The Waxman Murders

Chapter 3

Corbett scratched his chin, trying to ignore the cold, prickling fear in his stomach. He felt heavy-eyed, repelled by the lurking menace of this desolate manor house, now reeking of a mysterious malevolence.

‘There’s Servinus,’ Castledene remarked, ‘the bodyguard: a tall, burly man, head all shaven, dressed in black leather and armed to the teeth.’

‘Did Paulents trust him?’

‘Yes, Servinus had worked for at least a year in his household: a Brandenburger, a mercenary who’d fought with the Teutonic knights. Servinus was sober and taciturn; he’d stare at you but hardly speak, a shadow who knew his place. He too had suffered from the rough crossing, complaining in broken English about the sea salt getting everywhere. He seemed pleased to be here, satisfied with this house, calling it a “donjon” — a place of safety.’

‘So where is he now?’ Corbett wondered aloud. ‘Is he the killer? Did he flee? But how? Why? A Brandenburger, a foreigner in Canterbury in the depth of winter, would find it difficult to hide.’ Corbett moved restlessly. ‘And how could he kill four people so silently and escape so easily from what he himself called a donjon?’

‘I have issued a description. .’ Castledene murmured, his voice trailing off.

‘Let’s return to the obvious,’ Corbett insisted. ‘We know that Blackstock had a half-brother. We know that you sailed down the Orwell to the Hermitage with Blackstock’s corpse dangling by the neck from the poop of The Caltrop. This must be Hubert’s vengeance. Paulents hanged his brother, so he has now hanged Paulents’ family.’

‘But why? I mean why now?’

Corbett shook his head, picked up the Cloister Map and stared at it. ‘I’ll try and decipher this, discover what the truth is. For the moment, let us return downstairs.’

They left the chamber, going down the rickety wooden staircase into the kitchen and buttery, then back into the hall. Parson Warfeld, a rubicund, smooth-faced man, was busy amongst the corpses. He’d brought a boy holding a taper and was now anointing the corpses with holy oil, dabbing their heads, eyes, lips, chests, hands and feet whilst he whispered the sacred words, urging the souls of the dead to go out and be greeted by the angels. Another man was sitting in the throne-like chair behind the dais. Castledene took Corbett over and introduced Peter Desroches, the city physician, former scholar of Salerno and Montpellier. Desroches was of medium height, thick-set, with blond hair neatly cropped above a pleasant, smiling face. He was dressed in a dark blue serge tunic gathered around his waist by a silver cord; precious rings winked on his fingers as did a bracelet about his wrist. He was clean-shaven, fresh-faced, eyes twinkling with amusement as he clasped Corbett’s hand.

‘I’ve heard of you, Sir Hugh. Your reputation precedes you.’

‘In what connection, sir?’

‘Oh, this and that.’ Desroches smiled. ‘I follow the affairs of the court most closely. One day I hope to obtain preferment there. Now this matter, it is heinous and hateful.’ He pushed back the chair and got to his feet. ‘Sir Hugh, all four were hanged. None of them resisted; there were no scuff marks, no signs of violence. And look at this.’

He led Corbett out of the hall into the small porch. Two of the city guards were sitting on the stone bench just inside the doorway, intently watching a rat scrabble around in a wire-mesh cage, its sharp little claws pattering on an empty wooden platter.

‘When I arrived,’ Desroches explained, ‘I asked one of the guards to catch a rat. I put it in the cage, and mixed a platter of every scrap from the different dishes, then laced it with wine and water. Paulents and his family ate and drank the same. Look, there’s no ill effect.’

‘So they weren’t poisoned or drugged.’

‘Precisely,’ the physician agreed. ‘Nothing at all.’ He crouched down, staring at the rat, a fat brown rodent with curling tail and aggressive snout. ‘So far, no signs of any poisoning.’ Desroches rose to his feet. ‘I have used this method before. If food is tainted or poisoned, the rat will soon manifest symptoms, but not here. Indeed,’ he lifted a finger portentously, ‘some people even maintain that a rat can smell tainted food and will avoid it. That is certainly not the case here.’

Corbett walked back into the hall. He stood just within the doorway, hands on his hips, and stared at the four corpses now hidden under blankets on the floor. He could make no sense of this. ‘Wendover,’ he called over his shoulder. The captain of the guard came hurrying up. ‘You were responsible for preparing Maubisson?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Wendover agreed quickly. ‘We began yesterday morning. Everything was ready as you see it now: kitchen provisions, buttery stores, rooms furnished, the walls adorned with hangings, braziers filled ready to be fired, the hearth cleaned, everything Sir Walter wanted.’

‘And then what?’ Corbett asked.

‘We left early yesterday,’ Wendover replied. ‘Everyone withdrew. I personally checked every chamber. There was no one here. We all gathered at the gateway, waiting for Sir Walter’s guests to arrive. They did so around midday. Sir Walter himself brought them here.’

‘And then what?’

‘Monsieur Desroches visited them.’

‘Master Physician,’ Corbett called, ‘would you join us here?’

Desroches walked over.

‘You met Paulents and his family here?’

‘Yes, that’s right, early in the afternoon. They complained of seasickness, of feeling hot and feverish. I didn’t know whether it was due to the dire conditions at sea or if they’d been infected by some contagion. I thought it best if they stayed here. Well,’ he amended, ‘Sir Walter and Paulents insisted on that, but they all seemed in good heart.’

‘They certainly recovered their appetites.’ Corbett gestured at the table. ‘They ate and drank well.’

‘As I said,’ Desroches smiled, ‘it may have just been the rigours of the journey. They seemed in good humour.’

‘And you noticed nothing untoward?’

‘Nothing at all,’ Desroches agreed. ‘I left shortly afterwards.’

Corbett crossed to the mantled hearth and stared down at the smouldering fire. Here was a manor, he reflected, closely guarded, its entrance, curtain wall, even the courtyard within the enclosure, all locked and barred. Little wonder: Paulents had realised he was in danger; he had been warned and threatened. And yet in one evening, he and his family had been massacred.

‘Sir Walter,’ Corbett called over his shoulder, ‘you are sure nothing is missing?’

‘Nothing at all,’ the merchant replied.

Corbett turned to Ranulf standing by the wall and gestured him over.

‘Let’s walk this house,’ he murmured. ‘There must be something.’

They left the rest and went up the stairs to the bedchambers ranged along the murky, freezing gallery. Corbett inspected each chamber carefully, both windows and doors, but soon recognised it was a fruitless search. He could find nothing out of place. He went back down, out into the courtyard, and stared at the guards milling around a fire, warming themselves. Why had Paulents been killed? Revenge? Certainly not for the manuscript. If Hubert was the killer, perhaps he did not need it. Corbett walked back into the hall, where Castledene and Desroches were in deep conversation.

‘Sir Walter?’

The merchant prince came over.

‘If Hubert has deciphered the manuscript,’ Corbett enquired, ‘why hasn’t he dug up the treasure? If he had, Hubert would be long gone.’

‘We don’t know if he even has the map,’ Castledene replied. ‘All we do know is that the original was somehow taken from The Waxman.’

‘Do you think these murders could be his revenge?’

‘I certainly do.’

‘Which means,’ Corbett laid his hand gently on Castledene’s shoulder, ‘that he also intends to take vengeance on you. Remember that, Sir Walter.’

Corbett made his farewells, promising Castledene he would join him at the Guildhall later that day to investigate the matter of Lady Adelicia Decontet. Physician Desroches also declared himself finished and offered to accompany Corbett as far as St Augustine’s before journeying on into the city. Corbett thanked him and pointed out that he would like Desroches to attend to Chanson, who had developed an ulcer on the inside of his leg. Desroches declared that Maubisson was, perhaps, not the best place for medical inspection or treatment. He could do that at the guesthouse in St Augustine’s. Corbett agreed and offered to pay, but Desroches shook his head.

‘Just give my good wishes to His Grace the King.’ The physician smiled. ‘Flatter my reputation and who knows what patronage I may gain? No, don’t mistake me, Sir Hugh,’ he laughed, ‘I am not one of these physicians who loves gold more than physic, but I never refuse a kind offer or an open door.’

Corbett glanced once more at the corpses and crossed himself. ‘Sir Walter,’ he called out, ‘I would like to carry out my own searches, just once more!’

Castledene shrugged. ‘Do so, Sir Hugh.’

Accompanied by Ranulf, Chanson and the city physician, Corbett revisited the cellar, the various chambers and galleries above the hall as well as the other wings of the house. He still could find nothing amiss. Assisted by his companions he especially checked windows, doors and shutters, ever vigilant for any sign of violence, yet there was none. Paulents’ baggage and that of his family was in their chambers. Beds had been prepared, water poured into lavarium bowls, goblets and cups left on tables. Paulents’ wife had already begun to unpack, laying out a triptych celebrating the life of St Anne as well as a tray of unguents, creams, oils and perfumes. Corbett felt he was in that twilight gallery between life and death. Silent chambers full of relics belonging to men and women snatched so violently from life. The preacher’s phrase: in media vitae sumus in morte — in the midst of life we are in death — echoed like a funeral bell through his mind. What horror had walked these galleries? What hideous plot had been devised and brought to fruition here?

Corbett and his two companions, together with Desroches, put on their cloaks and went outside, crossing the inner courtyard where the city guard had built their fire. The cobbles were still strewn with ash and scraps of food. They walked round the outside of the manor; the sky, still threatening more snow, hung grey and lowering. The wind was biting cold, even the ravens and crows had ceased their marauding to shelter in the nearby trees. In some places the snow was at least a foot deep. Corbett found that a help, because it made it plain that there was no evidence of intruders approaching or leaving by any window; the only noticeable disturbances were along the pathways leading up to the main and rear doors. During their walk Corbett was diverted by Desroches, who proved a genial companion, chatting about some of the mysterious deaths he’d examined in Canterbury as well as what he had seen during his military service in Gascony under Lord Bearn.

‘You are Canterbury born?’ Corbett asked as they went back to the stables.

‘Yes and no,’ Desroches replied. ‘My family originally came from Ospring to settle here. My father was a wine trader so he moved us all to Bordeaux. The years passed, and my parents returned to Canterbury, where they died. I was not the sharpest of scholars, but I managed to gain entrance to the medical schools and halls at Montpellier and Salerno. I journeyed around Europe, then returned to Gascony about ten years ago, when Philip of France was beginning to threaten the duchy. I did my military service, and really imagined myself as a soldier, but,’ he shook his head and shrugged, ‘so much death,’ he whispered, ‘the futility of it all!’ He paused, staring out across the snow-locked fields of Maubisson. ‘No one came here.’ He sighed. ‘If they had broken in, Paulents and his son would have resisted, the alarm would have been raised. And if the assassin was hiding here, sooner or later he would have to reveal himself. Again, the alarm would have been raised.’ He turned, rubbing his face to restore the warmth. ‘Sir Hugh, do you agree?’

Corbett shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he confessed. ‘I can find nothing!’

‘And Castledene?’ Desroches asked.

‘He is as mystified as I am. I think he’s told me the truth. Paulents brought something very special here, yet it wasn’t stolen. So the motive for the murder was pure revenge. You are a physician, Master Desroches; do you know anything about Blackstock, the privateer?’

The physician pulled a face and shook his head. ‘I’ve heard chatter about him and his half-brother Hubert, the former Benedictine. People claim Hubert is a truly evil man, someone who’s in love with death. Castledene has told me about what happened. You do know Sir Walter has been threatened by him, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze?’

‘And I wonder why?’ Corbett murmured. He paused and stared at the physician. ‘Do we have the full truth?’

Desroches simply shrugged. They made their way back to the stables. Desroches collected his palfrey and sumpter pony, which, as he joked, was his assistant, for it carried his pannier bag and small coffers full of the mysteries of physic.

‘You take no weapons?’ Corbett asked.

‘Never.’ Desroches swung himself into his saddle. ‘In the past I have; now I never will. The best treatment for disease, Master Corbett, is good health. If there are no wounds, there is no need for cures. I have seen enough violence, but if I’m attacked,’ Desroches stroked his horse’s neck, ‘I am a good rider on a fleet horse.’ He grinned. ‘Everything else I leave to chance. Moreover, I am well known in Canterbury. I treat the poor as well as the rich, and both in the main leave me well alone.’

They organised themselves and made their way out along the trackway between the trees down to the main gateway, past the guards and on to the road leading back to St Augustine’s. The thoroughfare was now busy with carts laden with produce making for the city markets. Progress was slow as carts became stuck or draught horses, their hogged manes frozen, skittered and slithered on the ice. Conversation was impossible. The freezing cold clung like a veil around them. The tips of Corbett’s ears were like ice and frost formed on his face, biting at the tip of his nose and stinging his lips. He thought of Leighton Hall, of a roaring fire, cups of posset, and Maeve sitting in the chair beside him, all peace and quiet. He tried to hide his discomfort by recalling the verses of a carol, but he could only reach the second line so he gave up, concentrating on the journey, watching his horse’s head bob, half listening to the sounds around him.

They turned off the thoroughfare and took the road leading down to the cavernous gateway of St Augustine’s Abbey. Desroches, to lighten the mood, began a pithy and humorous description of the ambitions of the present mitred abbot, Thomas de Fyndon, but the misty cold eventually silenced him, his witty remarks fading away. As he fell quiet, he kept reining in, pulling at the leads of his sumpter pony. Now and again he’d turn in the saddle and stare back. He seemed uneasy. Ranulf needed no such encouragement. He was highly nervous of the countryside swathed in white, with its gaunt trees, their black branches stretching out like tendrils over the strange noises echoing from the snow-caked gorse and brambles.

‘What is it, man?’ Corbett asked.

‘I’m sorry,’ Desroches spluttered. ‘Are we being followed? I just. .’

Corbett reined in, turning his horse as the bells of the abbey began to mark the hours for the dawn Mass and the office of Prime. He glanced to the right and left: nothing but frozen trees, snow-draped bushes, the mist drifting and shifting like vapour; a perfect place, he reflected, for an ambush. Corbett realised he’d been in a similar place before: those ice-bound Welsh valleys, waiting for the enemy to creep closer, to spring up and deal out sudden death. Still the abbey bells tolled. Corbett recalled the words of a sonnet: See how the wicked are bending their bow and fitting arrows to their string. Desroches was correct: something was wrong. A crow burst from a branch directly to his right, followed by the whirr of a crossbow bolt; it streaked through the mist and slammed into a tree behind them. Corbett drew his sword and struggled to quieten his startled horse. Chanson was cursing. Ranulf had already dismounted. Desroches was muttering under his breath. Corbett waited for a second bolt, but then started in surprise:

‘Listen now!’ The strong voice echoed from the mist directly to his right. ‘Listen now, king’s man, to the oracle of Hubert, son of Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze. Meddle not in what is not yours.’

‘God’s teeth,’ Corbett shouted, ‘show yourself!’

‘I have and I will, king’s man.’

Ranulf made to leave the trackway, sword drawn, ready to flounder through the snow towards the sound of that voice.

‘Stay!’ Corbett ordered. ‘Stay, for the love of God.’

Corbett’s horse moved restlessly as the clerk, sword drawn, peered through the misty whiteness. He knew it was futile. A rook cawed mockingly, then all was still.

‘Whoever he was,’ Corbett declared, ‘he’s gone. If he meant further mischief, we’d have known.’

They continued their journey. Corbett was relieved to glimpse the soaring walls of the abbey. Its great gates swung open at their approach, and as they clattered into the great yard, lay brothers hastened across to take their horses. Corbett slid from his mount and eased the tension in his back and legs. He told Ranulf to take Desroches and Chanson to the guesthouse.

‘Where are you going, master?’

‘Why, Ranulf,’ Corbett pulled off his thick leather gauntlets and beat them against his thigh, ‘I am going to kiss my Lord Abbot’s ring, present my credentials, flatter him, praise him, his abbey and his guesthouse, and thank him profusely.’ He walked off towards the arched porchway leading to the cloister and the main abbey buildings.

Ranulf helped Chanson stable the horses and then took Desroches into the guesthouse. Once they’d settled into their chambers, Ranulf brought up the physician’s panniers and coffers and Desroches tended to the ulcer on Chanson’s leg. He cleaned the wound with wine and a herbal poultice, smearing on an ointment and lightly bandaging the open sore, whilst giving clear instructions on how and when the dressing was to be changed. To distract Chanson he chattered about other ailments he was treating, particularly a case of St Anthony’s disease where the skin reddened, dried and cracked.

‘Strange,’ Desroches murmured. ‘I believe it’s the food my patient eats: oats and maize which are no longer wholesome.’

‘Did you treat Paulents?’ Ranulf asked.

‘No,’ the physician replied over his shoulder, ‘I did not. Castledene and I went out to meet them at Maubisson. They simply felt unwell. I personally thought it was due to the rough sea crossing, which would have disturbed the humours of an ox, though by the time they’d reached Maubisson, they were sweating and feeling nauseous. I simply counselled them to keep within doors.’ He shrugged. ‘The guards and their close watch were Castledene’s idea.’

‘Were they frightened?’ Corbett came through the doorway. ‘I mean Castledene and Paulents?’

‘Oh yes.’ Desroches patted Chanson on the knee, rose and went across to the lavarium to wash his hands. ‘They were often closeted together, whispering to each other. Paulents’ son, the maid and his lady wife were pleasant enough, quiet, rather fearful at being in a strange country. They said nothing untoward. I suspect they knew that Paulents was concerned and, of course, why not? Both he and Castledene had been threatened.’

‘But that only began when Paulents arrived in this country.’

‘Yes,’ Desroches conceded. ‘By then I suppose it was too late to return home.’

‘And the first warning was delivered in Dover?’

‘From what I can gather.’ Desroches screwed up his eyes and peered at the ceiling. ‘Yes, Paulents arrived on Monday. He received the warning as he entered the tavern where he would stay overnight before his journey to Canterbury. We met him yesterday afternoon, Tuesday. I believe that Sir Walter also received a warning, at the Guildhall. In both cases a scrap of parchment. Paulents’ was pushed into his hands. Castledene’s was found amongst a number of petitions presented to the Mayor by various citizens. Of course, there was no indication of who wrote them or where they came from. Ah well,’ he gestured at his panniers, ‘Master Ranulf, if you could help me with these, I’d be grateful.’

‘Monsieur Desroches?’

The physician turned.

‘Can I pay you?’ Corbett repeated his offer, gesturing at Chanson.

Desroches simply waved his hand. ‘A pleasure,’ he smiled, ‘and don’t forget to mention my name at court. The ulcer is not serious, a little infected but I have cleaned it. Chanson can now take care of it himself. I’m sure the good brothers in the infirmary would also help. Sir Hugh, perhaps I will see you later in the day?’

The physician left. Corbett heard him patter down the stone steps. Ranulf, cursing quietly under his breath, followed laden with panniers and coffers. Corbett went across to where Chanson was already acting the invalid, stretched out on the bed nursing his leg. Corbett smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

‘You will be well enough, Chanson. Try not to tease Ranulf about those woods.’

Corbett returned to his own chamber. Once inside, he locked and bolted the door and stared around. He was glad he’d come here, though he was fearful about what he had to do. He always stayed at abbeys or priories, and this chamber showed why, being clean, sweet-smelling and well swept. The furnishings were simple but pleasant, the walls decorated with coloured cloths bearing the symbols of Christ’s Passion, a wooden crucifix and a gold-edged diptych. The sheets on the bed looked clean and crisp. There was a table pushed under the mullioned glass window and the chamber boasted a stool, coffer and aumbry. Corbett looked at his own coffers, caskets and leather chancery bags piled in a heap in the far corner. They would have to wait. He pulled back the hangings on the bed and sat down on the edge, easing off his boots. He wondered what Maeve would be doing at Leighton Manor. She’d be up early as always, busy about this or that, going into the chancery room or out into the yard. He closed his eyes, swept by a deep sense of homesickness, even though he was here in the comfortable chamber of an opulent abbey.

Corbett sat for a while trying to collect his thoughts. From below he could hear Ranulf coming back into the guesthouse, Desroches shouting cheerful farewells. He was about to rise and undo the clasps of one of the chancery coffers when he heard a thud on the shutter against one of the far windows. He hastened across and carefully pulled back the thick wooden slats. A blast of cold air blew in. This window was empty of glass or stiffened parchment. He was wondering what could have caused the noise when he glimpsed the crossbow bolt embedded deep in the wood. He immediately stepped to one side and stared out. Below stretched a courtyard, and some distance away thick vegetation and bushes draped in heavy snow. The mysterious archer must lurk there, though Corbett could glimpse no movement or tracks. The attacker must have come over the curtain wall of the abbey or slipped through a side gate. He must also know where Corbett lodged. The clerk glanced at the crossbow bolt and noticed the piece of parchment fastened to it. Crouching down, turning his head slightly against the cold, he undid the twine and pulled the parchment off. He quickly pushed the wooden shutters closed, went across to the glass-filled window and undid the parchment. It contained a further warning:

Thus says Hubert, son of Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze. I have warned you once, King’s man! I now warn you a second time. Do not meddle in affairs which are not your concern. Tell Edward of England that he is not, as yet, on my reckoning.