The Mysterium

14

‘I was born Beatrice Sturmy,’ she began, ‘a clothier’s daughter. I knew the Lady Emma before her marriage. After she became hand-fast to Sir Walter, she invited me to be her maid. I accepted. She was gracious, kind and sweet-natured. I entered her household.’

‘And the marriage?’

‘Lady Emma seemed happy enough. She became pregnant and bore Sir Walter a son.’

‘Did you know about Evesham’s secret life, his nefarious activities under the cloak of night?’

‘Sir Hugh, I knew very little. Sir Walter was always smiling, though I would use the word smirking. He could be free with his hands. I often glimpsed him staring hotly at me. On one occasion he tried to seduce me, but I pushed him away. I threatened to tell his wife but I never did, I hadn’t the heart. She seemed happy enough. Sir Walter always gave the impression that he’d married beneath him, but that was part of his sneering attitude. He liked to show how clever and subtle he was, how highly regarded in the chancery at Westminster.

‘Lady Emma and I were often invited to this banquet or that, and it was at one of these that I met Boniface Ippegrave. He was a good clerk, Sir Hugh; who knows, he may have risen to the same high position as yourself. He was clever, industrious, witty and kind. He had a passion for gambling, but he was good at it. On one occasion he took me aside and showed me his winnings, a heavy purse of gold.’

‘And you believed him?’

‘Yes, I did, as I have always believed that he was no killer. I knew Boniface Ippegrave. I slept with him. He had a good heart and a pure soul; he was a man of honour, someone dedicated to the truth. That is why I am confessing now, not because I am frightened of pain or disgrace.’ She leaned over and squeezed her son’s arm. ‘It is also the time for the truth. I made one hideous mistake, as did the Lady Emma. We never really understood the depths of Evesham’s wickedness. Oh, I wondered about him, but I always put it down to chancery business, why he would slip out after dark for this secret meeting or that, why night-walkers visited the house.’

‘You mean the likes of Giles Waldene and Hubert the Monk?’

‘Yes, on a number of occasions I saw them in his company. I wasn’t supposed to, but after his attempted seduction, I kept a very sharp eye on Evesham and all his doings.’

‘But you never knew his true relationship with them?’

‘Never! Don’t you, sir,’ she asked archly, ‘have your own confidants amongst the wolfsheads and outlaws of Westminster? I thought Walter Evesham had the same.’

‘Until when?’

‘Until the day my mistress was killed. We went to visit an almshouse. As I said, Lady Emma had a kind heart. She always protested that she had more than enough and was ever prepared to share the rest with the poor. Darkness was falling, a mist-hung evening. We were hurrying along a runnel when I heard Lady Evesham’s name called. She turned, pushing back her hood, then they were on us, daggers flashing. They were cowled and visored, but I recognised the bottom half of Hubert the Monk’s ugly face.’

‘How did you escape?’

‘Because of Lady Emma. I was surprised, Sir Hugh. I knew she was kind, but on that evening she also showed her brave heart. She told me to flee, and God forgive me, I did, a sin that has always haunted me. My mistress was kneeling down, and both men were standing over her. As I said, it was misty, the light was poor. I was only a slip of a girl. I panicked and fled into the night.’ She paused. ‘Even as I ran, I realised Evesham might have had a hand in that attack; those men were waiting for us. I had some silver on me, I took a wherry downriver to Westminster. Boniface was there. I told him what had happened. At first he refused to believe me, but when the news seeped through of Lady Evesham’s death, he hid me away and our relationship began. Boniface was just and true. At first I thought I could hide until Evesham forgot me. Then the Mysterium emerged and the murders began. Boniface would come home and discuss the problem with me. He believed the assassin must be a high-ranking clerk, someone who sifted the gossip of the city. He cast his net wide and far.’ She smiled thinly. ‘Do you know, Sir Hugh, he even mentioned you. He called you the silent one, who always watched and said very little, a junior clerk with great promise.’

‘I served then in the Chancery of the Green Wax. Mistress, do continue.’

‘Boniface brought Evesham under close scrutiny. He was clever; he would slip out at night and began to see and hear things about Evesham. Yet strange as it is, he had a liking for the man. Engleat, though, he called an evil presence, Evesham’s malevolent shadow.’ She paused.

‘Mistress?’

‘God forgive me. I encouraged him in such thoughts. When I served Lady Emma, Engleat was like a malignant shadow forever hovering about. A viper of a man who seemed to have no love for women except, according to household rumour, the costliest strumpets in Cheapside.’

‘Evesham, Engleat, they must have searched for you?’

‘Boniface was clever. He openly lodged with his sister but he hired secret lodgings for me in Paternoster Row. Because of what he earned, as well as his gambling, he was able to furnish good chambers, warm and snug.You guessed correctly. I assumed another name, Mathilda. I was always very skilled with the needle and I made good silver as a seamstress. Time passed. Boniface became busy on this task or that, but what he called Evesham’s web truly fascinated him. He came to realise that Evesham seemed to exercise power and influence well beyond Westminster. He couldn’t really decide between Engleat and Evesham; was it an unholy alliance? Was Evesham really innocent of any wrongdoing? Was Engleat the guilty one? Or did Evesham just turn a blind eye to his companion’s malice? He played with the problem as any scholar would a vexed question of logic, constructing puzzles, composing verses-’

‘I stand in the centre, guiltless,’ Corbett interrupted, ‘and point to the four corners.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Beatrice replied, ‘that was one of them. Boniface, however, was determined on one conclusion. He truly believed that through Evesham and Engleat he could unmask the Mysterium. He never really told me the details, though he listed names, possibilities. He kept going back to the death of Lady Evesham and those involved. He believed Coroner Fleschner could have done more, and wondered if that official was in the pay of, or being blackmailed by, Engleat, Evesham or both of them. In the days before Boniface’s death-’

‘So you were certain that he was killed?’ Corbett asked.

‘Boniface would never desert me. In those last days he became frenetically busy, so absorbed with the problem I did not tell him I was enceinte, expecting a child. Then it happened. Rumours swept the ward about how Boniface Ippegrave, arrested in Southwark, had fled to St Botulph’s in Cripplegate. I wanted to visit him, but he had warned me to be very wary, especially of Engleat. I did come down here but the church was closely guarded by soldiers and bailiffs. I became frightened and went into hiding, and then Boniface disappeared. Oh, I heard the rumours, the gossip and the chatter, which over the weeks gradually faded. In my heart I knew Boniface was dead. If he had survived, if he had escaped, he would have come back to me.’ Her voice shook. I grew deeply concerned for myself,’ she stretched across and grasped Lapwing’s arm, ‘and for my unborn child. I fled to a distant kinswoman in Winchester, where Stephen was born. I took yet another name and professed to be a widow, and an old wool merchant, wealthy and kind, asked for my hand in marriage. He accepted Stephen as his own, educated him, sent him to the schools then on to the halls of Oxford. .’

‘Do you think,’ Ranulf demanded, ‘that Evesham suspected Boniface was sheltering you? Was that another reason he turned on him?’

‘Perhaps,’ Beatrice murmured, ‘but what danger would I be to Evesham? A maid who’d fled when her mistress was murdered.’

‘So tell me, mistress,’ Corbett intervened. ‘You are on oath. I ask you, on your loyalty to the King, have you ever told any other living person apart from your son what you have just confessed to me?’

‘No,’ she replied flatly. ‘I wish to God I could say I had. I know what you are going to conclude, Sir Hugh.’

‘Stephen Escolier,’ Corbett’s voice turned hard, ‘also known as the Lapwing. You are young, energetic and skilled. You had the motive and the strength to kill Sir Walter Evesham, his henchman Engleat, Waldene and Hubert the Monk. Coroner Fleschner was also guilty of crimes against your mother, so he too died. Clarice, Evesham’s second wife, you viewed as guilty by association with Evesham. You killed her and the man who tried to protect her, Richard Fink. You also entered this church and tried to slay Evesham’s son, Parson John. On occasions you took your father’s name, on others you aped the Mysterium, the assassin your father hunted. The evidence against you weighs heavy. Can you give me any reason why I should not arraign you for murder before King’s Bench?’

‘No, no,’ whimpered Beatrice, ‘no, it can’t be!’

‘Mistress, who else knew what you did? Either your son is guilty, or both of you are. Remember, you’ve still to account for your own conduct in escaping the murderous attack upon your former mistress Lady Emma.’

‘I know, I know,’ Beatrice whispered. ‘To quote the psalm, that sin is always before me. I knew that one day I would have to pay a terrible price.’

‘Master Stephen,’ Corbett rose to his feet, ‘how say you?’

The accused clerk, face pale and taut, just stared back. He opened his mouth, but then closed it and stared beseechingly at his mother.

‘Sir Ralph?’

Sandewic leapt to this feet, shouting orders at the guards near the door. Lapwing broke from his fear.

‘They deserved it!’ he screamed, lunging at Corbett. Chanson came up behind and grasped him by the shoulder, and Ranulf ran around the table and helped him pull Lapwing back.

‘They deserved it!’ Lapwing screamed again. ‘They killed my father, and given the opportunity they would have killed me. God’s judgement was visited on them and they died for their sins. I have no regrets, do you hear, king’s clerk?’ He licked the froth from his lips. ‘But I’m also innocent,’ he moaned.

‘You face many charges.’ Corbett approached and tapped him on the chest. ‘One hideous murder after another, then there’s the affray at Newgate and the poor innocents who died in and around this church. You have a great deal to answer for.’ He grasped Lapwing’s wrist between his hands. ‘Do you think,’ he hissed, ‘that because you are a clerk you can claim benefit of clergy, that your powerful friends Staunton and Blandeford will help you? I tell you this, sir,’ he ignored the piteous sobbing from Beatrice, who sat crumpled on a stool, ‘you will never be a free man. Sir Ralph, have your guards take Master Lapwing to the Tower. Lodge him in the keep.’

‘And his mother?’ asked the constable.

Corbett crouched beside Beatrice, pulling her hands away from her face. ‘Mistress, the case against your son presses sorely hard, as it does against you. You may return to your lodgings. If you attempt to flee, that will be taken as a sign not only of your own guilt but also your son’s. If you’re captured fleeing you could be hanged out of hand. Do you understand me? You must know the law and its penalties.’

Beatrice, face ghostly white, stared back, eyes shocked, lips trembling.

‘Master Sandewic, have someone escort Mistress Beatrice back to her lodgings. Lapwing, you’re for the Tower. Perhaps the King’s questioners can elicit the truth from you.’

‘I’ll not be put to the torture,’ Lapwing whispered.

‘What you have done,’ Corbett intervened swiftly, ‘is a matter for the courts. Now take him away.’

Lapwing, recovered from his shock, tried to break free of his guards, shouting curses at Corbett before turning tearfully to his mother, who, escorted by two archers, trailed sorrowfully behind. The procession left the church, the door slamming shut behind them. Sandewic grabbed his sword-belt and cloak from one of his henchmen and fastened these on, asking Corbett if the business was finished. He replied that it was, and was making to go down the nave when Ranulf plucked him by the sleeve.

‘The evidence against Lapwing weighs heavy. His own mother’s confession was damning enough. After all, who else knew?’ He pointed down the nave. ‘They certainly didn’t.’

Corbett nodded, eager to join the remaining three. They’d watched the drama unfold and were now staring expectantly towards him.

‘Sir Hugh?’

‘Yes, Ranulf?’

‘Lapwing had no war dog. You never mentioned that murderous assault on you.’

‘Think.’ Corbett walked back. ‘Think, Ranulf.’ He raised his voice so that it echoed through the hollow church. ‘Lapwing was as accustomed to dealing with the wolfsheads and outlaws in the Sanctuaries at Westminster and White Friars as we are. In this city you can hire killers by the dozen. I am sure he did that. Thank God he failed. I’d be grateful,’ he gestured around, ‘if you’d douse the braziers, the lights and candles. Lock this church behind me.’

‘I’ll do it, and then. .’

‘And then what, Ranulf?’

‘Certain business in the city.’ Ranulf smiled, eager to evade Corbett’s hard glance. ‘We should celebrate, Sir Hugh. You’ll return to Leighton Manor?’

‘In a while,’ Corbett retorted. ‘When this is truly finished.’

He walked down the nave to where Brother Cuthbert stood with Adelicia resting on his arm. Parson John beside them raised his hand in blessing.

‘Sir Hugh,’ asked the priest, ‘is it true? We’ve heard some of it. Will Master Lapwing be indicted for these hideous murders?’

‘He’ll certainly go before King’s Bench.’

‘And his mother?’ Brother Cuthbert asked.

‘She too will face charges.’ Corbett walked across and extended his hand for Parson John to grasp. The priest’s grip was limp, fingers cold. ‘I’m sorry,’ Corbett murmured, holding his gaze. ‘Your mother being brutally murdered. I tell you this, sir, the woman who calls herself Mistress Beatrice has a great deal to answer for.’

‘Could she have been an accomplice?’ Parson John asked.

‘Certainly,’ Corbett replied, ‘and I assure you, when Master Lapwing goes on trial in Westminster Hall, you will all be there to hear the evidence.’

Beatrice Escolier dug her needle into the intricately brocaded cover, then lifted her head and stared around the small but comfortable solar of her narrow house in Mitre Street. She pushed away the footstool and spread her hands to catch the warmth from the fire burning merrily in its covered hearth. She stared at the carved faces of the woodwoses that decorated the mantel and wondered about Sir Hugh Corbett, so clever, so cunning, yet, like an arrow launched true and straight, aiming for its mark. In many ways he reminded Beatrice of Boniface, single-minded and determined. She stared across at the shuttered window. Another day had passed. Despite what Corbett had said, nothing had happened. Here she was in a warm, sweet-smelling chamber whilst Stephen languished in some cold dungeon in the Tower. She’d pleaded for him, wanted to visit him, but Corbett had proved obdurate. She must stay here and wait.

Beatrice sighed, rose and lit the lantern horn on the flat top of the black oaken chest, then the candles on their spigots. Tongues of flame glowed greedily, shooting up to catch the glitter from the cups, ewers, mazers and silver platters on the shelves, the mother-of-pearl wall crucifix as well as the gold and silver threads of the tapestries covering the walls. She moved back to the chair before the fire, her hand grazing the psalter on the small table next to it. Perhaps she should pray. She moved a candlestick, took up the psalter and turned to her favourite prayer, the Benedictus of Simeon. She always admired the exquisite, minutely jewelled painting that decorated the capital B. The young clerk depicted there in his green cote-hardie and white leggings, standing in a stall holding a breviary, always reminded her of Boniface.

Beatrice began to cry quietly. She settled back in the chair, giving way to her memories and the cloying heat. If she half closed her eyes in this chamber of dappled light, she might catch her beloved staring at her as he always did with that lovely smile. She closed her eyes then startled at the knocking on the front door. She picked up a candlestick and went out into the icy passageway, the cold from the flagstones seeping through the soft warmth of her buskins.

‘Who’s there?’ she called.

‘Mistress, it’s only Parson John. I’ve come to ensure all is well, to show I bear no ill favour.’

Beatrice bit her lip, pulled back the bolts at top and bottom and opened the door. The light was swiftly fading. Parson John, muffled in a great cloak, stamped his feet, pulled down the muffler from his mouth and smiled as he showed her the small stoppered flask in his right hand. ‘Mistress, I am freezing, but this is rich claret, the best from the vineyards of Gascony. Heated with a burning poker and sprinkled with some crushed apple and nutmeg, it would make a heart-warming posset.’

‘Come in, Father, come in.’

The priest passed by her and she closed the door.

‘You’ve bolted it?’ he asked.

‘No, Father.’ Beatrice smiled. ‘Now you’re here that’s protection enough. Do. .’ She gestured at the door to the solar. ‘Go in and warm yourself.’ She bustled in after him, pulling out a stool so the priest could sit by the fire. Parson John undid his cloak, pulled off his gloves and sat down, hands towards the heat.

‘Mistress,’ he smiled, ‘unstopper the flask, let’s drink some warmth.’

She hastened to obey, taking down two pewter goblets from the shelf above the mantle. She placed these on the table, broke the seal of the flask and filled both cups, then busied herself thrusting two narrow pokers into the burning logs, before going towards the scullery to search for her nutmeg sprinkler. She was almost there when the door to the solar opened and she whirled round with a start. Sir Hugh Corbett, followed by his two henchmen, Ranulf and Chanson, entered. Parson John sprang to his feet.

‘Sir Hugh, I never heard you. .’

‘You were not supposed to.’ Corbett pressed the priest’s shoulder, forcing him to retake his seat. ‘Ranulf, help Mistress Beatrice make us all comfortable.’ He gestured at the quilted seat. ‘I’ll sit here, next to our good Parson John.’ His voice, rich with sarcasm, made the priest turn abruptly. ‘Oh, by the way,’ Corbett pointed at the belt around the priest’s waist with its long sheathed dagger, ‘unbuckle that, sir.’

Parson John obeyed. Corbett took the belt and placed it on the other side of his chair. Ranulf had pulled up another stool so that he could sit on the parson’s right. Chanson, armed with a small arbalest, stayed near the door. Corbett sniffed the air appreciatively.

‘Sweet herbs, good meat and fine wine.’ He picked up the flask. ‘You brought this, Parson John?’

‘Yes, a gift to share with Mistress Beatrice. I wish to comfort her.’

‘I was about to make a posset,’ Beatrice snapped peevishly from where she stood next to the door to the small scullery.

‘Why waste such good wine on a posset?’ Corbett picked up one of the goblets and thrust it at the priest. ‘Drink.’ His smile faded. ‘Drink!’ he repeated.

Parson John, face all tense, just stared back.

‘Drink,’ whispered Ranulf, bringing up the dagger concealed in his hand. He pricked the priest under the chin with its point, and Beatrice gave a small scream of protest, which died as Parson John pushed the goblet away.

‘I don’t feel like wine, Sir Hugh, not now. I should leave. .’

Again Ranulf’s dagger came up.

‘Mistress,’ Corbett warned, ‘do not even think of drinking such a gift. I am sure it’s poisoned, death-bearing.’ He clapped Parson John on the shoulder. ‘You are in so many ways your father’s true son. You came here as a wolf in sheep’s clothing to finish the game, to kill the last person on your murderous list.’

‘Lapwing is the murderer.’ Parson John retorted. ‘Lapwing is in the Tower for his crimes?’

‘And he can stay there,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Master Escolier has a great deal to answer for, unless his grace the King decides otherwise, and I think he might. Certain questions about the riot in Newgate have to be put to him, but as for what happened recently in St Botulph’s, that, in the main, was mummery. I recognised that something was wrong. Lapwing always denied he was the writer from the Land of Cockaigne.’

‘What?’

‘Oh don’t act the innocent. There are so many unresolved questions. I never really understood why Lapwing should kill Mistress Clarice and her lover Richard Fink.’

‘I don’t-’

‘I asked myself one constant question,’ Corbett continued softly. ‘Who knew the truth about Evesham’s evil doings? Most likely Mistress Beatrice. She, in turn, admitted that the only person she ever told was her son, the clerk who calls himself Lapwing. She was not lying. She simply overlooked one important fact, a sin that has haunted her over the years.’ Corbett glanced at Beatrice. ‘Isn’t that true, mistress?’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned back to the priest, watching those eyes dart and shift like those of all murderers did when they searched for a path out of the trap opening before them. ‘She was with your mother the night she was murdered. Only a slip of a girl, Mistress Beatrice fled, your mother died. She was always haunted by a deep sense of guilt, which harrowed her soul. Now last Advent, in preparation for Christmas, Beatrice made a full confession. You recall the occasion, surely, Parson John? The Dean of St Paul’s, as is customary, invites the citizens of London to receive absolution. Priests gather from all over the city. They sit the length and breadth of the nave behind curtained screens so that penitents, ashamed of what they have to confess, can whisper their sins anonymously. Now, as often in life, chance or God’s own grace can create the most extraordinary coincidences. Mistress Beatrice went to confess her sins at St Paul’s. She did so in great detail and told the priest everything: the murder of Emma Evesham, her own flight, her suspicions about Sir Walter, his possible connivance in his wife’s death, his evil alliance with the likes of Waldene and Hubert the Monk. Most importantly, she still felt she was a coward who’d betrayed her mistress.’

‘She did not confess to me.’

‘Oh Parson John, I think she did. There’s no evidence for that,’ Corbett tapped the wine, ‘except this, your one and only terrible mistake. True?’ He pulled himself up in the chair. ‘I did suspect you, despite your fearful, tremulous way. You always had a story, an excuse for being elsewhere when these hideous deeds were committed.’ He lifted a hand. ‘Except for one, which was too glib, too smooth.’

‘What do you mean?’ Parson John protested.

‘That attack on you in St Botulph’s.’ Corbett paused as Beatrice went into the scullery and brought back a stool to sit on and watch fascinated. ‘According to you, Parson John, your attacker entered the sacristy by the outside door. You were struck down and bound.’

‘Sir Hugh, I was bruised, you saw the marks on my face.’

‘No, no,’ Corbett countered, ‘they were caused during your struggle with Master Fink. We’ll leave that for a while. You were not struck down. You did not wander into St Botulph’s. You went into that church as a murderer with the severed heads of your victims Clarice and Master Fink. You placed those in that font as a rejection of everything you once believed in. You then went back into the sacristy and waited for Master Fleschner. You’d invited him at a certain time to act as your witness; he was as much your victim as anyone else. You had the ropes ready in a tangle to slip over your ankles and wrists. It’s easily done. When Master Fleschner came to your rescue, he would not notice, not poor, nervous Fleschner in that cold, desolate sacristy, desperate to free the hapless Parson John. You certainly prepared well.’ Corbett leaned over and touched the small, fading scar on Parson John’s forehead. ‘You’d even cut yourself, as if the assassin had marked you down for death and was about to carve the letter M.

‘Of course it was all a charade, based on false logic. First, Master Fleschner claimed that as he entered the church, the assassin came out of the sacristy door, then fled back in. Why should he do that? His best path of escape was through the outer door and into the tangled, overgrown cemetery. Why come into the church except to create the illusion that there were two people in the sacristy? You, the victim, and your supposed assailant. Master Fleschner was a nervous man, you described him as such. He would take his time to cross and creep up the sanctuary steps into the sacristy. Time enough for you to pose as the victim. You wrapped the tangle of ropes around your ankles and wrists.’ Corbett paused. ‘What did it matter anyway? Master Fleschner didn’t notice anything untoward. Yet your account was further flawed. Fleschner found you bound, the letter M about to be carved on your forehead. Why didn’t the assassin take the next logical step and kill you, draw a knife across your throat in a heartbeat of breath? Why did this ruthless killer spare his victim, Evesham’s own son, all trussed up for the killing? Why leave you as a possible witness against him?’ Corbett shrugged. ‘Except, of course, that you were providing a subtle defence against any allegation levelled about yourself.’

Parson John didn’t answer. He sat more relaxed, lips parted eyes half closed, staring into the fire. Corbett wondered about the man’s wits. Did he care about what was happening? Had the revelations about his father murdering his mother crushed his soul?

‘Then there’s Mistress Adelicia’s midnight visitor out in the woods at Syon; more of that later, though it must have been you. Again a matter of logic. You asked after a woman called Beatrice. You demanded to know if Evesham had sought such information from Adelicia twenty years ago, just after Boniface’s disappearance. ’

‘I am sorry?’ interrupted Parson John, his face all haughty. ‘What do you mean, clerk?’

‘Why, priest, when I held court in St Botulph’s, I looked around and quietly asked myself who would pose such a question. Staunton or Blandeford? No, they fish in other stew ponds. Parson Cuthbert? Why should he dissimulate? Adelicia would soon have recognised him. Master Lapwing? But he knew all about Beatrice. That left you, a murderer wondering if your list of victims was complete. Sometime after you heard Mistress Beatrice’s confession, you must have visited the Guildhall and read the coroner’s roll, Master’s Fleschner’s entry regarding your mother’s death and her maid’s disappearance. You must have wondered, as I did, about Beatrice’s role in that hideous affair. Was she an accomplice? How had she escaped? Where was she? Above all, did she have any guilt regarding your mother’s death?’ Corbett paused. ‘Oh yes, you certainly heard Beatrice’s confession. By the way, where was your mother buried?’

Parson John just swallowed hard, staring unflinchingly into the fire.

‘Let me tell you,’ Corbett continued. He glanced across at Ranulf, who gazed curiously back. The clerk had been busy about his own enquiries, whilst his master had kept what he was plotting very close to his heart. All Corbett had asked him to do was to keep Mistress Beatrice’s house under tight scrutiny and immediately alert him, at a nearby tavern, if she received any visitors.

‘You know where my mother lies buried,’ Parson John broke in harshly.

‘Of course I do.’ Corbett replied. ‘In St Botulph’s, beneath the flagstones leading to the Lady Chapel. I am sure Walter Evesham placed a stone there extolling your mother’s virtues whilst lamenting his own sad loss. Once you’d heard Beatrice’s confession, you regarded that carving as a devilish lie. You had the stone pulled up and replaced with something smoother. No one would really notice. After all, grave memorials are soon forgotten, but not by you, not with memories fresh with the truth about your mother’s gruesome fate. Oh yes, you removed that stone. In your mind, it represented everything you hated about your father.’ Corbett paused, gathering his thoughts.

‘You constantly protested that you knew nothing about your father’s affairs, but that was a lie. You knew everything, which was why you became a priest, wasn’t it? You rejected your father’s world. You knew the filth he waded through, his friends, his double-dealing, his duplicity, his treachery, perhaps his love of disorder. A father knows a son, a son knows a father. It wouldn’t be hard for you to bring your father under scrutiny, to visit him in the guise of a friendly, loving son whilst keeping your eyes and ears alert. You found out about his meetings with the likes of Waldene and Hubert the Monk. You heard rumours about the way he favoured members of their covens, and so you posed as the writer from the Land of Cockaigne. A suitable choice, the world turned upside down.’ Corbett leaned across and touched the priest. ‘Parson John, I fully understand your anger, your hatred, your desire for revenge. It was what you did that makes me your adversary. At first you struck at your father’s reputation. You sent those letters to Staunton and Blandeford, one piece of evidence after another so the King was forced to act and your father was caught red-handed with Waldene and Hubert the Monk. That must have been a great source of satisfaction to you.’

Parson John grinned, as if savouring some secret joke.

‘Waldene and Hubert the Monk were lodged in Newgate, but your father surprised everyone. He didn’t try to defend his reputation; he simply threw himself on the King’s mercy. He underwent a Damascus road conversion and became the tired, broken recluse of Syon Abbey. In truth, you knew your father, as did Brother Cuthbert. Walter Evesham simply wanted time and space to reflect, to plot, to seek a way back. You were determined that he would never walk that path. You went to Syon Abbey. You visited Brother Cuthbert and Adelicia in your pastoral guise, but then you returned to spy out the land. You discovered, as I did, that the two of them would often meet at night. Brother Cuthbert would leave the Chapel of St Lazarus and go into the woods to be with the one true love of his life. They would sit and discuss the past, revelling in each other’s company. You simply waited for your opportunity, and then you struck.’