was so proud of. I am Corbett of Leighton, there’s Adelicia of Cripplegate, Sandewic of the Tower and, of course, Evesham of Ingachin. Boniface was leaving some sort of warning to whoever might find it. You must remember that he was fearful and apprehensive.’

‘So what happened next?’ asked Sandewic.

Corbett held his hands up. ‘Again this is conjecture. Boniface must have been truly desperate. The evidence against him could appear truly damning.’ He emphasised each point on his fingers. ‘He could provide no acceptable explanation for his presence with Chauntoys in the Liber Albus. He had escaped and sought sanctuary. Eventually he would have to leave the protection of Holy Mother Church and face the hideous risk of capture or being killed. I suspect that once again he was offered the chance to flee. There was a risk, but it was one that I, and I suspect all of you, would have taken. He had done all he could by voicing his suspicions on the page of that Book of the Gospels.’ ‘But his suspicions were about Evesham,’ Ranulf insisted. ‘Why should Boniface trust him?’

‘Perhaps Evesham assured him that all he wanted was for Boniface to flee, disappear. Or,’ Corbett paused, ‘did Evesham use Engleat? Whatever, Evesham, or maybe just Engleat by himself, revealed a plan for Boniface to escape by night. Now imagine it. Darkness falls. Engleat enters the church, bringing with him Evesham’s cloak, and tells Boniface a farrago of lies about wanting to help. The solution is so simple. They will walk out through a different door from the one Engleat entered by. Let us say Engleat entered by the north door. He collects Ippegrave, gives him Evesham’s cloak and they leave by the corpse door. Who cares? It is dark. All the guards would see is Engleat, and someone they think is Evesham, all cloaked and cowled, leaving the church. Why should they challenge them? Master Evesham had been hot in his detention of Boniface, the last thing those guards expected would be for the very men who’d organised Ippegrave’s arrest and then so stringently blockaded the church to be helping their prisoner to escape. Such duplicity, surely, Master Constable, would be beyond your guards’ comprehension?’

‘True, true,’ Sandewic agreed, ‘and like this morning we simply had to watch for a fugitive dressed in a Lincoln-green cloak trying to escape. Two men, muffled and cowled, leaving in the dead of night would pass unnoticed. Moreover, the guards were accustomed to seeing Evesham and Engleat together, as we were you and Master Ranulf. We would never dream that such duplicity was being played out.’ The constable shook his head. ‘So simple,’ he murmured, ‘so very, very simple, yet so clever.’ He cradled his blackjack of ale and whistled under his breath. ‘Of course,’ he half smiled, ‘the guards would be tired, sprawling by their fire. Darkness had fallen. The door opens, unlocked by Engleat, and two men walk out. Engleat assures the guards that all is well and the two figures stride into the night.’ Sandewic snapped his fingers. ‘All over in a few heartbeats, no longer than it would take to gabble an Ave.’ He pointed at Corbett. ‘You did the same with Chanson this morning, didn’t you? We were all looking for a man dressed in a Lincoln-green cloak.’

‘Of course,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Ranulf and I entered St Botulph’s. Ranulf gave Chanson a black cloak to cover his own. Chanson and I left by one door, Ranulf by another. Who’d notice? Who really cared if Ranulf was no longer wearing a cloak? The guards recognised him as my faithful lieutenant, so why challenge him? Such a ploy would be even easier in the dead of night, with cloaks pulled tight, deep cowls shrouding heads and faces.’ He paused. ‘I know Boniface must have been suspicious, but he was already trapped. Why shouldn’t he seize an opportunity to escape? I don’t really understand how it actually happened. Perhaps Engleat depicted himself as an angel of light. Chanson here left for a warm tavern, but Boniface was hurried to his death. You can imagine Engleat and Boniface passing quietly and quickly through that cemetery. The assassins, probably Waldene and Hubert, springing up from the ground, knives glittering. It would be over so quickly. St Botulph’s cemetery is a sprawling place. Boniface is knocked to the ground by a blow to the back of his head, then his throat is cut. Remember, it was summer. Cuthbert has told us how graves had been dug before the sun baked the ground too hard. Boniface’s corpse was tumbled into one of these, then dirt was thrown over it. One corpse amongst many. Who would even think? Somewhere in God’s acre, poor Boniface’s remains have turned to dust. Our Lady be my witness, I wouldn’t even know where to begin my search for them.’

‘Yet if Evesham was still alive,’ Sandewic declared, ‘what you allege would not be enough to convict him before King’s Bench.’

‘True,’ Corbett conceded, ‘it’s all conjecture, surmise, but it’s the only logical conclusion I can reach. Evesham of course was a sinner to the bone, a killer to his very heart. He never changed. He let the dust settle after Ippegrave’s disappearance. After all, he was now very wealthy. He’d won the personal attention of the King and was promoted. A great future lay before him. Naturally the Mysterium couldn’t return, but Evesham did, like a dog to its vomit. He was caught in the toils of sin. He liked to live the noble judge in the light of day and the thief, the rogue, the outlaw once darkness fell.’

‘But if you are correct,’ Ranulf interviewed, ‘and Boniface Ippegrave was murdered at St Botulph’s, then who visited his sister? The ring he produced? How do you explain that, Sir Hugh? How do you account for the murders of Evesham’s wife Clarice, Richard Fink, Waldene, Hubert the Monk and Fleschner the coroner?’

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett sighed, ‘not yet. Waldene and Hubert were killed possibly because of their involvement in Lady Emma’s murder, and the same is true of Fleschner. He was coroner at the time she was slain.’ He chewed his lip. ‘All I can say is that the killer seems absolutely determined to annihilate Evesham and all his coven. I believe Engleat, Waldene, the Monk and Fleschner were all caught up in Evesham’s web of wickedness. I still can’t understand why Clarice and Richard Fink were so barbarously murdered and their heads left in the baptismal bowl at St Botulph’s.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t think I will ever secure hard evidence. We are going to have to trap this killer another way. Now look,’ he turned to Chanson, ‘you are to take writs, sworn out by Ranulf and sealed with green wax, to Brother Cuthbert, Adelicia and Parson John at Syon Abbey. They are to present themselves at the third hour, early tomorrow morning, in St Botulph’s church. Once you have delivered the summons, the same applies to Staunton and Blandeford. They too must be brought in. Sir Ralph,’ he pointed at the constable, ‘in the early hours you are to visit the clerk Lapwing. You are to take both him and his mother from their house in Mitre Street and bring them to St Botulph’s under close guard. Ranulf, once you have the writs sworn out, I want that church cleaned, a judgment table and chairs set up, benches, stools and wheeled braziers. Bring some warmth to that benighted place, for tomorrow I shall hold court there.’

‘At St Botulph’s?’ Ranulf exclaimed.

‘Why not?’ Corbett declared. ‘Is it not customary for judges to sit where the actual crime has been committed? Why go to Westminster? Now,’ he gestured to a tap boy, ‘your presence this morning saved me. I just regret it didn’t save poor Griffyths. So before we part, one further blackjack of ale to warm our stomachs and gladden our hearts. Gentlemen,’ he raised his almost empty tankard, ‘to tomorrow’s hunt. .’

Later on, Corbett lay on the bed in the chamber he had hired at the Golden Thistle. A comfortable room, warmed by the kitchen and scullery below, it was sparse but clean and tidy. Corbett, having removed his boots, sword-belt and cloak, sprawled staring up at the brightly covered tester. He was still puzzled and confused.

‘Some of this mystery,’ he murmured, ‘yes some of it is understandable, but the rest. .’ He still faced the vexed question he had not voiced to his companions when they’d met below. Whoever had committed these hideous murders knew everything that had happened twenty years ago. Corbett was sure of that, but who could it be? He had his suspicions but no evidence; that would have to wait until tomorrow.