The Mysterium

8

‘How did you. .’? asked Ranulf as the door closed behind them.

‘Logic, Ranulf.’ Corbett chewed the corner of his lip. ‘It’s the only feasible answer. If two people really love each other and live in such close proximity, they will meet, and only death will stop that. I suspect they see each other quite regularly — oh, nothing wrong, like two children sitting whispering in the dark.’ He paused. ‘They’ve not told me the full truth. Oh no, Brother Cuthbert is far too curt. He watches me intently. He dreads a certain question, but for the life of me I don’t know what. Well,’ he called, ‘Chanson, bring in Parson John and Master Fleschner.’

The two men entered the room, swore the oath and took their seats. Parson John had shaved his face, though the bruises and marks still looked angry and there were dark rings around his eyes. Both men looked calmer, more composed than the day before, though the priest remained agitated, moving on the seat, playing with the folds of his robe. Master Fleschner on the other hand seemed half asleep. Corbett wondered if he had taken a deep-bowled goblet of wine to help him through the questioning.

‘I thank you for coming here,’ Corbett began. ‘Both of you have sworn the oath. You must realise how important this is and what penalties perjury carries. I know that you witnessed yesterday heinous and gruesome sins, but with your help I can solve these mysteries and bring the malefactor to justice. Now, Master Fleschner, I understand you are parish clerk at St Botulph’s and have been-’

‘For at least twenty-five years. I was also coroner in the ward, though I gave that up about ten years ago. I became tired of viewing corpses, gashed and garrotted, their heads caved in, limbs missing, dragged from the river or some rubbish heap covered in slime. There is more to life than death.’

‘Did you know Boniface Ippegrave?’

‘No, I didn’t. I had nothing to do with the affray of twenty years ago. I was busy elsewhere.’

‘But you knew the parish priest, now Brother Cuthbert, a recluse in Syon Abbey?’

‘Of course.’

‘And his friendship with Mistress Adelicia?’

‘I heard rumours, but that was tavern gossip, market chatter. I cannot help you with anything on that.’

Corbett stared hard at this peevish-faced man with his wispy moustache and beard. He was undoubtedly timid, yet he was too quick for one so nervous.

‘And the affray at St Botulph’s when the malefactors broke out of Newgate?’

‘Again, Sir Hugh, I know nothing of that. You summoned me to take down the proceedings of their trial in the church; what I know, you know.’

‘Tell me, Master Fleschner.’ Ranulf spoke up, putting down his pen. ‘Are you aware of any secret entrance to or from St Botulph’s church? After all, you are the parish clerk.’

‘No. If there is one it is very secret and very well concealed. I was born and raised in Cripplegate. I know of no secret passageway.’

‘And the attack on Parson John?’

‘I’ve told you what happened. Parson John asked me to meet him around the third hour after the sext bell. He told me he would leave the corpse door off the latch. I approached St Botulph’s. I heard a sound and went in. I saw a shadow come darting into the sanctuary, then it disappeared back into the sacristy. I heard a groan. I went across, entered the sacristy and found Parson John bound, though he’d broken free of the gag. I helped free him.’

‘On the same night Lord Evesham was murdered,’ Corbett continued, ‘Ignacio Engleat his clerk was barbarously slain at Queenshithe. Where were you, Master Fleschner?’

‘At home with my lady wife like any good citizen should be.’ Fleschner tugged at his robe. ‘Why, Sir Hugh, do you think I’m an assassin, a man like me?’

‘And where were you,’ Corbett insisted, ‘yesterday around midday, when Giles Waldene and Hubert the Monk were executed in the Angel’s Salutation?’

Fleschner closed his eyes and leaned back slightly. ‘I was busy on my own affairs. I was in Cheapside looking at the stalls.’

‘Do you have witnesses to that?’ Ranulf barked. ‘Witnesses who could swear to it?’

‘Of course not, of course not,’ Fleschner flustered.

‘Perhaps earlier in the day?’ Ranulf insisted. ‘When Mistress Clarice and Richard Fink were so cruelly slain at their house in Clothiers Lane.’

‘This is preposterous, ridiculous! I’m no assassin. I could no more wield an axe-’

‘Who said it was an axe?’

‘It must have been.’ Fleschner threw his hands out. ‘It must have been an axe to sever their heads.’

Corbett noticed how flushed the clerk’s face had become. He decided to leave him and turn to Parson John, who now sat like a man half asleep, just staring at the wall above Corbett’s head as if fascinated by the tapestry depicting Christ in judgement on the Last Day.

‘Parson John, tell me about yourself.’

‘You know who I am, Sir Hugh. I am the not so illustrious son of the very illustrious Lord Walter Evesham, once Chief Justice in the Court of King’s Bench. My mother died when I was three or four years of age, an accident in the street, I don’t know.’ He continued without a pause. ‘You are going to ask me about my father. The honest truth is, Sir Hugh,’ he stared hard at the clerk, ‘I didn’t know my father. He was always busy with this or that. I knew nothing about his affairs. I was a disappointment to him. He wanted me to become a knight banneret at the King’s court. I was sent to school at St Paul’s. I studied logic and theology in the halls of Cambridge and then I was sent to be a squire in the Bigod household in Norfolk. The old earl blithely informed my father that I could no more hold a sword than a frog could fly. I told my father, when he confronted me, that I did not wish to be a liveried killer. I wanted to be a priest. Of course, my father, with all his influence, secured that. I finished my studies, this time in the schools at Oxford, and was ordained by the Bishop of London. I served as a curate in parishes south of the river, and then my father, because he was a great lord and a figure of authority in Cripplegate, obtained my appointment as Parson of St Botulph’s. Again, I must make it very clear: I did not know my father.’

‘Did you know his second wife, Clarice?’

‘She was a kind, pretty, flirtatious woman. I was never close to her nor she to me. As I said, I spent most of my life away from the family home. Father didn’t object and neither did I. Sir Hugh, I know nothing of the affray involving Boniface Ippegrave that took place twenty years ago. I was not in Cripplegate but in Norfolk, and as for the rioters who broke out of Newgate, you saw what happened. They attacked my church, they killed my parishioners. They turned God’s house into a slaughter shed.’ He paused.

Corbett sat back in his chair. He’d fought in Wales and Scotland and he recognised that Parson John appeared fey-witted with shock. He sat slightly twisted, reciting his words as if by rote.

‘As for where I was and what I was doing,’ the priest blurted out, ‘when all these horrid murders took place, I was in the priest’s house preparing for the next day.’

‘And yesterday?’

‘The same. Master Fleschner here will bear witness. I planned to meet him in the afternoon to draw up inventories of our church goods. Sir Hugh, God knows I would love to assist, but I cannot.’

‘And now?’ Ranulf asked. ‘I mean, St Botulph’s lies under interdict. The Mass cannot be offered there, prayers cannot be said, and the church is closed.’

‘Why, clerk, I will follow Brother Cuthbert and petition Abbot Serlo to allow me to shelter at Syon. Not to become a recluse, just to think, pray and wait until this storm blows over and peace and harmony have returned.’ He got to his feet. ‘Sir Hugh, if you have more questions I’ll answer them, but the afternoon is drawing on and the evening will soon be here. I have things to do. I do not wish to stay in the priest’s house for much longer. Is Master Fleschner free to return with me? You know where I will be.’

Corbett nodded. ‘Very good, Father, for the time being we have finished.’

He watched both men leave. Chanson closed the door behind them, then looked expectantly at his master.

‘Sir Hugh, will there be any more?’ Chanson, although his great love was for horses, liked nothing better than to sit and watch his master twist and turn after his quarry; as he’d remarked to Ranulf, it was better than watching a hawk on the wing.

Corbett pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. He waited until Ranulf finished writing, then walked to one of the small windows, pulled back the shutters and stared out. The light was fading; bells and horns were sounding.

‘What do we do now, Sir Hugh? Who else is there to question? ’

Corbett gazed into the gathering darkness. ‘Who else is there?’ He spoke as if to himself. ‘Waldene and Hubert the Monk are dead. Mistress Clarice and her lover Richard Fink lie next to them in the corpse house. Evesham’s papers are either hidden in the King’s secret coffers or have been destroyed by fire. Tell me, Ranulf, of all the people named in this hideous tale, whom have we overlooked?’

‘The merchant Chauntoys,’ Ranulf replied. ‘The one whom Boniface met at the Liber Albus in Southwark.’

‘You heard the King: Chauntoys has long gone to God.’

‘But he may have married again.’

Corbett turned and smiled. ‘Very good, Ranulf. Seek out any family. Discover if there is anyone who could perhaps add a little more to this twisted tale. And now. .’ He returned to his chair and picked up his cloak. ‘I’ll try to meditate on what I have listened to and what I have learnt. Perhaps I’ll walk across to the abbey and join the good brothers for vespers. Afterwards we’ll meet back here, take our supper and weave together all the different strands we’ve plucked.’

‘Stomach worms gnaw at me,’ Chanson wailed. ‘I’m hungry!’

‘We could go to one of the taverns,’ Ranulf offered. ‘There’s the Catch a Penny, or the Gate Hangs Well. Or I could,’ he joked, ‘get bachelor’s fare.’

‘Which is?’ Corbett asked.

‘Bread, cheese and kippers from a slattern.’

Corbett pulled a face. ‘No, the palace kitchens will serve a good platter. The King is returning from Sheen, where he’s been hunting, so the cooks will be well prepared.’ He clasped Chanson’s shoulder. ‘Calm the wolf in your belly, we’ll feed it soon enough.’

‘And you, master?’ Ranulf asked.

‘As I said, I will join the good brothers at their vespers. You’ll come?’

Chanson pulled a face and nursed his stomach. Ranulf gestured at the parchment still strewn across the table.

‘In which case. .’ Corbett smiled and left them.

The antechamber was cold, the brazier full of spent ash. Servants had snuffed the candles, and only one cresset flame danced in the chilly breeze. Corbett went along the ancient wood-lined gallery to his own chancery office, where he sifted amongst documents received: sealed pouches and parcels containing reports, letters, memoranda and billae from spies, merchants, wandering scholars, friars, envoys at foreign courts, agents in Paris, Rome and Bruges, all forwarding the chatter of the various courts. Pulling the candelabra closer, he went swiftly through them. When he had finished, he snuffed the candle. There was nothing of note, nothing that could not wait. He rose, left the chamber and went down into a small garden enclosure. The light was fading fast but a wheeled brazier crackled beside a turf seat near a reed-ringed pond all calm under its skin of ice. Corbett sat down and pulled his cloak about him. The incense strewn over the charcoal fragranced the air. He relaxed, loosened his sword-belt and stared up at the sky. The stars were so clear and glittering. Words, images and memories from the recent questioning seethed through his mind; the various faces, gestures and mannerisms. What had he missed? What could he pursue? He was still perplexed. Certain mysteries, such as how Evesham had been so cunningly murdered, had been resolved, but that created other problems. Was Cuthbert the killer? Was Adelicia his accomplice? They certainly had good reason to cut the former chief justice’s throat.

Corbett got to his feet, tightened his sword-belt and re-entered the palace. Lost in his own thoughts, he wandered the galleries, passing through a vestibule where he noticed a group of the knight bannerets from the royal household in their resplendent livery. They clustered around one of the King’s jesters, a dwarf who was entertaining them with a droll story about a maiden, a knight and a certain chastity belt. The dwarf, a born mimic, played the various roles, provoking guffaws of laughter from these royal bully-boys, ‘knighted rifflers’ as Corbett secretly called them, killers who loved nothing better than the clash of battle and the song of the sword. He left the palace grounds and crossed the great waste area that separated the royal house from the abbey, its towers, buttresses and cornices soaring up like a majestic hymn in stone against the evening sky. Bells sounded, their clanging trailing away, an early warning to the brothers that vespers would soon begin.

Corbett became more alert. He was about to enter the Sanctuary, a different world to the opulence of the court and the hallowed atmosphere of the abbey. Smells drifted. The odour of wood smoke, crackling charcoal and roasting meats mingled with the stench of sweat and ordure, all the stinks of the citizens of the night. Campfires glowed. Dark shapes darted about. Donkeys brayed over the clucking of chickens and the harsh cry of geese. A sow lumbered by chased by two ragged children. Corbett threw back his cloak and, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, crossed the small footbridge spanning a narrow ditch. He went through the half-broken gate of the palisade and entered the Sanctuary proper, an eerie underworld, a man-made Hades for those who lived in the twilight, well away from the glare of the law. Rifflers and robbers, prowlers of the night, cheats and cunning men, outlaws and wolfsheads, murderers and assassins, pimps and prostitutes of every kind, all sheltered here. The Sanctuary was supposedly holy ground that, by tradition and law, was well beyond the power of courts, the sheriffs and their bailiffs. In truth it was a place of permanent dusk where, as one preacher described it, ‘unholy lusts’ had free play.

All around Corbett stretched the makeshift huts, bothies and fires of the Brotherhood of the Cowl. Weasel faces glared up at him. Ladybirds from their nagging houses, strumpets and whores sauntered up dressed in their tawdry finery, hips swaying, hair and faces garishly painted. Corbett strolled on. Ranulf constantly warned him about walking so carelessly through what he termed the hog-grabbers, piss prophets and toad-eaters who sheltered here. Corbett did not care. Most of these children of the dark were hen-hearted, fearful of a royal clerk. Why should they accost him and so give the King, his sheriffs and justices good reason to sweep through this meadow of misery with fire and sword? More importantly, Corbett had spread the word through Ranulf and Chanson that anyone who brought him information about the recent riot at Newgate and all the horrid deaths in the city would be amply rewarded. He wondered if he’d be approached.

He passed a group of gamblers taking wages on how many would hang tomorrow, execution morning, on the gibbet outside the great abbey gate. A man dressed garishly as a woman swept by in a cloud of cheap perfume, face all hideous in its coating of paste. This grotesque provoked jeers, laughter and curses from the gamblers, before they lost interest and returned to their game. Deep in the camp, two hellcat women were preparing to fight, stripped to their under-tunics, pennies gripped in their hands to stop them scratching. They circled each other close to a roaring bonfire. When Corbett entered the pool of light, the raucous shouting ebbed away and a few curses were flung.

Corbett passed safely on up the slight incline and across the monks’ cemetery, which stretched to the south door of the abbey. A lay brother allowed him in and he walked through the small porch, glancing quickly at the human skin nailed to the door leading into the chapter house. He crossed himself and murmured a prayer, wishing fervently that the King would listen to his plea and that of the good brothers that the skin be taken down. It belonged to Richard Puddlicott, a felon recently taken in a wheelbarrow to the abbey scaffold and hanged for robbing, with the help of certain monks, the royal treasure stored in the great crypt beneath the chapter house. The King had insisted that Puddlicott’s corpse be flayed and this grisly symbol of royal anger hang there as a warning until it rotted.

‘It frightens me,’ whispered the lay brother standing behind Corbett. ‘They say his ghost prowls here along with all the other dark men.’

Corbett turned and smiled at him.

‘But angels also tread here, yes, Brother?’ He carried on, turning right into the cloisters, where a group of novices stood gape-mouthed around one of the high desks illumined by glowing candles. The ancient scribe perched on his writing stool was relaying the horrors of hell as described in the legend of St Brendan, which he was busily transcribing. In a voice powerful but sepulchral the old monk described how across the river of death swirled a wind stinking of bitumen, sulphur and pitch, mingled with the stench of roasting human flesh. On the shores of hell clustered woods where the only trees were tall poppies and deadly nightshade from the branches of which hung a host of bats. The ground beneath bristled with swords and stakes whilst over these flew birds fierce as flaming firebrands. Corbett, who’d paused to listen, wondered about those souls whose cadavers he’d recently inspected — were they journeying through such a living nightmare?

He passed on into the great soaring nave. Torches, candles and lanterns glowed to make it a place of creeping shadows through which peered the carved and painted faces of the holy, the ugly and the demonic. He approached the sanctuary, where the majestic oaken choir stalls gleamed in the glow of freshly lit candles. Each tongue of flame shimmered in the precious cloths, jewels and ornaments that decorated the royal tombs either side of the high altar. The air was fragrant with perfumed incense smoke, the eerie silence broken by the shuffling of sandalled feet as two long lines of black-cowled monks filed into the stalls. It was too late for Corbett to join them, so instead he squatted just within the rood screen and watched the drama unfold. The monks took their positions in the stalls, psalters at the ready; the lector and cantor went to their places. A small handbell was rung and vespers began with its usual impassioned plea: ‘Oh God, come to our aid. Oh Lord, make haste to help us.’

Corbett closed his eyes. He needed such help if he was to clear the cloying murk gathering around him and bring to justice a most sinister killer.

In the chamber of oyer and terminer, Ranulf still sat at the chancery desk sifting amongst the papers. Chanson had wandered off. Ranulf paused as the royal choir, gathered in the small chapel below, rehearsed a song for some banquet or feast. He listened intently to the words:

My song is in sighing,

My soul in longing,

Till I see thee my King,

So fair in thy shining.

He glanced up as the door abruptly opened and Edward the King slipped in. Ranulf made to rise, but the King gestured at him to sit. Wrapped in a heavy military cloak, spurs jingling on his hunting boots, Edward strode across and sat in Corbett’s chair, turning slightly to stare at Ranulf, the amber-flecked eyes in his dark leathery face scrutinising the clerk as if searching his soul. The King’s iron-grey hair was all a-tangle, though the greying moustache and beard were neatly clipped. He smelled of rosewater, sweat and leather. Ranulf made to speak, but the King held up a hand for silence as he waited for a certain line of the choir’s song: ‘I want nothing but only thee.’ Then he let his hand drop, grinned and leaned a little closer.

‘Do you, Ranulf-atte-Newgate, Clerk in the Chancery of Green Wax, desire nothing but the King’s will?’

‘If it go not against God’s law or my conscience.’ Ranulf quoted Corbett’s common axiom.

‘You learn well, Ranulf.’ The King pointed to the stack of parchment. ‘And this business, tell me now. .’

Ranulf did so, swiftly listing what had happened, and emphasising Corbett’s questions about the murderous mysteries confronting them. Edward listened intently, saying nothing, though now and again he would glance swiftly around as if fearful of an eavesdropper. Once Ranulf was finished, the king slouched in his chair, eyes half closed.

‘I was hunting today,’ he remarked, ‘out on the moorlands north of Sheen. Good weather for it, Ranulf. I flew Roncesvalles, my favourite peregrine. Sickly he was, or so I think, wouldn’t listen to my voice. I’ve had a wax image of him sent to Becket’s shrine in Canterbury. Our martyred archbishop was a keen falconer; he’ll help. I’ll make an offering.’ Edward turned in a creak of leather to face Ranulf. ‘A king’s hawk is swift and dangerous. It can see and do what the King cannot, but,’ he picked at his teeth, ‘it is still a royal hawk. It brings down the quail and the herring not for itself but for the King, remember that! This business. .’ He rose to his feet. ‘I want no public clamour, Ranulf; the least said, the soonest mended.’ He grinned. ‘Yes, Waldene and Hubert the Monk are dead. Good, that’s how I like it! All dispatched to be judged by God, clean and quiet. I prefer to hang people by the purse rather than the neck; remember that as well. Do not forget,’ he leaned down and pressed a finger against the clerk’s lips, ‘the King’s will is paramount.’

‘You’ll say the same to Sir Hugh, your grace?’

‘No, Ranulf, I said it just for you. You do understand?’

‘Yes, your grace.’

‘Good.’ For a moment Edward’s eyes turned sad. ‘I can’t say that to Hugh. God knows, Ranulf, he’s a better man than you, and as the Lord is my witness, certainly a better one than I.’ And spinning on his heel, the King left as quietly as he’d entered.

In the darkened abbey, Corbett was becoming restless. The words of the psalm echoed powerful and sombre.

Lions surround me,

Greedy for human prey,

Their teeth like spears and barbs.

Their tongues like sharpened swords.

He blessed himself, got to his feet and left, hurrying back along the cloisters. He could not understand his own anxiety; he knew only that he was restless, impatient to make some progress in the mysteries confronting him. He left the abbey, following the winding path through the monks’ cemetery and into the Sanctuary, where he strolled purposefully, sword and dagger drawn, the glint of the steel sending the creatures of the night scuttling out of his path. He’d almost reached the far gate when he heard his name called. He whirled round, lifting sword and dagger up as a figure stepped out of the gloom.

‘I mean no ill, Sir Hugh. I heard your proclamation.’ The voice was low, almost cultured.

Corbett moved forward.

‘I’ll not talk to you here, sir. You’d best follow me.’ The Sanctuary man seemed reluctant.

‘Don’t worry.’ Corbett smiled through the darkness. ‘You have my word as Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal that no harm will befall you. If we can do business then we shall; if not, you will be allowed to return safely here. The choice is yours. Follow me.’

He led the way into the vestibule of the palace, where he turned and surveyed the wolfshead who had followed him. The man was of moderate height, with lank, greasy hair, face pitted with scars, beard and moustache stained with food. His clothing, a cotehardie, leggings and boots, was scuffed and dirty, his fingernails thick with black, though the eyes he rubbed were sharp and alert. Corbett sat on a stone bench just within the door and indicated for the stranger to join him.

‘What’s your name?’

The man remained standing.

‘You may sit down,’ Corbett declared.

The man sighed and did so. Corbett tried to ignore the offensive smell.

‘They call me Mouseman.’

‘Why?’

‘Because there is not a door, chest or coffer I cannot enter. I was baptised Edmund Arrowsmith at the font of the abbey church in St Albans.’

‘And now you’re utlegatum,’ Corbett declared, ‘beyond the law. Yes? Picking locks when you shouldn’t have done?’

‘Only one,’ Mouseman retorted in clipped tones. ‘I worked at the Abbey at St Albans. The prior owed me money. He refused to pay.’

‘So you went back in the dead of night, opened the coffer and paid yourself.’

‘In a word, lord, yes.’ Mouseman’s eyes crinkled in amusement. ‘But I was a skilled tradesman, I served my apprenticeship. I had a wife and family.’

‘How long ago did this happen?’

‘Oh, at least two summers. Sometimes I went back, but on one occasion I was nearly caught, so never again. The Prior of St Albans would love to hang me from his gibbet.’

‘Have you been tried before the King’s justices?’

‘They haven’t caught me yet, lord.’

‘So what do you want now?’

‘A full pardon, some money, a belly full of food and permission to return to St Albans and live in peace.’

‘So pleads everyone who lives in Sanctuary,’ Corbett joked. ‘How can you earn it?’

‘Lord, I drifted into London. I became involved in this mischief and that. Eventually I joined the coven of Hubert the Monk. He needed a locksmith like me. Parish coffers wait to be riffled. I had no choice. Hubert said that if I didn’t work for him, he’d hand me over to the sheriff’s men. So it was either steal or be hanged for stealing. I chose the former.’

Corbett stared hard. There was something about the man’s voice, his steady gaze, the certainty with which he held himself that reassured the clerk. Edmund Arrowsmith, also known as the Mouseman, was good-hearted, a desperate man eager to break free from the trap in which he found himself.

‘Just tell me then,’ Corbett said quietly. ‘I may not give you a pardon, yet you’ll have coin enough to buy a full belly of food. No lies, though.’

‘I heard about your offer to anybody who could provide information about the riot at Newgate or the deaths of Waldene and Hubert the Monk. Oh yes, we heard about them in Sanctuary — there’s been some rejoicing. Waldene and the Monk were feared, not liked. They were bully-boys, well protected by. . well, how can I put it. .?’

‘Lord Evesham?’

‘And others. The city sheriffs often took bribes to look the other way.’

‘And you are going to claim to be the innocent in all this.’

‘My lord, I never said that. I’ve done my share of mischief but I was rounded up with the rest.’

‘How did that happen?’

‘Well, when Waldene and Hubert the Monk were arrested, the sheriffs decided to make a full sweep. It’s easy enough to catch us. We assemble at various taverns or inns, and of course, rewards and bribes were offered.’

Corbett quietly agreed that was the way of the world. Once a gang-leader fell, his followers were vulnerable to capture or betrayal.

‘So we all ended up in Newgate.’ Mouseman stretched out his legs, knocking the broken heel of one of his boots against a paving stone. ‘We weren’t given much to eat or drink. Waldene and Hubert were moved from the Common Side and put in the pits; a living death, lord?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Very few survive,’ Mouseman continued. ‘You’re usually dead of gaol fever within a week, a month at the very most. Now, on the morning before the riot took place, rumours swept the gaol that Waldene was going to be pardoned and that it would be extended to his followers on condition they turned King’s Approver.’

‘You mean they would all turn King’s Approver?’

‘Yes, lord. They’d go in front of the justices, take an oath, and where possible convict Hubert the Monk and his followers. We would all have ended up dancing from the gibbet outside Westminster or at the Elms. Feelings began to run high. I don’t know how, but weapons were found, knives and clubs. We were marshalled in just before the noonday bell to receive our food, the usual slops and platter of dirt, and that’s when the riot began. We found doors unlocked and burst through into the great yard. A postern gate was prised open. We fled into the city, but,’ Mouseman held his hand up, ‘there was also a whisper, a rumour, that we should all assemble at St Botulph’s Cripplegate.’

‘Why that church?’

‘We were told it had a secret passageway that would take us out of the city and away from the sheriff’s men. They said-’

‘Who’s they?’

‘The people who passed the rumours. They claimed it would give us at least a day’s start ahead of the bailiffs.’

‘Why didn’t you go there?’

‘Lord, I may be an outlaw but I’m no fool. My companions were bloodthirsty men. I knew it would end violently.’

‘There was something else, wasn’t there?’

‘Yes, my lord. The escape seemed so well planned. I’d been a member of the Monk’s coven for at least a year. I’d heard of riots at Newgate, prisoners escaping, but that one? So many were involved, and the way clubs and knives appeared, the ease whereby doors and gates were forced. . I suspected a trap. Moreover, once we broke free, Waldene and Hubert’s men began to attack citizens, fresh crimes that would certainly not go unpunished. I decided it was best to slip away. I fled to Sanctuary here at Westminster, and since then no one has troubled me.’

Corbett leaned back against the stone and stared up at a gargoyle’s face, a monkey with devil’s horns; next to it was a jester, bauble and stick in one hand, eyes protuberant, lips parted in a carved stone grin. Mouseman’s news confirmed his own suspicions. Waldene and Hubert the Monk had been moved to the pits to die and then their followers had been deliberately agitated. Somehow or other they were given weapons and easy passage out, as well as false information that a secret passageway from St Botulph’s would take them to freedom. Or was it false?

‘Well, my lord, what have I earned?’

‘Mouseman, you are well named. There’s many a door you can enter, and you’ve just entered by the most narrow one.’ Corbett patted the man on the shoulder. ‘Welcome to the light.’ He opened his purse, and took out a silver coin and a wax cast of his seal. ‘For your comfort,’ he advised. ‘Tomorrow, around the bell for sext, present yourself at the Chancery Chamber of the Green Wax, give your full name, show them the seal and ask for Ranulf-atte-Newgate. ’

‘I’ve heard of him.’

‘He will prepare the necessary letters. Then, Edmund Arrowsmith, also known as Mouseman, I suggest you visit a barber. Have your head and face shaved, buy some new clothes and, once your pardon is sealed, go back to St Albans and live in peace.’ He patted the outlaw on the shoulder and, with his thanks ringing in his ears, escorted him out of the palace back down the path to the Sanctuary. Mouseman was about to step out of the light when he turned abruptly.

‘Evesham?’ he called out. ‘The judge who proved to be a bigger sinner than all of us?’

‘What about him?’

‘We heard of his death. According to rumour, Waldene and Hubert the Monk were deeply troubled.’

‘Why is that?’ Corbett followed him into the night air.

‘Apparently they had been comrades of Evesham for many a year and a day. People said it was time all three of them fell, that’s all,’ and Mouseman disappeared into the darkness.