The Waxman Murders

Chapter 11

Corbett sat reflecting. The chanting had now stopped and a bell boomed out announcing that the Jesus or Morrow Mass was about to begin. He hastily finished dressing, took his war belt and clasped it on, then threw a cloak over his shoulders, pulling up its hood to protect his head. He left and locked his chamber and went downstairs. The light was greying now. Here and there lay brothers were busy in the yard, opening stores; one was sawing wood, another drawing water. Corbett hurried into the tangled labyrinth of abbey buildings, down chilly, stone-hollow passageways, across frozen-carpeted gardens and eventually in by the Galilee Porch to the abbey church. The monks were now leaving their stalls. Corbett decided to attend Mass not at the high altar but in one of the chantry chapels along the transept, a comfortable place, its floor covered with turkey rugs, whilst chafing dishes in each corner spluttered warmth. He knelt on the prie-dieu and nodded at the old monk who came shuffling in to celebrate his Mass. Corbett leaned against the hard rest and watched the celebrant begin the mysteries, trying to school himself by concentrating on the crucifix above the altar. Once the Mass was finished and Corbett had made his thanks, he went into the Lady Chapel and lit three tapers for Maeve and his two children. He was about to leave through the main porch when he heard his name called. The guest master came hurrying down the church, the sleeves of his gown flapping like the wings of a bird, sandalled feet slapping against the paved floor.

‘Sir Hugh,’ he gasped, ‘Sir Hugh, thank goodness I have found you! I have something to show you, the rats!’ And before Corbett could ask him any questions, the guest master hurried from the church, leading him from the sacred precincts into a small cobbled yard. There he opened the door to an outhouse which reeked of rotting hay. On a broken stool stretched a piece of sacking bearing the bloated corpses of four rats, bellies distended, paws rigid, jaws open to display sharp protuberant teeth.

‘Found them this morning,’ the guest master declared, ‘dead as nails. I put down the bread and cheese as you asked, soaked in that wine.’ He sighed dramatically. ‘Sir Hugh, someone meant to do you a great mischief.’

‘Well they didn’t!’ Corbett took a silver piece from his purse and, grasping the old man’s hand, pushed it into his palm. ‘It’s our secret, Brother. You mustn’t tell anyone until we’ve gone. I also ask you to be most prudent in what food and drinks are served.’

‘Are you sure?’ The old monk’s eyes wrinkled in puzzlement. ‘Sir Hugh, you are in great danger, here in our abbey. It is a scandal! Father Abbot would be horrified.’

‘Father Abbot won’t be,’ Corbett smiled, ‘because Father Abbot won’t be told. Now, Brother, I have another favour to ask, a great favour. A magister once taught here, Master of the Scholars, Brother Fulbert? Is he still here? Can I talk to him?’

‘Brother Fulbert, of course, he’s an Ancient One. Come, I’ll take you to him. He is an early riser, always has been.’ And he led Corbett off again down a maze of stone galleries, past brothers busy about their daily tasks. The abbey was now preparing for Christmas; wheelbarrows full of greenery stood around, berries blood red against the green holly. Yule logs were being hewed, Christmas candles placed in window embrasures, and the air was full of the swirling odours and fragrances of the various rooms and chambers of the abbey. Cooking smells from the kitchens mingled with those of dry leather and parchment from the scriptorium. Incense swirled the smell of oil lamps, whilst the perfumed gusts from the bathhouse mixed with the tang of compost some lay brothers were piling around the rose bushes, their roots recently cleared of snow. Here and there groups of monks stood gossiping, overlooked by stone-faced statues.

At last they reached a two-storey house enclosed by its own garden. The guest master gestured Corbett in, the raised door latch jarring noisily in such a quiet place. He led Corbett up some wooden stairs, along a polished gallery, and knocked on a door.

‘Come in,’ a voice shouted. ‘You are always welcome, you know that.’

Inside Brother Fulbert was seated at a table, shoulders shaking with laughter as he read a manuscript, peering closely at it, moving his finger slowly along the line of words. He did not look up as Corbett and the guest master entered, but continued chuckling to himself, intent on the manuscript. The cell was comfortable, well heated by the charcoal dish, whilst warm-coloured cloths against the wall and thick floor rugs fended off the chill from the freezing flag-stones. The chamber was littered with manuscripts, spilling out from opened coffers. There was a book on a lectern, another opened on the half-made bed.

‘Brother Fulbert?’ The guest master leaned over the table.

The old monk glanced up. He had lank white hair which framed a pointed face, deeply lined and furrowed, though the eyes were bright as those of a robin redbreast. He nodded at his fellow monk and looked questioningly at Corbett. The guest master hastily made the introductions, and Brother Fulbert told Corbett to fetch a stool from the corner and sit opposite him as if he were a scholar from the schools. The guest master hastily retreated, closing the door firmly behind him.

‘Well, well, well.’ Fulbert rested his elbow on the table. ‘So you are the King’s man, the clerk? I heard about your arrival.’ He examined the ring on Corbett’s left hand. ‘Senior Clerk in the Chancery of the Secret Seal. I was a royal clerk once, until I found my calling after I entered the halls of Oxford. I met people who’d witnessed the Great Revolt there, when the black banners were raised and scholars fought running battles with the townspeople. I’d love to go back to Oxford, Sir Hugh.’ He sighed. ‘It has changed, but there again, I suspect the hidden flame still glows. Do you remember the old saying of the schools? “If that which was there has not left, it must, therefore, still be there.”’

Corbett smiled in agreement.

Fulbert looked down once more at the manuscript, sighed again and pushed it away. He leaned across the table as if he was a conspirator. ‘Sir Hugh, don’t tell anybody, but I am reading a copy of Abelard’s Sic et Non. You know it?’

Corbett nodded.

‘What does it say?’ Fulbert’s head darted forward.

‘About two hundred years ago Abelard took the teachings of theologians and showed how they contradicted each other. His thesis was not well received by the Church, particularly by Bernard of Clairvaux, and led to fierce debate between scholars. .’

‘So it did, so it did,’ Brother Fulbert agreed. ‘And the papacy condemned it,’ he smiled mischievously, ‘which is why I like to read it. But you haven’t come to hear an old hoary-head chatter on.’

Corbett asked about Hubert. Fulbert immediately remembered him, nodding in agreement as Corbett described that young man’s life.

‘I am sad to hear the news. Hubert Fitzurse. .’ Fulbert gathered his thoughts. ‘He was a born scholar, a very pleasant young man. He was mature beyond his years, objective, dispassionate, hungry for knowledge as a cat for cream. Oh yes, I remember him well. When he concentrated, be it on a subtle treatise of mathematics or the intricacies of construing a Latin passage, he would give it his full attention.’ Fulbert held up a bony finger. ‘Hubert had the skill to become absorbed in whatever he was doing. He would move from one extreme to another in the blink of an eye. He was well disciplined but also an excellent mimic. He would watch and ape people’s gestures and mannerisms: the way they walked, talked, how they held their heads, how they ate or sat. He was often a great source of amusement for his comrades, but not in an unpleasant way, Sir Hugh. He enjoyed a penchant for making others laugh, but never cruelly, whilst he was always ready to poke fun at himself. More than that,’ Brother Fulbert’s gaze strayed back to the manuscript on the table before him, ‘I cannot say. If you ever meet him, Sir Hugh, give him my good wishes and prayers.’

Corbett thanked the old man and went down the stairs into the yard. The guest master had left, so he stood for a while peering up at the sky, hoping the sun might appear. The air was not so cold; it had lost that stinging, sharp, knife-edged cut to it. Corbett stared around. He must remember to be careful; parts of this abbey were lonely and deserted, the ideal place for an assassin to prowl. Was Hubert, that hunter of men, now pursuing him? Did he wish to kill Corbett as an act of revenge against the King, who’d played his own part in the destruction of Adam Blackstock and The Waxman? Or did he only mean to distract and frighten Corbett until this business was finished?

Corbett clenched his fist. Perhaps that was it. Hubert realised time was short, the opportunity to wreak his revenge brief. The clerk walked slowly across the yard. If he could only discover what had truly happened at Maubisson, bring it under the rigour of his logic. He paused, recalling what Brother Fulbert had said: If that which was there has not left, it must, therefore, still be there. Servinus! Corbett punched his thigh. Of course, no one had seen Servinus leave! The prospect of him escaping undetected was virtually impossible. Moreover, he was a foreigner, a mercenary; even in a city like Canterbury, visited by pilgrims, people would notice him. Castledene had his spies out, so why had they not found him?

‘Because he never left Maubisson!’ Corbett murmured. He quickened his pace, certain that the dark shadows and recesses of that forbidding mansion still held the secret of Servinus.

He intended to go back to the guesthouse, rouse Ranulf and Chanson and ride straight to Maubisson; then he thought of poor Griskin, his naked cadaver hanging from the gallows above those deserted mudflats. No, first he’d visit Les Hommes Joyeuses. He pulled up his hood, took directions from one of the brothers and found himself on the same path he’d taken the day before, leading past ice-bound fields towards St Pancras’ church and its old priest’s house. By the time he arrived there the entire company were busy. Having broken their fast, they had now laid out the stage with its backdrop, ready to exploit a dry day to rehearse their play. People milled about. Corbett studied the scenery and marvelled at its skill to evoke the imagination. One painting, crudely done, showed the Gaderene demoniac in green satin being led on a gilt chain by his father dressed in yellow taffeta. Next to this were further scenes from the life of Christ: a blind man and his servant garbed in red and grey satin; beside them a paralytic in orange; the Apostles climbing the Mount of Humility towards Jesus, who stood resplendent in robes of velvet, crimson satin, damask and taffeta. At the far end of the backdrop was a vivid vision of hell, depicted as a soaring rock crowned with an ever-burning tower belching globules of black smoke from which Lucifer’s head and body projected. The demon vomited flames of fire whilst holding in his hands writhing serpents and vipers. Corbett studied this then moved over to where the troupe was gathered around the Gleeman, who was standing on an upturned barrel, a piece of parchment in his hand.

‘Today,’ the Gleeman shouted, ‘we shall start early, as darkness will soon be upon us. We must prepare our play for the twelve days of Christmas. The good burgesses of Canterbury, in their markets and outside their churches, will demand to see a play they’ve never seen before. So we must get all our items correct. We must have a palm for Gabriel to bring from Paradise to Mary. There must be a thunderclap. We need a white cloud to come and fetch St John preaching on Patmos and bring him before the door of the Virgin Mary’s house at Ephesus. We must have another cloud to bring up the Apostles from the various countries; a cloth of gold robe for Mary’s Assumption, together with a small truckle bed and several torches of white wax which the attendant virgins must hold. Jesus Christ must come down from Paradise to greet His Mother, accompanied by a great multitude of angels. So we must have fragrances as well as a crown circled with twelve stars. He will use these to anoint and crown her in Paradise.’ The Gleeman glimpsed Corbett and paused. ‘All these items must be ready. So come on,’ he clapped his hands, ‘the rehearsals must be underway before the Angelus bell.’ He climbed down from the barrel, shooing the troupe away.

‘Well, sir, what can I do for you?’ The Gleeman walked over to Corbett, smiling and winking. Corbett led him away from the rest.

‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘when you met Griskin in Suffolk, he pretended to be a leper?’

‘That’s right, Sir Hugh,’ the Gleeman murmured. ‘He would come into our camp once darkness fell and seek me out. We would gossip, then he would leave. Why do you ask?’

‘I believe,’ Corbett decided to be blunt, ‘that Griskin was betrayed.’

‘Sir Hugh, not by me!’ The Gleeman stood back, hands to his chest. ‘I promise you, Griskin was safe with me and my company. No one would betray him.’

‘Tell me,’ Corbett moved closer, ‘Griskin was murdered when? At the end of November? Is there anybody, Master Gleeman, who’s joined your company recently, mysteriously? Someone skilled, someone you need, but nevertheless a stranger. You do hire men, don’t you?’

The Gleeman nodded, eyes narrowing. He was about to open his mouth to reply when he coughed, turned away and spat. ‘We have such a man. He joined us around the Feast of All Souls, or All Saints, I can’t remember which. He calls himself the Pilgrim. At first he acted suspiciously, but he was skilled in fashioning joists and other woodwork. He also proved to be a marvellous devil.’

‘A what?’ Corbett asked.

‘One of the mummers,’ the Gleeman explained. ‘Certain people possess that skill of mind to conjure up an appearance and act a part. The Pilgrim is certainly one of these. He played the role of a demon to perfection. I put it to the vote and we accepted him. Come.’ The Gleeman took Corbett by the elbow, pushing him gently towards the old priest’s house. He ushered him inside the deserted kitchen, told him to sit on the stool before the fire and went out. A short while later he returned. Corbett looked over his shoulder, but all he could see was a dark outline in the doorway. He immediately sensed that this man, whoever he may be, was very fearful.

‘Come in!’ Corbett ordered, getting to his feet. ‘Master Gleeman, I prefer to be by myself.’ The Gleeman nodded and hastily withdrew.

Corbett took the stranger closer to the window. Lean and lithe, he reminded Corbett of a cat, with his slanting eyes, a face like the very devil, cheeks and jaw bare of any hair, all cleanly shaven. Corbett stepped back. The man had a thin, narrow face. He was dressed in yellow hose and a tattered scarlet jerkin. In his left hand he held a cither and in his right a crude form of bow. He made no sound, no comment, his mouth slack, lips open, only those eyes in that lean, vicious-looking face watching Corbett intently.

‘What do you want?’ The voice was guttural. ‘Sir, I asked you what you want with me. Master Gleeman said I had to talk to you.’

‘What is your name?’ Corbett asked, stepping closer.

‘Pilgrim.’

Corbett drew his dagger and dug its point into the side of the Pilgrim’s neck. ‘I am the King’s clerk, his commissioner in these parts,’ he whispered, ‘and you, sir, when I ask a question, will answer truthfully. You proclaim yourself the Pilgrim, but I doubt you were called so at the baptismal font. What is your true name?’

‘Edmund Groscote.’

‘Ah, well, Edmund Groscote,’ Corbett continued, digging the tip a little deeper until a small bead of blood appeared. Groscote winced but did not flinch; his eyes held Corbett’s. ‘Just keep holding the bow and cither,’ Corbett warned. ‘Don’t drop them; don’t even think of looking for that knife hidden somewhere about you. Let me tell you a little about your life, Master Groscote. You’re a cunning man, a conjuror, a foist, a nap, someone who lives on their wits. You have been pursued the length and breadth of the kingdom for this crime or that. I wager in some town in Suffolk or Norfolk there are rewards on your head for all sorts of trickery, am I correct? Please answer the truth. You have nothing to fear from me except a pardon.’

Groscote sighed. ‘The blade,’ he murmured. ‘I beg you. .’

Corbett withdrew the dagger.

Groscote’s body went slack. He backed away until he reached the door, then slid down, arms across his stomach, knees up. He glanced fearfully at Corbett.

‘My name is Edmund Groscote,’ he repeated. ‘I am wanted by various sheriffs, port reeves and town bailiffs. I have a list of crimes any man would be fearful of. I was a clerk once, Sir Hugh — that is your name, is it not? Ah well,’ he continued, not waiting for a reply, ‘I was a clerk. On two occasions I’ve taken sanctuary, on three occasions pleaded benefit of clergy. So, Master Royal Clerk, if I am taken up again, I’ll be hanged. I was born in Norfolk of good family, sent to school, studied hard at my horn book, but I took to devilry as a fish does to swimming or a bird to flying.’

‘And?’ Corbett asked.

‘I became the quarry of a venator hominum.’

‘Hubert Fitzurse?’ Corbett asked.

‘The devil’s own,’ the Pilgrim retorted. ‘He was terrifying, Sir Hugh. You don’t know what it’s like to be hunted day and night by one man, a shadow, whose face you never see. So every tavern you enter, every alehouse you frequent, every marketplace you cross, you never know if he is there waiting for you. He had a fearful reputation. You’d be seized, bound and handed over to be hanged.’

Corbett knelt down beside this frightened man. ‘But Hubert the Monk disappeared,’ he declared. ‘You joined Les Hommes Joyeuses on the Feast of All Souls last. For many a year the venator hominum had been quiet. He suddenly reappeared, didn’t he?’

‘I wasn’t hiding from him,’ Groscote replied wearily, ‘but from others, members of a gang; we’d taken some silver and I had divided it, according to them, rather unfairly. Anyway, I decided to give up my nefarious ways and join the Gleeman’s company. I was happy to do so. One night I was in the tavern. I was drunk, full of ale, my belly fit to bursting. I went out to relieve myself. I felt a dagger, like yours, Sir Hugh, nipping at my neck. I was pushed against the wall, my face scarred against the brickwork, and a hoarse voice whispered in my ear, asking me many questions. Was I not Edmund Groscote? Was I not a member of Les Hommes Joyeuses? Was I not wanted in this town or that for this crime or that? Of course, I had to agree. “Do you know who I am?” the voice asked. I was too terrified to reply. “I am Hubert Fitzurse,” the voice continued, “the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze, the venator hominum. You, Master Groscote, are my prisoner. Within a week you’ll hang.” I begged for mercy, I spluttered for my life.’ The Pilgrim spread his hands, eyes fearful. “No real need for you to hang, Master Groscote,” that voice whispered. “I just want information about Les Hommes Joyeuses and the Gleeman. Has a leper visited your camp?” Of course I had seen one and confessed as much. Fitzurse told me to return to the same tavern at the same hour the following evening and tell him all I knew. I did that.’

‘What did you know?’

‘Sir Hugh, many strangers enter the camp. I thought this man was a mummer, a travelling player, a moon person, a counterfeit man pretending to be a leper begging for alms. He had been noticed. I tried to find out a little more. How he and the Gleeman had been closeted together. I went back and told Fitzurse this. I met him in the shadows. He gave me a coin, and since then I’ve heard no more from him.’

‘And he has not approached you here?’ Corbett asked.

‘No, Sir Hugh.’

Corbett rose to his feet, took a coin from his own purse and spun it at the Pilgrim, who caught it.

‘Sir Hugh, what am I to do?’

‘If you want to live,’ Corbett declared, ‘I would flee Les Hommes Joyeuses. Run as fast as you can, despite the snow; try and reach London. Take sanctuary in the Church of St Michael’s, Cornhill. Tell the sheriff and his bailiffs that you do so at the behest of Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal. If you stay there, Master Pilgrim, you may receive a pardon. If you do not, I would wager a tun of wine that the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze will catch up with you, if not to kill you, then certainly to ask you more questions. .’

Berengaria stood in the south transept of St Alphege’s, her cloak pulled tight about her, warming her hands over the cresset candles lit before the statue of the martyred Saxon archbishop, who gazed sorrowfully down at her. Nevertheless, Berengaria felt comfortable. Parson Warfeld was like any other man with his needs. He had given her comfortable lodgings in his finely furnished house, so why should she be in a hurry to return to Lady Adelicia? Berengaria had made her decision. She had enough silver salted away to bid Lady Adelicia adieu, perhaps obtain a few coins from her and seek her fortune elsewhere, and what better place than a priest’s house? Parson Warfeld might be a cleric, but he had the same hungers and appetites as any man, the way he’d first looked at her, slyly, out of the corner of his eye, his tongue wetting his lips, how he would place his hand on her shoulder or arm. Sure enough Berengaria, with her winsome ways, had fluttered her eyelids and enmeshed Warfeld in her silken net. Of course there was the other matter. Warfeld had confessed to her about informing that snooping royal clerk about Berengaria’s secret visits back to Sweetmead to meet Sir Rauf. How he’d often glimpsed her cloaked and cowled. Berengaria had masked her fury behind a smile, accepting the parson’s protestations that he had to tell Corbett, he’d been on oath. Well, she thought, preening herself, sometime in the future she might have to tell someone about the good parson!

Berengaria had been with Warfeld when the morning Mass had been celebrated. They were about to leave the church to break their fast when Desroches arrived to see the priest on certain matters. Parson Warfeld had promised her a visit to a splendid cookshop closer into the city, and though she’d pouted prettily, the priest had decided to meet with Desroches and asked her to stay here until his return. Berengaria stared up at the tortured face of the saint and then walked along the walls, studying the paintings. The artist had conjured up a vividly cruel scene of hell, depicting a plain filled with men and women of all ages, lying naked, fixed with iron nails into the earth, writhing in torment. Demons moved amongst them beating them with whips. In another part of the fresco, victims sprawled on their backs whilst dragons, serpents and fiery toads thrust glowing needles into their bodies before devouring them. Some of the hell-bound corpses hung by hot chains fastened to one of their limbs; others were being tortured in red-hot frying skillets or pierced on spits roasting over fires. In a further scene, a house smoked horribly; nearby human beings were being lowered into vats full of molten metal, naked men and women being thrown back up into the air as if they were sparks of fire. Fascinated, Berengaria moved along. She felt no guilt at her own sin as she studied the wretches who, no longer able to endure the excessive heat, leapt into biting-cold rivers. In the centre of the fresco yawned the mouth of hell, a vast pit spitting out globes of black flames towards which a horde of evil spirits were dragging legions of lamenting souls, urging them on with scaly whips and burning tongs.

Berengaria shivered and moved back to the candle flame. This was an old church; Parson Warfeld had explained how it had been here before the Normans arrived. Berengaria didn’t know who the Normans were; instead she now concentrated on her fingers. Parson Warfeld called them long and slender, elegant and beautiful, and that flattered her. She studied her hands as she thought about the future. She definitely had plans. She knew more than that clever-eyed clerk with his snooping ways and prying questions. She could wait, so why shouldn’t the others, particularly her next victims? They would all have to wait for a while, though she’d hinted at what she knew. Oh yes, when they had all gathered at Sweetmead the previous evening, she’d shown her true mettle! She recalled a proverb a soldier had once taught her: ‘Sometimes it is best to half-draw your sword, let your enemy see the gleam of metal.’ Well she’d done that!

‘Berengaria, Berengaria?’

She turned quickly. Apart from the candle glow, the church was mantled in darkness.

‘Berengaria?’

‘Who is it?’ She moved from the transept into the nave. ‘Who called my name?’

She heard a sound behind her and turned. As the cloaked figure walked quickly forward, Berengaria’s smile faded. She turned to flee, opened her mouth to scream, but the noose whipped fast around her neck, cutting off her breath, the blood rushing to her ears. The grip tightened and Berengaria choked swiftly to death.

Corbett and his two companions reached Maubisson around mid-morning, the city bells were still calling the faithful to the last Mass of the day. Wendover and a group of guards sat camped before the main steps of the manor. Corbett ordered them to open the doors and wait outside until he summoned them. Wendover tried to draw the new arrivals into conversation, but Corbett curtly waved him away, urging Ranulf and Chanson up into the gloomy hallway. Once inside, he slammed the door behind him and leaned against it.

Ranulf took off his cloak and slung it over a bench. Then he tightened his sword belt, easing the sword and dagger in the scabbard, nervous gestures because Master Long-Face had been in such a hurry. He had swept into the guesthouse, dragging himself and Chanson away from a platter of bread and honey, dried bacon and tankards of the most delicious-tasting ale, and urged them to bring the horses out. They had saddled them and galloped as swiftly as the snow and ice would permit back to this dire place.

‘Sir Hugh,’ Ranulf forced a smile, ‘we have searched this house: there are no secret entrances, no recesses where someone could hide, no hidden tunnels or passageways.’

Corbett took a feebly flickering torchlight from its sconce; then he fired one already primed and held it downwards, waiting until the flame caught. He thrust this into Ranulf’s hand, telling Chanson to fetch another.

‘My fellow scholars,’ he began, ‘I apologise for the swift summons and the hasty ride, but I have been thinking and reflecting.’

Ranulf groaned quietly. Corbett was a great watcher, a patient man. Sometimes he would sit for hours just staring at a piece of manuscript, then suddenly he’d become more busy than a lurcher eager for the hunt.

‘Ranulf, have you ever been asked to look at the clouds and search out a certain shape: a head, a horse, a shield?’

Ranulf thought of lying with Maeve’s maid in a cornfield on a beautiful summer’s day, but decided to hold his tongue.

‘At first you cannot see what you are searching for, but when you do, it is so obvious.’

‘And what are we searching for here?’

‘A body,’ Corbett declared, ‘a corpse. Master Servinus, to be precise.’

‘Paulents’ bodyguard?’ Chanson asked.

‘Oh yes.’ Corbett clapped the Clerk of the Stables on the shoulder. ‘Well perceived, Master Chanson. We’ve been searching for how he could have escaped, not where his corpse might be hidden. If you, Ranulf, or I had killed someone here and wished to conceal the corpse, where would we choose?’

‘Well, not here.’ Ranulf gestured around the hall. ‘Whilst the bedchambers are undisturbed.’

‘Where then?’ Corbett repeated.

‘The cellars?’

‘Precisely!’ Corbett led them out into the kitchen and towards the door built into the far wall. He opened this, more torches were brought, and he led them down the steps into the numbing-cold darkness. ‘These,’ Corbett’s voice echoed sombrely as he held up the flaming cresset, ‘are a series of caverns, small rooms one leading into the other, possibly built to keep wine cool or as a strongroom for money. What we are looking for is a corpse.’

They began their searches. All three had visited these cellars before, but now they moved carefully along the musty dark passageway, going from one chamber to the next. Most were filled with rubbish: broken chairs, benches, disused implements, cracked jugs, and cups, piles of sacking, barrels, broken coffers and chests. Corbett was sifting amongst some of these when he heard Chanson shout. The groom had started in the furthest cavern and was moving back towards them. He now held up his torch, waving excitedly at Corbett and Ranulf. They hurried in his direction. Chanson lowered the torch. Corbett saw how wet the floor was. Chanson turned to a huge barrel or vat with a spigot at the bottom, standing in a recess.

‘That’s been turned on and emptied, master, and it’s big enough to contain a corpse.’

Corbett ordered one of the broken chests to be brought. Standing on this, he drew his dagger and prised the massive lid loose. As he felt further in, his fingers brushed cold, marble-hard flesh. He hastily withdrew his hand and stepped down.

‘Chanson, Ranulf, tip this vat over.’

They squeezed between the vat and the brickwork and began to rock the barrel. Eventually it teetered over and fell with a crash; more liquid gushed out, but also the ale-drenched corpse. In the poor light Corbett glimpsed a peaked white face, black leather, and what looked like bloodied bandages across the man’s stomach. Slopping through the ale, he told Ranulf and Chanson to lift the body. They went back along the cellar and up the steps, and laid the corpse out in the porchway. Corbett wiped his hands on his cloak and stared down at it.

‘Always ugly in death,’ he murmured.

Ranulf agreed. Servinus had a thin, lean face; his eyes were stark open, staring in glassy fear; his head was completely shaved, cheeks slightly sunken, his mouth blood-splattered. In the man’s chest was a hideous black and red wound in which a crossbow bolt still lay embedded. Wrinkling his nose at the smell, Corbett crouched down and removed the pieces of cloth from the man’s stomach. Chanson began to retch and hurry for the door, hand to his mouth.

‘Killed by a crossbow bolt,’ Corbett declared, ‘but then his assassin ripped open his stomach, God knows the reason why. The assassin staunched the wound with those cloths; that is why we found no trace of blood. Servinus was dragged, probably under the armpits, wounds to the front, from the hall down the cellar and thrust into that barrel. It would be easy enough. I am sure if that cavern was better lit we’d have glimpsed the occasional bloodstains. The ale was run off, the lid placed back on. .’

‘Why?’ Ranulf asked.

‘To distract us,’ Corbett declared. ‘To make us think, at least for a while, that Servinus might even be the assassin, Hubert the Monk in disguise. Now here is an interesting question, Ranulf.’ Corbett got to his feet. ‘If the other four were mysteriously murdered by hanging, why did our assassin use a crossbow bolt against Servinus?’ He paused as the door opened and Chanson returned wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

‘Sorry, master.’

Wendover followed.

‘I told you to wait outside!’ Corbett snapped.

Wendover gasped in horror at the gruesome corpse sprawled on the hall floor, clothes soaked in ale, the ghastly face, the awful wounds to the chest and stomach.

‘Sir Hugh.’ The captain’s hand went to his mouth. ‘A messenger has arrived for you. He went first to St Augustine’s Abbey. He is from Sir Walter Castledene, who asks you to come to St Alphege’s. There has been a murder, Berengaria. What shall we. .?’ Wendover looked once more at the corpse, then turned, hand to his mouth, and ran outside.

‘Master Ranulf, come with me,’ Corbett ordered. ‘Chanson, stay here, examine that corpse. Go back to the vat; was there anything else put in there with him? Tell Wendover I want this house searched one more time, then he is to join me at St Alphege’s. Tell him to fetch a cart and bring the corpse over. Parson Warfeld has another Requiem to sing. Servinus can be buried in the poor man’s plot in Gods acre; the city will bear the expense.’

Once outside, Corbett repeated his orders to Wendover, who stood by a tree, still retching and clearing his mouth. The captain nodded quickly.

‘I’ll do what I can,’ he gasped.

‘You’ll do what I order!’ Corbett declared, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Come, Master Ranulf.’