The Mysterium

2

Today, reflected Corbett, the Feast of St Perpetua and Felicitas, I shall certainly not forget. He pressed a pomander soaked in a mixture of fennel and lavender against his face and walked around the mortuary tables in the corpse chapel at Syon Abbey. He fought his weariness and ignored the hum of conversation as Ranulf informed the King and his entourage about what had happened at St Botulph’s. He wanted to climb the steps, go out and embrace the last of the evening, capture the essence of that sunset when the western sky turns to a glorious band of blue and fiery gold. He wanted to feel the breeze, heavy with the promise of spring, cool against his face and to catch the last birdsong of the day.

‘What did the poet write — ah yes,’ he murmured. ‘The birdsong of each day is totally unique. In all creation it has never been heard before and never will return.’ He’d love to be free of this coat of mail, wrapped in a cloak instead; to sit by his hall fire, crackling and merry, contemplating the day with Maeve, or stand with her in that lovely bower overlooking their herb garden. In a word, he wanted to go home.

‘Sir Hugh?’

The King was demanding he inspect those three cadavers. Corbett took a deep breath and stared down at the corpse of Walter Evesham, former Chief Justice in the Court of King’s Bench.

‘I never liked you in life,’ he whispered, ‘and death has not changed that.’ He breathed a prayer and studied the grisly remains of that old hypocrite garbed in the brown sacking of a Benedictine recluse. Evesham’s face was powder-white, his lips still rather full and red, pennies pressed down his heavy eyelids, and that nose, so often wrinkled in distaste, now jutted sharp and pointed. Even in death, his full, high-cheekboned face held a hint of arrogance, despite the thick white hair being shorn close to the scalp. Corbett crouched and peered at the wound that sliced Evesham’s throat from ear to ear.

‘Who would do that?’ demanded Roger Blandeford, chief clerk to Justice Hervey Staunton.

Corbett was tempted to reply that half of London would, whilst the other half would have clapped with glee. Instead he leaned closer, ignoring the harsh tang of the herbs in which the cadaver had been washed, and carefully scrutinising the letter ‘M’ carved on to Evesham’s smooth forehead. He felt a chill of apprehension. ‘M’ for Mysterium, the hallmark of a professional assassin who’d prowled London two decades ago. A skilled killer who’d murdered for profit until Lord Walter Evesham had brought him down.

He moved to the second corpse. Ignacio Engleat had never been handsome in life; death only emphasised his ugly face and scrawny hair, the jowly mouth, the snub nose and flared nostrils, those ever-peering eyes now closed for good. Both body and face were bloated with water and, despite the herbs and washing, reeked of mud slime and river offal. Engleat had been Walter Evesham’s faithful clerk and scribe; he had shadowed him in more senses than one. An arrogant, haughty man with a scornful heart and viper-like tongue, he would toady to the great but savage those weaker or more vulnerable than himself.

‘Found floating in the Thames.’

Edward of England walked over. The King’s face was rather pale, the furrowed lines more emphasised, the iron-grey tangle of hair uncombed. Corbett recognised the signs. Edward’s lips were a bloodless line, his right eye drooped almost shut. The King was seething.

‘Again the Mysterium.’ Corbett pointed to the large ‘M’ etched on Engleat’s brow.

‘And these were found pinned to the two corpses.’ Edward handed over two scraps of soaked vellum. The ink was blurred but the two words were clear enough: Mysterium Rei — the Mystery of the Thing. ‘Evesham,’ he hissed. ‘I thought Evesham trapped that assassin?’

‘If I recall,’ Corbett replied, ‘the Mysterium escaped. He vanished. Now, your grace, he has apparently returned with a vengeance. And this?’ He moved to the third corpse.

The last cadaver was disgusting. The man had undoubtedly been hanged; his bloated face was a bluish grey. One eye had been plucked out, and the end of his nose and part of his upper lip had been gnawed away.

‘Scemscale,’ called Hervey Staunton, a pomander muffling his nose and mouth. Corbett looked up. ‘Scemscale,’ Staunton repeated. ‘That’s what he called himself. That’s the name I used when I sentenced him to hang on the river scaffold for the turn of three tides.’

‘When?’

‘Oh, about a week ago.’

‘His corpse,’ the King intervened, ‘was found lashed to that of Ignacio Engleat.’

‘An ancient punishment.’ Staunton was determined to show his knowledge. ‘And one more’s the pity, not used today. The punishment for a liar and a perjurer who sent others to their deaths by false accusation and blasphemous oaths.’

‘What else?’

‘The assassin is proclaiming that Engleat was also a murderer, but when, how and why? I don’t know.’

‘A sorry tale,’ Corbett whispered.

‘But not here,’ murmured the King, ‘not here. My lord abbot’s parlour would be more fitting for our deliberations.’

Corbett agreed. The abbot’s parlour proved to be a welcome relief from the haunting, dour corpse chapel. He’d been glad to be free of it, out in the clear night air, the rich smell of burning wood mingling with that of sweet incense and candle smoke. The chanting of compline echoed from the great church. On the fitful breeze faint sounds carried from the surrounding woods as darkness settled. Corbett washed his face and hands at a lavarium in the cloisters, the King constantly by his side whispering how he must stay in the abbey that night, how he wanted this malevolent business swiftly resolved. Corbett just nodded until the King fell silent, glaring at him as a lay brother led them through a labyrinth of hollow-stoned passageways to this exquisitely comfortable chamber where flames sparked and flared as the logs in the great mantled hearth cracked and split. Candlelight glowed in the sheen of oaken panelling and the long table dominated by a small nef, an intricately carved silver cog bearing the Mary and her Divine Child. Many-coloured triptychs decorated the white plaster above the gleaming panelling. The shelves of the open aumbry against the far wall displayed the precious gold and silver plate of the abbey. It was truly a place to relax after the rigours of the day.

A servant poured mulled wine, so hot each goblet was wrapped in a thick white napkin. On a small pewter plate beside it was diced spiced meat covered with breadcrumbs, to be eaten with the horn spoon provided. The King, seated at the top of the table, invited them to eat and swiftly devoured his own portion. Sir Hervey Staunton seemed reluctant, so the King pulled across his platter and quickly cleared it, sitting back in the high-backed chair with a sigh of relief as he warmed his hands around the goblet. Corbett ate carefully, nudging Ranulf with his knee to warn him not to laugh at the King. Ranulf obeyed, keeping his head down, though now and again the red-haired clerk would glance across at Staunton and Blandeford. Corbett did not like either of them; neither did Ranulf, who secretly dismissed the precious pair as ‘cheeks of the same arse’.

Staunton sat in the Court of King’s Bench: he was a small, furtive man with a pointed face that reminded Ranulf of a rat. His lank hair framed thin, solemn features: a small mouth, sharp nose and close-set eyes. Clean-shaven, dressed in a bottle-green cotehardie with a silver chain of office around his neck, Staunton might be considered a lowly official, but that was a dangerous conclusion, Ranulf reflected. In the scarlet silks of his office he was a truly frightening figure, a bully who would often reduce those who appeared before him to a state of nervous exhaustion. A ruthlessly ambitious man who, according to Corbett, believed only in one legal verse: Voluntas Principis habet vigorem legis — the will of the Prince has force of law, Staunton was a royal creature, with only one master, the Crown.

Blandeford, his scribe, was tall and slender, his olive-skinned face closely shaved, his black hair neatly cut, his clerical tonsure clear to see. His pious, gentle looks concealed a brain teeming like a beehive and a heart as hard as flint. Court gossips maintained that Blandeford, a truly vaunting clerk, would enter the Church and became a bishop. God help us all on that, Ranulf reflected. He finished his food and stared directly across at Blandeford, who sat watching him just as closely.

Edward I, now warm, his belly full, the royal right eye no longer drooping so much, sat lost in thought. Corbett cradled his own wine cup and stared at a triptych on the wall opposite. Gilt-edged and painted deftly in red, blue, green and gold, it described the death of St Benedict’s sister Scholastica. He concentrated on the pious images, which soothed the harrowing memories of the day.

‘My lords,’ Edward tapped the table, ‘it is good to be here.’ He gestured at the door barred from the inside, then at the polished shutters over the small oriel window on the far wall. ‘We can take close council here, so I shall begin. You know most of the sorry tale, but it becomes richer in its retelling. Twenty years ago, an assassin appeared in London. Now that city, that seething pot of dissent and rebellion, is truly the house of murder: assassins and slayers are manifold, but the Mysterium was different. He’d kill those whom the powerful of London wanted dead. His victims suffered various fates: drowning, stabbing, burning in a fire, garrotting, or the casualty of a falling wall.’ The King raised a hand. ‘When the corpses were found, and I believe not all were, the letter “M” was carved on the victim’s forehead and upon the corpse was a scrap of parchment with the words Mysterium Rei — the Mystery of the Thing — an enigmatic, taunting phrase. God knows what it means; perhaps it was left to intrigue or to serve as a hallmark. Now London bubbles with enmities and rivalries of every kind: husband and wife, feuding kin, business rivals, insults given, insults suffered. .’ The King paused as Staunton lifted his hand.

‘Sire, the writing on the parchment?’

‘By a hand ordinary enough, on parchment that could be found anywhere. Nothing remarkable, except,’ Edward added flatly, ‘this was murder.The number of deaths increased; protests were lodged.’

Staunton and Blandeford murmured their agreement.

‘Now.’ Edward gestured around. ‘All of you served in the chancery at the time. You know most of this through rumour, gossip and tittle-tattle. A murder by the gangs in London is one thing, but the Mysterium was another. Old Burnell, my chancellor, turned to a very ambitious, talented clerk, Walter Evesham. All of you must have known him. Corbett, this was in your green and salad days.’ The King’s glance softened. ‘Before my beloved Eleanor.’ His voice became choked with emotion, as it did whenever he mentioned his first wife. ‘Ah well,’ he whispered, ‘glory days! Do you remember them, Corbett? As for you, Ranulf,’ Edward half smiled, ‘no, you wouldn’t know any of this.’

Corbett just sat and nodded in agreement. He remembered Evesham, sharp as a knife, secretive, always busy on this and that.

‘Keen-witted and cunning,’ he murmured. ‘Evesham was a man of many talents.’

‘He certainly was,’ the King agreed. ‘He was born at Ingachin, a lonely manor along the Welsh March, a desolate place. His father did good service for me in Wales. Walter was the apple of his eye, a scholar. He attended the cathedral schools of Gloucester and Hereford; later the halls of Oxford and Cambridge, studying the Quadrivium and Trivium, though his special talent was logic and the law. He served in the royal levies before being schooled at the Inns of Court, where he was professed as a serjeant. He entered the royal service and did excellent work at the court of France. A true and assiduous collector of information, he had to leave Paris one step ahead of the Secretissimi, my sweet cousin Philip of France’s ruthless agents, and returned to Westminster as a clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax. He later entered the Office of the Secret Seal. I can’t actually remember the details, but Burnell, my chancellor, the same who favoured you, Sir Hugh, entrusted Evesham with one task: to hunt down and trap the Mysterium.’

‘He hid it well,’ Corbett remarked. ‘He still kept busy, busy.’

‘A pretence,’ Edward declared. ‘I shall first move to the conclusion. Evesham actually believed the Mysterium was a chancery clerk, a senior one. Let me explain his logic. Corbett and Staunton, you both know how all the information from home and abroad flows like a river through the offices of the chancery: trade negotiations, alliances, purchases, licences to do this or that, but also the scandal, gossip and chatter from both the court and the city. The faults and foibles of many. Which merchant is playing the two-backed beast, who frequents the stews and bath houses. Above all, the various enmities and hostilities, be it husband or wife, or one guild merchant against another.’ Edward smiled at Ranulf. ‘Even one clerk’s rivalry with a colleague.’

‘And the Mysterium used this?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes, he did,’ the King agreed. ‘I said I would first deal with the conclusion. Apparently the Mysterium would learn of an intense hostility, usually hatred, and send a message to one of the parties, the one he believed to be the most susceptible to his advances. All this,’ he waved a hand, ‘can be found in the archives of the Secret Seal. The message would be stark, something to the effect: “Your enemy is my enemy, no mystery. Your enemy can be no more, says the Mysterium. By what name is your enemy called?” Before you ask,’ The King shook his head, ‘the writing on the parchment could have come from a legion of sources.’

‘And the same for how it was delivered,’ Staunton remarked.

‘Slipped into the hand or left at your lodgings,’ added Blandeford, eager to follow his master.

‘But surely,’ Ranulf asked, ‘the recipient would recognise the name Mysterium and realise what this entailed. Wouldn’t someone come forward?’

‘Would they?’ Corbett sipped from the now cooled mulled wine. ‘Very dangerous, Ranulf. A lawyer might argue that you were the Mysterium’s accomplice in some guise or other, whilst God help you if something did befall your enemy.’

‘Precisely!’ Edward tapped the table.

‘But there is something missing, isn’t there?’ Corbett continued. ‘How could the recipient respond?’

‘At the end of the message,’ the King smiled, ‘was a reference; for example, St Paul VI, 2. At first glance the murderer seemed to be referring to one of the Apostle’s letters.’

‘But he wasn’t,’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘It’s St Paul’s Cathedral and the great hanging board or hoarding in the nave. It’s divided into a hundred and forty-four squares, a reference to the Apocalypse; a wall painting on either side of it depicts how many people will be saved at the Last Judgement.’ He paused. Staunton and Blandeford were smiling at him as if he were a child who’d solved a riddle to which they already knew the answer.

‘Let us hear it, Ranulf,’ Corbett intervened. ‘It’s a long time since I used the great hoarding.’

‘It’s a hundred and forty-four squares,’ Ranulf repeated, wishing the flush in his face would fade, ‘twelve across and twelve down. The horizontal squares are numbered in the Arabic fashion, the vertical in the Roman. VI, 2 would be the square where these two numbers meet. You place your money in an alms box and take a scrap of parchment from a nearby dish. You then write your notice and put it in whatever square you’ve chosen. Everything is advertised there, be it a servant looking for employment, or someone arranging a meeting.’

‘Or a murderer,’ Corbett continued, ‘offering up the name of their intended victim. The Mysterium would come to the cathedral and read what was placed there.’ He pulled a face. ‘Cunning and devious is the human heart. The great hoarding is covered in notices, whilst visitors crowd through St Paul’s many entrances.’

‘And there’s the disguise, the cowl, the visor,’ Staunton declared. ‘People push and shove; who would guess murder was being planned?’

‘So tempting.’ Blandeford’s high-pitched voice held a wistful note. ‘But payment?’

‘The Mysterium always demanded the same: two hundred pounds in pure gold,’ replied the King. ‘Again a short message pushed into the hand once the deed was done. It would list the amount as well as the time and place for payment, usually a tavern or a busy church. Another note would stipulate where the money was to be left: in an empty tankard, under a platter or in some wall niche. Who could object? The Mysterium was the assassin, but so was the person who supplied the name.’

‘But the hirer could refuse payment.’ Ranulf spoke up, then pulled a face. ‘Though of course,’ he added, ‘he could be blackmailed. He’d already provided the name of his victim. The Mysterium would hold on to that and could denounce him anonymously. Suspicion would already be sharp about a rival’s involvement in his enemy’s murder. Such a denunciation supported by evidence, meagre though it might be, would be highly dangerous.’

‘And who would refuse to pay?’ Corbett declared. ‘Many of the rich and powerful would see even two hundred pounds in pure gold as well worth the price. The letter “M” carved on the victim’s brow would proclaim the deed to enhance the assassin’s reputation. I can follow Evesham’s logic. The Mysterium would have to be someone who could plumb the depths of the loathing of one person for another. He’d choose his victim very carefully. Yes, London seethes with hatred and rivalry. We clerks learn about such things. The Great Ones, as we know, hire gangs, rifflers and ribauds to confront their rivals with sword and dagger play in Cheapside. The Mysterium’s method is a better, more silent way. Of course, the person who has hired the Mysterium must ensure that he is nowhere near the scene of his victim’s death. Very, very clever. People might suspect, but there’d be no proof. So how did Evesham eventually trap the killer?’

‘Think, Corbett,’ Edward teased. ‘How would you?’

‘The basic premise,’ Corbett replied slowly, ‘is that the Mysterium knew about the affairs of the Great Ones. Yes, he could well be a clerk.’ He emphasised the points with his fingers.

‘Primo: Evesham could pretend to nourish a deep grievance against some rival, but that would founder because the Mysterium would have to murder someone, and such a crime would have sent Evesham to the scaffold. Moreover, if the Mysterium was a chancery clerk, he would quickly suspect a trap and not rise to the bait.’ Corbett paused.

‘Secundo: he could watch other clerks in the chancery, but that would be very difficult and take too much time.’

From the darkness outside, an owl hooted, long and mournful, to be answered by the strident bark of a fox.

‘Tertio?’ Staunton asked.

‘Tertio,’ Corbett announced slowly: ‘I would watch. I’d ask myself who wanted a certain person dead. What was the chatter, the gossip? Now, undoubtedly that would be difficult. If you, my lord Staunton, were my enemy — though of course,’ he added drily, ‘you are not — people might suspect me of your murder, but suspicion is not proof. Moreover, my lord, a man like you, difficult though it is to accept, might have more than one enemy.’

Edward lowered his head. Ranulf put his face into his hands. Staunton merely smirked.

‘Trial and error,’ Corbett continued. ‘I’d search around and listen to all the information flowing into the chancery. Remember, the Mysterium would not be paid until the deed was done and the victim identified. Therefore I’d listen to the news about all the sudden mysterious deaths amongst the Great Ones and I’d narrow the possibilities. The most opportune is a man getting rid of a rival, or, even better, his wife. If the latter occurred, the husband would ensure that he was many miles distant from the incident. He’d be able to go on oath with a host of witnesses to claim he was far away and had no hand in the murder.’

Edward laughed softly. ‘You have it! A merchant, Adam Chauntoys: his wife Alice was attacked and killed in the street, the letter “M” carved on her brow. Master Chauntoys, who has now gone to his eternal reward, was, of course, absent. Witnesses could swear that he was with the Merchants of the Staple in Southampton. Rumours flew thick and fast that his wife had been entertaining young gallants while her husband was abroad. Some of these gallants were married or betrothed, so Alice had a list of enemies who would be only too eager to see her dead. Her husband, of course, acted the innocent cuckold whilst he planned his revenge.

‘Evesham reasoned that if Adam was the Mysterium’s accomplice, he would certainly not pay until he returned to London and viewed his wife’s corpse in the coroner’s court, so he decided to take a gamble.When Chauntoys arrived back from Southampton, Evesham kept him under very close scrutiny. He and his servant Ignacio Engleat asked for a comitatus of bailiffs to be ready at their beck and call, then they dogged Chauntoys’ footsteps at every twist and turn, following the soi-disant grieving widower as he journeyed around London. Four days after his return, Chauntoys broke from his usual horarium, the daily routine he’d set himself. Cloaked and cowled, he crossed London Bridge to Southwark, but not before visiting a goldsmith in Cheapside. Evesham believed the hunt was now on. Most of the bailiffs went secretly across the river by barge; Evesham, Engleat and the rest followed Chauntoys to a spacious tavern, the Liber Albus, near the Priory of St Mary Overy. Evesham had the tavern ringed and went in. Chauntoys sat at a small closet table. Someone else was also there: Boniface Ippegrave. You remember him, Corbett?’

‘A clerk in the Office of the Privy Seal. A lawyer, a bachelor of Gascon descent. Rumour had it that he was the Mysterium, but he was never brought to trial. He disappeared — yes?’

‘The same,’ Edward agreed. ‘Anyway, on that fateful day, Evesham decided to act. The rest of the bailiffs entered the tavern and arrested both men. Now, no business had taken place, but Chauntoys could not explain why he was carrying two hundred pounds in pure gold, nor could he explain the scrap of parchment with the date, time and place along with a message telling him to leave the “mystery” on the window ledge of the closet table he’d chosen. For his part Ippegrave, a chancery clerk, could not account for why he should appear at such a tavern armed with sword and dagger. He protested his innocence, declaring that the only reason he’d come to the Liber Albus was because Chauntoys had sent him a message demanding to see him there an hour after the Angelus, for a most urgent matter affecting the King and to the great profit of Ippegrave himself. Chauntoys denied sending any such message. He claimed it wasn’t in his hand, though to be true, London does have a thousand scribes for hire.’

‘So why was Chauntoys there?’

‘He claimed he’d come to meet a Flemish merchant over some negotiations for wool. Both he and Ippegrave were arrested and intended for Newgate. However, once they reached the city, Ippegrave, still protesting his innocence, slipped his guard and fled. The hue and cry were raised and he was pursued, but he raced through the streets and alleyways to take sanctuary in St Botulph’s Cripplegate.’

‘The same church. .?’ Ranulf queried.

‘The same church you had to assault earlier today.’ The King shrugged. ‘Today, yesterday,’ he sighed, ‘all days seem to merge into one, but that’s just the passing of the years.’

‘Your memory,’ Staunton flattered, ‘is as sharp as ever.’

‘I wish to God it was,’ Edward snapped. ‘Yet when I visited the chancery and read the records in the archives of the Secret Seal, everything did come back as if it happened yesterday.’ He pulled himself up, leaning his elbows on the table.

‘You said you’d begin with the conclusion,’ Corbett queried. ‘How did Evesham discover the Mysterium’s method?’

‘Evesham was cunning,’ Edward replied ‘Chauntoys was later offered a pardon, and in return for this and a heavy fine, he confessed everything. He did not know the Mysterium, but he had hired the assassin to kill his wife. From him,’ Edward rapped the table, ‘and only from him, did Evesham learn the Mysterium’s subtle craft of murder: the messages, the great hoarding at St Paul’s and the method of payment.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘Nothing. Chauntoys was released under heavy bail, but that came much later. At the time, Ippegrave’s caskets in his lodgings at Cripplegate and the chancery were searched by a trusted clerk. More gold than he should have had was found, as well as scraps of manuscript, tags and bits of parchment bearing the names of former victims, a crude map showing where they had been found and references to the great hoarding board at St Paul’s.’ The King paused to drink. ‘Ippegrave, sheltering in St Botulph’s, was confronted with all this. He could not, or would not, explain the gold or the parchment scraps. He still protested his innocence. Evesham was hot against him. He wanted Ippegrave to be brought to trial. Ambitious and arrogant, he was determined that such a trial would be a public manifestation of his genius and skill.’

‘And you, your grace?’ Corbett voice was tinged with amusement. Edward hated public show unless it was to illustrate his own glory and magnificence.

‘True, true,’ the King agreed, ‘I was not too eager. I did not wish the scandal whilst I could use the information for my own secret purposes. Believe me, Corbett, I did. Chauntoys babbled like a bairn. Many powerful lords in London were told what I had uncovered. I bluffed, I embroidered my discoveries. These city princes were advised to show their gratitude for the Crown’s forbearance and mercy in many ways. Evesham had achieved a great victory. The capture of the Mysterium by a royal clerk only enhanced the power and influence of the Crown. But,’ Edward smiled, ‘that came much later, after Ippegrave’s disappearance. At the time, Evesham was determined that St Botulph’s be closely guarded. City bailiffs and men-at-arms from the Tower camped outside. Evesham and Engleat tried to persuade Ippegrave to make a full confession. So did you.’ The King turned abruptly to Staunton and Blandeford. ‘Were you not friends with Ippegrave?’

‘Your grace,’ Staunton blustered, ‘we never tried to hide that. We were as surprised as any by his capture, as were you, your grace, and Chancellor Burnell. Remember, sire, Evesham was intent on garnering all the glory. He would not even allow us into the church.’

‘True.’ The King darted a warning look at Corbett. ‘And that’s a further problem.’ He wiped his fingers on a napkin. ‘Boniface’s possessions were searched and he was confronted with the evidence but could provide no satisfactory explanation. If he’d gone on trial, he would certainly have been found guilty.’

‘But he disappeared?’ Corbett declared.

‘Yes, and that lies at the heart of this mystery,’ Edward replied. ‘St Botulph’s was closely guarded, every door, portal and window, but Boniface Ippegrave vanished from the face of the earth. London was scoured. Sheriffs, port-reeves and bailiffs alerted.’

‘And Evesham?’

‘He was beside himself with rage,’ the King murmured. ‘He was furious. He ordered his guards to search that church, every nook and cranny, every crevice, every aperture; nothing was left undisturbed. St Botulph’s has no crypt. Evesham went up the tower, even on to the roof, yet from that day to this, nothing.’ Edward paused and drank noisily from his goblet.

‘Evesham was so distraught,’ he continued, ‘I thought he would fall ill, some malignancy of the humours. Time passed, but not a trace of Ippegrave was found. I ordered the matter be let rest. As for Evesham, I wanted to reward him. The Mysterium had been revealed and the murders stopped. Now, Evesham was a widower; he had one son, John, who later became Parson of St Botulph’s.’ The King shrugged. ‘You know how it is. Many royal clerks acquire the right to appoint to a benefice. John Evesham wanted to become a priest, so naturally Lord Walter used his influence to secure the parish for him. However, twenty years ago, John was still a child and his father an eligible bachelor. Shortly after the Mysterium had been unmasked, Evesham married again, a rich heiress, a ward of the Crown, Clarice Pauntefroys, the daughter of a powerful merchant.’ Edward was now talking as if to himself. ‘My debt to Evesham was great, whilst he proved to be most skilled. He secured promotion, one chancery post after another. An expert in the Pleas of the Crown and the rights of the Exchequer, he became a justice both in Westminster and out in the shires. Two years ago he was appointed Chief Justice, but the canker was already there.’ Edward gestured at Corbett. ‘As you know, Sir Hugh, the Court of King’s Bench receives many indictments and denunciations. About two months ago we began to receive anonymous information from the so-called Land of Cockaigne maintaining that our Chief Justice was corrupt, hand in glove with gang leaders such as Waldene and the self-styled Hubert the Monk. Now, such denunciations are commonplace; what was most singular about these was not the reference to the topsy-turvy world of Cockaigne, a scholarly citation, but how detailed the accusations were.’

‘About what?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh, not so much about isolated incidents.’ Staunton, at Edward’s request, took up the story. ‘The writer from the Land of Cockaigne claimed that Evesham was too cunning a fox to inculpate himself in writing, but mentioned his secret meetings with the gang leaders Waldene and Hubert the Monk. Apparently such meetings were allegedly held in the dead of night in Lord Walter’s mansion in Clothier Lane, a wealthy quarter of Cripplegate ward.’

‘And the purpose of these meetings?’

‘Lord Walter would receive a certain portion of all stolen goods. In return for this, when an indictment was presented against any of the gangs who did business with our Chief Justice, that indictment, for some obscure reason, would be rejected.’

‘As simple as that?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugh, as simple as that, but reflect.’ Staunton relished the opportunity to lecture this solemn-faced clerk. ‘An indictment can be rejected for many reasons before being forwarded to a jury: a mistake in law or in fact and that is the end of the matter. Lord Walter was, if anything, most skilled in the law and the beauty of its corruption, if you can call it that.’ He glanced hastily at the King. ‘The failed indictment has a brief reason for its rejection appended to it and that’s all.We examined the schedule of indictments and found list after list of rejections against notorious rifflers, all buried on points of law. Nothing could be done about them, but the writer from the Land of Cockaigne kept referring to other matters, especially those sinister, secret meetings late at night in Evesham’s mansion. A watch was kept. Four weeks ago, Blandeford and I observed two men slip through the dark and in by a postern gate. We surrounded the mansion, then forced an entrance. Lord Walter was found in his chancery chamber with Giles Waldene and Hubert the Monk. Both rifflers acted the innocent, but in Lord Walter’s personal coffer we found freshly minted coins stolen from the Royal Mint in the Tower. You may remember the robbery?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘As you know, Sir Hugh,’ the King added bitterly, ‘I hate these covens of rifflers. They disturb the peace, carry out numerous robberies, mock my authority and, above all, are used by the Great Ones of London to settle scores with each other.’

Corbett nodded sympathetically. Indeed he knew only too well. The King nursed a deep resentment, even hatred, for the merchant princes of London, with their vast profits from the wool trade. They in turn fiercely resented royal interference in what they saw as their city, they wanted to enjoy the same status and power as the self-governing communes of Florence and Venice to which they sold their precious wool.

‘The evidence against Evesham was compelling, though at the time he refused to comment,’ Staunton continued. ‘Why was he entertaining such wolfsheads in his own chamber at such an ungodly hour? Why did he have freshly minted gold coins in his coffer filched in a recent robbery? We believe Waldene and the Monk were responsible for that, though of course we had no proof that they had brought the gold there. Moreover,’ he lifted a finger, ‘that pair of rifflers, also trapped in the mire, later pleaded that if they were indicted, Evesham must also account-’

‘They recognised,’ Corbett intervened, ‘that his grace, fearful of hideous scandal, might be prepared to gloss over the matter regarding Evesham but not as regards to them. I’m sure they would have implicated the Chief Justice.’

‘Whatever those two wolfsheads decided,’ the King growled, ‘Evesham was finished. He’d grown arrogant as Lucifer. I confronted him in the Jerusalem Chamber at Westminster and threatened to put him on trial and seize all his chattels, including his beloved manor of Ingachin on the Welsh March. Evesham, caught red-handed, acted like a broken man. He offered to resign all his posts and retire as a recluse to the Abbey of Syon on Thames. I agreed.’

‘Why here?’ asked Corbett. ‘Why not some other monastery?’

‘Two reasons, perhaps.’ The King gestured with his cup towards the door. ‘Both acts of reparation. Evesham was not a prisoner, but rather a forced house guest. He was under strict instruction to assume the garb of a lay brother and never leave Syon’s precincts. As I said, he may have been thinking of reparation. The lay brother in charge of the corpse chapel beneath which Evesham had his cell, you met him briefly, Brother Cuthbert. Years ago he was Cuthbert Tunstall, Parson of St Botulph’s Cripplegate when Boniface Ippegrave took sanctuary there. After Ippegrave disappeared, Evesham, in his arrogance, even though he himself held the keys of the church, blamed Parson Tunstall. He complained bitterly to the Bishop of London; more importantly, he had Tunstall confined to his house to fast on bread and water, and berated him day and night until his anger was spent. When he had finished, Tunstall was a broken man. He resigned his benefice and asked to be accepted here as a simple lay brother. According to Father Abbot, when Evesham arrived at Syon, he knelt at Tunstall’s feet and asked for forgiveness. Whether it was given or not, I don’t know. Abbot Serlo claimed Tunstall did not seem to care, whilst Evesham kept to himself, ate his meals and studied manuscripts from the abbey library.’

‘And the second reason?’

‘Ah.’ Again the King pointed to the door. ‘In the grounds stands an anchorite cell built near the curtain wall. Adelicia lives there, as she has for the last twenty years.’

‘Adelicia?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Adelicia Ippegrave, beloved sister of Boniface, former chancery clerk. She lived with her brother in Cripplegate and was a parishioner of St Botulph’s, a close friend I understand of Parson Tunstall. When her brother disappeared and Tunstall retired a broken man, Adelicia sold all her possessions and both bishop and abbot gave her permission to retire here as an ancilla Domini — handmaid of the Lord — to live the life of an anchoress.’

‘How close were Cuthbert and Adelicia?’ Ranulf asked. ‘I mean,’ he shrugged, ‘some priests have their lemans, their mistresses?’

‘I don’t know.’ The King seemed distracted. ‘Adelicia publicly condemned what had happened. She constantly protested her brother’s innocence and declared she would spend her life in prayer and fasting so that God would eventually make true judgement, and so it was, until yesterday.’ Edward pushed himself away from the table, rose and stretched, then walked to the windows, pulled back the shutters and stared into the night. ‘Yesterday was harvest time, as if the past was not buried deep enough. In Newgate, Hubert the Monk’s followers believed that those of Giles Waldene would turn King’s Approvers in return for a general pardon. A riot ensued. Later on that day, Ignacio Engleat, Evesham’s clerk, was drinking and whoring at the Comfort of Bathsheba near Queenshithe — you’ve seen what happened to him. On that very evening, the same killer perhaps, crept down the steps to the cellar beneath the corpse chapel here at Syon. Somehow he eluded both Brother Cuthbert and his guard dog, Ogadon, persuaded Evesham to lift the bar on his door, entered and cut our former justice’s throat. On leaving, the assassin just as mysteriously managed to lower the inside bar behind him. A true mystery, which is why,’ the king turned and pointed at Corbett, ‘I have summoned you here: to resolve this, to discover the truth. .’