The Mysterium

6

Corbett, muffled in his cloak, sat at the great chancery table in the Office of the Secret Seal, deep in the labyrinth of galleries, passageways and chambers on the second floor of the rambling, ancient palace of Westminster. The lowered candelabra of beeswax lights illuminated the ox-blood Cordovan leather table top and the manuscripts Corbett had neatly laid out. He slouched in the quilted high-backed chair and stared around. Braziers crackled against the cold seeping like a mist through the shuttered windows. Lantern horns brightened the corners as well as the aumbries, coffers and chests stacked around the chamber. The flickering light caught the glint of a silver crucifix and shimmered in the vivid colours of the glorious tapestry, a gift from the King’s allies in Flanders, which proclaimed the story of the Archangel Raphael from the Book of Tobit. A shadowy shape flittered across the pool of light and disappeared through the slightly ajar door.

‘Good hunting Footpad,’ Corbett called; the great tomcat, the scourge of vermin, prowled like Death itself along the narrow wintry galleries, ready to pounce on any wandering mouse or rat. Elsewhere, Footpad’s lieutenant Assassin was also on the hunt. Corbett half listened. The old timbers and woodwork of the palace creaked and groaned. Sentry calls carried on the late-night air, whilst the persistent chilling breeze rattled the shutters. A place of ghosts, Corbett reflected. He got to his feet, stretched and moved to a small mullioned glass window, its panes decorated with heraldic motifs, where he peered down at the juddering light from cressets flaring in their holdings as well as the makeshift fires of the sentries. Westminster was now quiet. Some claimed how, after dark, the palace became too silent and all the ghosts of yesteryear returned. Clerks who’d spent their lives in their narrow chambers and ignored the call to worship God. Priests who had flocked to the palace to collect fat benefices and comfortable sinecures but failed to offer masses for the stipends received. Those killed in the constant brawls and affrays in Westminster’s many taverns, ale houses and brothels, which did such lively business for the court. These were joined by the spectres of those who’d died in sanctuary, the refuge for outlaws and wolfsheads in the great meadow that separated the Abbey of Westminster from the palace, their shades mingling with those who’d been hanged outside the great gate of the abbey. Corbett smiled. Despite the legends, he preferred Westminster after dark, at peace from the constant clatter and chatter of the day.

He returned to his chair. It was very warm in here, and he was glad to be out of the cold, away from that dreadful chamber in Evesham’s house. He and Ranulf had informed Parson John about what had happened. The priest said he could not bear to view the corpses. Indeed, he began to shiver and cry so woefully that Fleschner had to take him back to St Botulph’s. Lapwing had kept his distance. Once Corbett had announced the dire news, the mysterious clerk declared that he wished to leave. Corbett had grasped the man by the cloak and warned that he would soon receive a writ of summons and must accept it. Lapwing had simply shrugged and slipped away. Corbett then re-entered that macabre house and carefully searched it, yet apart from the gruesome slaughter in the bedchamber, nothing else had been disturbed. No sign of forced caskets, chests or coffers, no violence anywhere. The killer had slipped like the Angel of Death through that mansion, where the two lovers had considered they were safe, with no servants, no one to report on their illicit tryst.

‘And no manuscripts,’ he mused loudly. ‘Evesham’s chancery chamber was as empty as a poor man’s pantry.’

He picked up his goblet of mulled wine and sipped carefully. He must sleep and prepare for tomorrow, yet he was vexed, for he could make little sense nor impose any real order on the bloody swirl of events. He pulled across the various manuscripts culled from the pouches and coffers of the Secret Seal. He had read Evesham’s report on his hunt and capture of Ippegrave. The King’s summation of events had been accurate; only one extra detail stood out. Evesham had explained how he was so surprised at Boniface being the Mysterium that he had bound neither him nor the merchant Chauntoys when they were brought across the bridge from Southwark. As he had rightly argued, Ippegrave was a clerk in minor orders accused but not condemned. For the rest, the account provided no new information nor offered any further evidence. Evesham described how Boniface had escaped, taken sanctuary in St Botulph’s and was not allowed out. How his sister had approached with a ring that Evesham claimed he handed over to her brother. He detailed how closely guarded the church had been, every door and window, and could not explain his quarry’s escape. A list of depositions from bailiffs and others who had guarded St Botulph’s all confirmed this mystery.

Corbett pulled across another pouch. He’d broken the seal and examined its contents, found in Boniface’s lodgings as well as his iron-bound coffer here in the chancery. The items had been listed by a clerk, Rastall. Corbett smiled. He remembered old Rastall, grim and abrasive but as clear and honest as the day. He had led the search of Boniface’s personal belongings; he would have scrupulously ensured that nothing had been deliberately placed there to incriminate the fugitive clerk, and had declared as much in a small memorandum sewn to the contents. The list of gold and silver found, now long spent by the exchequer, was considerable. Corbett whistled under his breath. It was certainly more than any chancery clerk could earn in a year. He examined with interest the message found on Boniface the day he was arrested. Written anonymously in faded ink, the writ gave the time and place, with the added advice that Boniface’s presence at the Liber Albus would be of great profit to both himself and the King.

‘That could have been written by anyone,’ he murmured aloud.

The rest of the items included a rough sketch map of London, or at least the area around St Paul’s, Cheapside, Aldgate, Cripplegate and Farringdon. Crosses had been etched in red. According to the memorandum drawn up by Rastall, the map, definitely the work of Boniface himself, marked some of the murders carried out by the Mysterium. A second sheaf consisted of faded scraps bearing the same macabre message the assassin had pinned to the corpses of his victims: Mysterium Rei — the Mystery of the Thing. Corbett held one of these up; undoubtedly they had been sent to the chancery by the coroners and sheriffs who’d attended the victim’s corpses. Boniface had apparently collected them, but why? More important was a piece of parchment with the words ‘St Paul’ scrawled above a square roughly divided into columns, twelve across and twelve down. According to Rastall, the document had been found in Boniface’s coffer and was certainly in his hand. Corbett tapped the table, muttering to himself. Evesham had revealed the Mysterium’s murderous method only after he had arrested both Ippegrave and the merchant Chauntoys. Only did then did he deduce, supported by Chauntoys’ full confession, how the Mysterium chose his victims and demanded payment.

‘But that was after the event!’ Corbett exclaimed to himself. ‘So how did Boniface know about St Paul’s?’

He couldn’t have done, he reasoned, unless he truly was the Mysterium. Yet he had protested his innocence to his sister and to others. He’d written that puzzle about being guiltless, standing in the centre and pointing to the four corners; what did that mean? An enigmatic riddle to protect himself? Was Boniface a liar and an assassin who’d managed to escape and had now returned to exact vengeance?

Corbett blew on his mittened fingers and extended his hands over the nearby chafing dish, then picked up a parchment that Rastall had again confirmed was written in Boniface’s hand. The lettering was neat and precise, as if the author had carefully reflected before scribbling each word. The entries were elliptical: Hervey Staunton, Blandeford? Clerks? Messengers to St Paul’s Cross? Then beneath this, Walter Evesham? Ignacio Engleat? Clerks in the city? Corbett moved the manuscript around and glimpsed a sketch in the far right-hand corner: two letters, ‘B’ and ‘M’, separated by a heart pierced with an arrow. Was that a mere jotting? Some long-lost love of Boniface’s? He picked up the last piece of parchment. Grey and faded, it bore a list of names beginning with ‘Emma’, then others that sparked Corbett’s memory though he couldn’t place them: Odo Furnival, Stephen Bassetlawe, William Rescales. Beneath this the letters

A,B,C,

D,E,F,

G,H,I

A flurry of noise followed by a creak in the gallery outside made him start. Footpad or Assassin had struck! He settled in his chair, allowing the exhaustion to seep in. When, he wondered, would he strike at this cunning killer? The piece of parchment slipped from his fingers and, eyes growing heavy, he drifted into sleep.

Adelicia Ippegrave started awake. She’d been dreaming about walking through the moon-washed woodland of the abbey searching for Boniface. She was worried about the tapping that seemed to follow her. Pulling herself up on the cot bed, she realised the noise was coming from the shuttered window of her anker house. She picked up the small crucifix from the rough-hewn table beside her bed and crossed herself with it, whispering a prayer to St Michael against the prowlers of the dark. Then she drew a deep breath, took a tinder and lit the fat tallow candle in the lantern horn. Again the tapping on the shutters.

‘Adelicia,’ hissed a voice, ‘Adelicia, pax et bonum.’

She moved across, opened the shutters and stood back. A rush of icy night air made her snatch up her mantle and wrap it about her shoulders. She stared into the blackness.

‘Who are you?’

‘Why, sister, your sweet brother Boniface.’

Adelicia caught her breath and sat down clumsily on a stool.

‘I don’t believe you!’ she gasped. ‘Show yourself.’

‘It’s best not, not the way I am now.’

‘Then how-’ Adelicia flinched as something sparkling was tossed lightly through the window. She scrabbled on the ground and picked up the circle of gold with its jasper stone.

‘Your ring.’ The voice was low, slightly mocking. ‘Your ring,’ it repeated. ‘Mother’s ring. You sent it to me.’

Adelicia held the ring fast as tears pricked her eyes. ‘If you are Boniface, where have you been? Why have you come back now? Why didn’t-’

‘The past is closed, sealed, Adelicia. No going back down amongst the dead men. My hour has come, vengeance is here.’

‘For what?’

‘Sins reeking of malice and evil.’

‘But you said the past is sealed.’

‘So it is, except for sin. Its blossoms bloom rich and thick, they have to be culled.’

‘Are you the Mysterium?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you protested your innocence. You claimed to be guiltless, standing in the centre, pointing to the four corners. You wrote-’

‘That was then,’ came the whisper.

‘Did you. .’ Adelicia’s mouth went dry, ‘kill Evesham and the others? Dreadful deaths. Even more, I’ve heard news from the city. I have been summoned by the royal clerk. .’

‘Dogs nosing the muck,’ taunted the voice. ‘What do we have to do with royal clerks, Adelicia?’

‘Boniface, how did you escape?’

‘I will answer that if you answer me.’

‘What?’

‘When you came to see me, when I was in sanctuary at St Botulph’s, did Evesham,’ the voice thrilled with hatred, ‘did Evesham, that limb of Satan, ask about a woman called Beatrice?’

‘No,’ whispered Adelicia, ‘but later, when you escaped, he and Engleat came to our house. They searched it from cellar to garret, but of course-’

‘I never kept anything there; well not much, did I, sister?’

‘No, no.’

‘And Evesham, what did he ask?’

‘He screamed at me about a woman Boniface, if that is who you are. Yes, he gave her name, Beatrice, that’s all. And now my question: how did you escape?’

‘Sister, I simply walked through the door.’

‘But that’s. .’ Adelicia hastened to the window and gripped the rough wooden sill. She stared bleakly into the darkness, but her visitor had gone.

‘I don’t understand.’ Hervey Staunton, Justice in King’s Bench, tightened his vair-lined cloak, then leaned over and rapped the dark green leather covering of the judgement bench in the chamber of oyer and terminer just off the great hall of Westminster. ‘I don’t understand,’ he sniffed, glancing quickly at his companion Blandeford, who also sat swathed in a costly robe, face all peevish.

Ranulf leaned back in his high chair and stared around the comfortable lofty chamber. The walls were half covered in gleaming linen panelling, the pinkish-coloured plaster above adorned with paintings, cloths and triptychs all showing the same theme of justice, be it Daniel defending Susannah or Solomon deciding over the ownership of a child. He then glanced quickly at Chanson, Clerk of the Stables, now acting as court usher, sitting on a stool near the door. Outside, two burly men-at-arms, resplendent in their blue and gold scarlet livery, were ready to provide assistance.

Ranulf smiled to himself when Staunton repeated his question. ‘Master Long-Face’, as Ranulf secretly called Corbett, seemed oblivious to everything except the sheets of parchment before him. He wondered if he should intervene. He leaned forward, but Corbett, quick as a cat, gently tapped the table, a sign to remain silent. Ranulf rearranged his writing tray, its ink pots of red, blue and green still warm to the touch, the sharpened quills gleaming like knives ready to be grasped, the smooth creamy parchment stretched out under the weights carved in the shape of grimacing gargoyles. The inquisition would soon begin, but Corbett was determined to emphasise his authority over these two arrogant officials.

Corbett glanced up. He touched one of the two heavy candelabras, then his commission next to the crucifix, brushing this with his fingers before moving to the hilt of his sword lying with its point towards Staunton, his fingers finally resting on his seal. All these symbols of office should remind this precious pair that although they exercised the law, they were not above it. Staunton’s persistent questioning and objections faded into silence.

In the yard below, a crier announced the removal of a corpse to a chapel. A voice began to bellow the ‘Requiem Aeternam’. Corbett waited for silence, staring down at the parchment, lips murmuring as if reciting a prayer. Ranulf watched. He would remember all this when Fortune’s wheel turned and he himself had to preside, to carry out judgement. He dreamed dreams. He fully understood the rancorous emotions that seethed through the chancery and palace: Evesham’s ambition, the cunning secrecy of Boniface Ippegrave, the arrogance of Staunton and Blandeford. The chancery was a ladder, slippery and dangerous, but for the agile and keen-witted it was a passage to the highest office in the land. Ranulf, with or without Corbett’s help, was determined to climb that ladder. He now understood the rules of the game. True, he was not a clerk from the halls of Oxford or Cambridge. He was a sharp, abrasive denizen from the city of the night, but so what? The only thing that mattered was the King. Edward’s will was law, and Ranulf was a King’s man heart and soul.

One thing he did not understand, could not comprehend, was Corbett, a true enigma, a puzzle. Even Edward the King was baffled by old Master Longface. Ranulf could plumb the depths of Staunton’s arrogance when summoned to answer questions. Blandeford was no different. The corridors of Westminster were full of clerks and judges, justices and officials just like them, all intent on pleasing the King and carrying out his will, though only those who did it successfully were noticed and rewarded. Corbett was different. Was that why Edward, with increasing frequency, took Ranulf aside to sit with him on the ale bench in the royal quarters and share a tankard or blackjack of ale? Ranulf always understood the drift of the King’s words. What would happen if the King wanted something but Corbett didn’t? What the King desired had the force of law. Ranulf accepted this; he just wished he could understand his master.

Corbett was a highly successful clerk, yet he was so monkish. He loved his wife deeply and refused to attend the various suppers, banquets and parties organised by the court. He was more absorbed in the liturgy and ritual of the Church, and drew strength from these, firm in his insistence that chaos must be controlled through right law and prepared to vigorously enter the most violent affrays to enforce this. He was locked in his own prayer chamber; in the world but not of it, part of the world yet distant from it. A clerk who fervently believed in the Church and the law, and that without these the world, wicked though it was, would be infinitely worse.

‘We are waiting, Sir Hugh?’ Staunton declared wearily.

Corbett’s head came up. ‘Of course you are, my lord. I too am waiting. The King is waiting, God is waiting. You are not here to parry words with me, or debate the finer points of the law, but to answer certain questions under oath.’ He gestured to where Chanson sat near the door, next to him the lectern holding the Book of the Gospels. ‘You have both taken the oath?’

‘Of course,’ Staunton and Blandeford chorused.

‘Then you know the punishment for perjury?’

‘Sir Hugh!’

‘I am just reminding you, my lords.’ Corbett sifted through the parchments and sat back in his chair, staring up at the raftered ceiling. ‘Very well then, we’ll go back twenty years. Both of you were chancery clerks, specialising in the affairs of the city, dealing with the Great Ones at the Guildhall?’

‘Of course,’ Staunton snapped. ‘We still are. You know that, Sir Hugh. We hold our commissions for matters affecting the city and the rights of the King in London.’

‘Very good, very good,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Then let’s go back to the murders by the Mysterium. You knew nothing of them?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Did you know Boniface Ippegrave?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Were you his friend? Some people, including his grace, claim you were.’

‘Some people are wrong, though not the King. He has now been apprised of the full facts. Ippegrave was an acquaintance, a man we liked,’ Staunton shrugged, ‘but nothing special. He was not, how can I put it, of our household. We did not consort with him at night. We did not sup or revel with him till the early hours.’

‘No, no, I am sure you did not. So can you explain why, in his scribblings, Boniface Ippegrave should mention your names?’

‘Why not?’ Blandeford blurted out before Staunton could stop him. ‘Why shouldn’t he scribble down our names? I know what you are talking about, Sir Hugh, I have seen the same scraps of parchment.’

‘You have?’ Corbett leaned forward.

Blandeford looked as if he was going to bluster, but Staunton, acting the serene judge, held up a hand. ‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh, when the Mysterium was unmasked and Boniface Ippegrave disappeared, everyone was fascinated by the details. We knew that Ippegrave’s chancery pouches were being emptied and the evidence collated. Master Blandeford and I, like many others, sifted through it. You must have done the same.’

Corbett smiled, narrowing his eyes.

‘I was young and tender then, Sir Hugh,’ Staunton purred, ‘more concerned with the business before me than with what had happened. Oh, of course I remember the rumours, the scandal. We picked at what morsels we could, but everything else was hushed, hidden away like the pyx in a tabernacle.’ He pulled a face. ‘As for our names being on that list, who knows. Did Ippegrave suspect us?’

‘Of what?’

‘God knows,’ came the bland reply. ‘Perhaps,’ he shrugged, ‘we were intended victims.’

‘So, on your oath, you know nothing of those matters?’

‘What his grace the King has already told you covers everything we knew.’

‘Very good, very good.’ Corbett wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘And so we move forward twenty years. My lord Staunton, Master Blandeford, you have both prospered well, waxed wealthy and powerful under the King’s protection. Of course your relationship with the city has deepened and become more, how can I put it, enriched.’

‘What are you implying?’ Blandeford accused.

‘I am implying nothing,’ Corbett snapped. ‘That is the situation. Walter Evesham was Chief Justice in King’s Bench. You, my lord Staunton, are a judge, whilst Master Blandeford here is your senior clerk, a minor justice who one day hopes to join you in your pre-eminence — true?’

Staunton nodded, watching Corbett carefully.

‘Now,’ Corbett chewed the corner of his lip, ‘your mandate is to keep an eye on the city merchants, the powerful ones, those the King loves to tax and often does, those with whom he clashes. What happened regarding Evesham? How did his fall begin?’

‘We received information, anonymous messages, that our chief justice was no Angel of Light,’ Staunton replied tersely. ‘This information, so the writer claimed, came from the Land of Cockaigne, another word for nonsense, except that such testimony maintained that Evesham was hand in glove with two leading gang members: Giles Waldene and Hubert the Monk.’

‘And how was this information given to you?’

‘By letters delivered at Westminster, left with this clerk or that.’

‘You have examples? You have brought the documents? I would like to see them.’

‘Of course.’ Staunton snapped his fingers, and Blandeford leaned down and picked up a small sack. He handed this to Corbett, who undid the knot at the neck and emptied the contents on to the table. The scraps of parchment were all about the same size. The vellum was of poor quality; the writing was large, in dark blue ink. Corbett sifted amongst them even as he realised they could have been written by any scribe, scribbler or clerk at the chancery. Nevertheless the information they contained was striking: allegations that on this indictment or that, Lord Walter Evesham had shown great favour to either Waldene or Hubert the Monk, members of their gangs being released without charge or trial. Corbett quickly calculated that there must be at least ten or twelve such pieces of parchment. Most contained the same kind of information, with names and dates. He organised them into a pile and, ignoring Staunton’s protests, gave them over to Ranulf, who was busy transcribing Corbett’s questions and the answers he received. Ranulf picked up an empty bag off the floor, put the documents in it, tied it securely and placed it in a coffer on the small table beside him. Staunton made to protest.

‘Don’t.’ Corbett lifted a hand. ‘My lord, you know the law. This is a commission of oyer and terminer. I will take whatever evidence I require.’

‘You will return them?’

‘When I have finished.’ Corbett lifted his arms and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair. ‘Of course you received more information.’ He held out a hand. ‘I will have that too.’

Again Staunton nodded, and Blandeford handed over more scraps of parchment. These were different, providing the times and dates of nocturnal meetings between Walter Evesham and the two gang leaders at Evesham’s mansion in Clothiers Lane. Corbett studied them sifting amongst them.

‘At first we couldn’t believe it,’ Staunton murmured, ‘but then we brought the information to the King. We organised a watch and, as you know, entered Walter Evesham’s house and found him deep in conversation with the two riffler leaders. There was the question of gold that had been stolen from the mint. The King decided that Evesham, Waldene and Hubert the Monk should be committed for trial. He hoped to execute all three as a warning to the rest. Evesham threw himself on the King’s mercy. He promised a full confession that would detail everything.’

‘Did you get one?’ asked Ranulf.

‘No, Evesham’s murder ended all that. However,’ Staunton sighed, ‘the information at least gave us the power to arrest and detain Waldene and Hubert’s gangs. We thought it best to keep the leaders separate from their followers. They were all placed in Newgate and would have later gone on trial in Westminster Hall, but of course, Evesham’s murder frustrated all this. His detailed confession would have been vital, but once he was dead, the King had no choice but to free the two gang leaders.’ Staunton shrugged. ‘Ostensibly they had done no wrong. Evesham was holding the stolen gold; there was no evidence linking them to it. They maintained the pretence that they had been summoned by Evesham to his house, and how could they refuse the King’s chief justice?’

‘Yes, yes, I understand all that,’ Corbett waved his hand, ‘but this Land of Cockaigne? Do you know its author, the spy who gave you such information?’

‘Sir Hugh, if we did, we would tell you.’

‘But you do have other information?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Waiting outside is the clerk who rejoices in the name of Lapwing as well as a string of other aliases as long as anyone’s arm.’ He paused as Staunton shifted uneasily in his seat.

‘My lord,’ Corbett sighed, ‘am I to drag it out from you word for word, letter by letter? Lapwing is your man, isn’t he? You are on oath.’

Staunton glanced at Blandeford, who simply stared down at his hands.

‘Answer the question.’ Ranulf lifted his head. ‘My lord, I am waiting for your answer, an answer that is on oath.’

‘There is no need to talk to me like that, clerk.’

‘There’s every need,’ Corbett replied. ‘We are not here to while away the time. I want the truth. The man known as Lapwing is a beneficed clerk. He knows Latin and Norman French. He is well dressed, courteous and educated. He is or was your spy. Yes or no?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then tell me about him. I want the truth.’ Corbett rapped the table. ‘He was caught in the company of those at St Botulph’s who were tried and executed as traitors and felons, and produced a writ signed by the King saying that what the bearer of that document had done, he had done for the good of the kingdom and the welfare of the Crown. That document was witnessed by both of you. So, we have Lapwing, who is your man, yes or no?’

‘I have said yes.’

‘And what is his real name? What is his provenance?’

Staunton closed his eyes and sighed.

‘Answer!’ Ranulf demanded sharply.

The judge opened his eyes and glared at Ranulf across the table.

‘I shall remember you, sir.’

‘And I shall not forget you, sir. Please answer.’

‘Do so,’ Corbett murmured, ‘for the love of God, either here, or I can have the men-at-arms outside put you in chains. We shall then go to the King’s palace at Sheen, where this mummery will be repeated. Lapwing?’

‘Lapwing is a clerk,’ Staunton replied. ‘As you know, his real name is Stephen Escolier. He was educated in the halls of Oxford. He entered the household of the Bishop of Winchester and served abroad. Last autumn, around Michaelmas, he returned to London and took lodgings in Mitre Street, where he lives with his mother. The reason he returned to London is that she is ailing and he needs to look after her. He approached me for service, for employment, a benefice, a sinecure, anything I could give him. Despite the letters from the Bishop of Winchester, I was unable to help, but then Escolier, or Lapwing as he calls himself, made me an offer. He told me that he had a secret grievance against Giles Waldene and Hubert the Monk, and offered to become a member of their coven and betray whatever he discovered. Now as you can appreciate, that was a dangerous enterprise, yet the clerk impressed me: he was razor-witted, intelligent and observant. I agreed, and Escolier became Lapwing, a wandering scholar with a ready tongue and a sharp knife. He joined Waldene’s coven and soon established a cordial relationship with that reprobate. Lapwing can read and write, Waldene could not, so he was glad to acquire such a skilled and enterprising clerk. Lapwing gave us information about what mischief was being planned and plotted: abductions, assaults, but above all, who amongst our so-called city fathers was hiring Waldene. I paid him well.’ Staunton spread his hands. ‘You must also appreciate that he only worked for me for a short while. Evesham’s fate actually hindered us bringing such work to a successful conclusion.’ He shrugged. ‘A few more months and we’d have had enough evidence to indict many of the gang leaders in London ten times over.’

‘But he was not your spy in the Land of Cockaigne, the one who gave you information about how Evesham protected Waldene and Hubert the Monk’s followers.’

‘No.’

‘And you are certain he did not provide you with information about their secret meetings at night?’

‘No. I have asked him about that. He replied that he would have loved to have done so but such information did not fall into his hands.’

‘But when Waldene and Hubert the Monk’s followers were arrested and lodged in Newgate, Lapwing was not taken up?’

‘Of course not. He carried that small roll of parchment that he showed you. No king’s officer would have dared touch him.’

‘And yet he was found with them in the graveyard of St Botulph’s.’

‘Yes, he had visited Waldene in prison. When the riot broke out, he heard about the criminals escaping to St Botulph’s and went there. A keeper from Newgate recognised him near the lychgate. Lapwing was seized and had to continue the pretence.’

‘Had to?’

‘Sir Hugh, he was our spy. He hoped to acquire more information about what had happened. Of course the criminals who sheltered in St Botulph’s had no chance of surviving. Lapwing was arrested, but he made sure he was one of the last to be brought before you, and only then did he produce his letter. You of course had to release him.’

Corbett glanced through his sheaf of papers. ‘Let me go back to Evesham. You visited him at Syon?’

‘Of course we did. Evesham may have become a recluse, a hermit, a man turned to God, but the King was insistent that he should answer our questions.’

‘And did he? What questions did you ask?’ demanded Ranulf.

Staunton dismissed him with a flicker of his eyes and turned back to Corbett. ‘We visited Syon Abbey on a number of occasions. We asked Walter Evesham about certain matters in the city, but he replied that he had become “lost in God” and had no remembrance about what had happened. He did not wish to discuss anything he’d done except confess that he had sinned against God and the King. Remember, Sir Hugh, Walter Evesham was one of us,’ he glanced disdainfully at Ranulf, ‘an Oxford clerk, skilled in logic and debate. He could argue with the best; in the end he told us very little.’

‘Do you think his repentance was genuine?’

‘Of course not! Walter Evesham may have proclaimed he was trying to save his soul, but I suspect he was desperately trying to save his neck.’

‘Do you think he intended to stay in Syon until his natural death?’

‘I cannot speculate on what that viper of a man was plotting, but yes, he may have intended that.’ Staunton leaned forward. ‘Sir Hugh, I do not like the way you are talking to me. Am I a suspect? Do you think that I, or Master Blandeford here, have Evesham’s blood on our hands?’

‘Why not?’ Corbett whispered. ‘Why not? We are royal clerks, not God’s angels. Lord Evesham was proved to be a felon. Boniface Ippegrave was proved to be a felon. It is possible that you and Master Blandeford secretly entered Syon Abbey and executed Evesham for your own mysterious purposes.’

‘How dare you!’ Blandeford blustered.

‘Merely a hypothesis,’ Corbett remarked. ‘You may say not probable, but I say it’s possible. You could have also, on that same evening, gone down to Queenshithe, taken Ignacio Engleat out and murdered him. Both of you are mailed clerks,’ he continued quietly. ‘You have fought in the King’s armies in Wales and in Scotland as I have. You have killed men as I have. You could have entered the tavern of the Angel’s Salutation and executed Waldene and Hubert the Monk. It is possible. You could have visited Walter Evesham’s house, and decapitated Richard Fink and the Lady Clarice. All things are possible and therefore probable.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ Staunton protested. He made to rise, but then sat back as Ranulf also moved in his seat.

‘My lord,’ Corbett tapped the table, ‘don’t you understand? Can’t you see? We are all on trial. Walter Evesham was Chief Justice in King’s Bench, yet he was an ally, a close friend, of two of the greatest rogues in the city. He twisted and perverted justice. He profited from robberies. If that happened in the green wood, what might happen in the dry? So yes, my lord, you are a suspect, as is Master Blandeford, as is everybody in this chamber. How far has such corruption spread, how deep does it reach?’

‘I have told the truth,’ Staunton said flatly.

‘Oh my lord, I am sure you have.’ Corbett smiled. ‘I will go on oath that you have told me the truth, but you’ve not told me the full truth, and for that we may have to question you both again. Now go.’ He waved a hand and returned to his papers as Staunton and Blandeford rose noisily, pushed back their chairs and, muttering amongst themselves, left the chamber.

‘Sir Hugh, you have upset them.’

‘Master Ranulf, I intended to. Both of them are ambitious and very ruthless men.’

‘Ruthless enough to murder?’

Corbett turned to face Ranulf squarely. ‘Yes, my friend, to murder. They are King’s men. There’s something here,’ he gestured vaguely, ‘something I cannot form into an idea, an emotion, a feeling, a suspicion. The King has a hand in these matters, but why, where and how I don’t really know. Enough of speculation. Let’s question the mysterious Lapwing.’