by Paul Doherty
‘Did you leave the poison for Passerel?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Of course not. The night he died we were...’ Ap Thomas’s voice trailed off.
‘Out in the woods?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I am sorry,’ Ap Thomas mumbled.
‘You’ll be sorrier yet,’ Bullock spoke cheerfully. ‘Do you know anything about the murders of these poor beggar men?’
Ap Thomas flailed his bound hands. ‘Nothing,’ he protested. ‘Brakespeare and Senex were sometimes seen near Sparrow Hall but I know nothing of their murders.’
‘Oh, take them to the stocks!’ Bullock shouted to the captain of his guard.
‘Sir Walter,’ Corbett intervened, ‘Master Ap Thomas has been helpful. His crimes are due more to foolishness than treason or any malice. Let him and his companions be handed over to the University Proctors.’
Bullock sipped from his cup. ‘Agreed. Take the buggers away!’ he bawled. ‘I’ve had enough of them!’
The guards pushed Ap Thomas and his companions through the door. The Sheriff got to his feet and drained his cup.
‘I’ll have the guards around Sparrow Hall by tonight. Sir Hugh?’
Corbett looked up. ‘I apologise, Master Sheriff. My mind was elsewhere.’ He got to his feet. ‘I was thinking,’ Corbett looked down at his boots. ‘You could tell from their clothing that Ap Thomas and his companions had been out in the countryside.’ He paused. ‘But these corpses which were brought in, Sir Walter - did you notice any mud, soil or grass on them?’
Bullock shook his head.
‘Now these beggars,’ Corbett added, ‘were old but I doubt if they would give up their lives lightly. Moreover, if a man was pursued through a wood, his legs, hands and certainly his face would be scored by brambles and gorse.’
‘I never saw any of that,’ Bullock replied. ‘But come, Sir Hugh, Ranulf, I still have the clothes and belongings of these beggars: they are kept in the store room next to my private chamber.’
The Sheriff led Corbett out of the hall and up a narrow, winding, stone staircase. Now and again Bullock grasped the ropes alongside, stopping to catch his breath. At last they reached a broad stairwell and Bullock took a ring of keys from his belt and opened the chamber on the right. Corbett fought to hide his surprise. The Sheriff’s private chamber was clean and spacious: the floor was scrubbed and covered with woollen rugs. Above the diamond-shaped window was a triptych of Christ’s Passion, with Mary and St John on either side. A four-poster high bed dominated the room; there was a desk under the window with a large box chair, and stools and covered chests. However, what caught Corbett’s gaze were the shelves from floor to ceiling on either side of the window, all well stocked with books.
‘Never judge a book by its cover,’ Bullock joked. ‘You are looking at my pride and joy, Sir Hugh. Some of the books I have bought myself but quite a few were a legacy from my uncle, who was Prior of Hailes Abbey.’ He went to a bookshelf and pulled out a tome, dusting it carefully before handing it to Corbett.
The clerk recognised the title: Cur Deus Homo - Why God Created Man; a work by the great Norman scholar Anselm.
‘The jewel of my collection,’ Bullock breathed, coming up beside him. He pointed to the cursive calligraphy and beautiful small pictures which marked the beginning of each paragraph. ‘Copied direct from the original,’ the Sheriff whispered. ‘Those bastards at Sparrow Hall know I own it. Tripham offered me gold by the ounce but I refused to sell.’
He put the book back on the shelf, took a key from a hook on the wall and led Corbett to the store room, which was a long, narrow place, full of chests and wooden boxes. It was dark and musty. Bullock grabbed a box and pulled it out on to the stairwell.
‘If you don’t mind,’ he explained, ‘I prefer if these are kept out of my room.’ He stirred the contents, raising a cloud of stale dust.
The Sheriff went back to his chamber whilst Corbett began to take out the pathetic rags.
‘I ordered the bodies to be stripped,’ Bullock shouted. ‘Those poor bastards could not afford coffins but I made sure they were buried in proper shrouds.’
Corbett laid the different pieces of clothing on the ground: some battered, old boots; torn and patched hose; a leather jerkin; a jacket, rather moth-eaten, the mole fur on its edge eaten away; a woollen shirt, holed and dirty. Corbett tried to ignore the smell as he carefully examined the boots and hose.
‘Not a blade of grass,’ Corbett murmured, looking at Ranulf. ‘Or a leaf. Nothing! I don’t think these men were killed where they were found.’
Ranulf picked up one piece of hose and examined the worn woollen threads.
‘Look, Master.’ Ranulf pointed to the small, grain-like pebbles caught there.
‘We have the same here.’ Corbett pointed to another pair of faded, bottle-green hose. He then examined the boots: again there was no mud or anything to indicate the beggars had been killed in a field or wood.
‘Put them back,’ Corbett ordered.
He helped Ranulf do so, and Bullock came out.
‘You are finished?’
‘Yes.’
The Sheriff kicked the box back into the store room and slammed the door shut.
‘Well, Sir Hugh, what do you think?’
‘I suspect,’ Corbett replied, ‘that these men were not killed in some Satanic rite. I doubt if they were lured out on to some desolate heath or lonely field: they were killed here in Oxford. Perhaps in some street or alleyway?’
‘But why?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Perhaps for pleasure,’ Corbett replied. ‘Some sick soul who liked to see an old man beg for his life before he is killed? That’s why they were chosen. Who’d ever miss a beggar?’
‘Sheer malice?’ Bullock exclaimed. ‘A simple lust for killing.’
‘Something like that,’ Corbett replied. ‘A devil’s hunt. Someone who goes out into the streets at night, chooses his victim and stalks him like you would a rabbit or a pheasant.’
‘Yet no one has heard or seen anything,’ Bullock retorted.
‘Think of all the lonely places in the city,’ Corbett replied. ‘There’s the old Jewish cemetery, not to mention the great open spaces of common land.’
‘But what happened to the blood?’ Ranulf asked.
‘We have had summer rains, which couid have washed it away,’ Corbett replied.
‘But, if that’s the case,’ Bullock intervened, ‘why weren’t the corpses left where they were killed? Why does the assassin risk capture by taking them outside the city and leaving the heads tied to the branches of some trees?’
‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. ‘But, Sir Walter -’ he extended his hand ‘-- from now on, Sparrow Hall is to be guarded every night until this business is finished.’
The Sheriff agreed and Corbett and Ranulf left.
‘Have you told the Lady Maeve that Maltote’s dead?’ Ranulf asked as they made their way along an alleyway to Broad Street.
‘Yes, I have,’ Corbett murmured. He stopped and stared up at the blue sky between the row of houses. ‘I am sorry, Ranulf. I am deeply sorry that Maltote’s dead but I will grieve for him when this is over and his killer is punished.’ He rubbed the side of his face. ‘His corpse will be sent out to some abbey for embalming and then back to Leighton. There’s an old yew tree in the graveyard. He can be buried beneath that.’ Corbett walked on. ‘What puzzles me now,’ he continued, ‘are the deaths of these beggar men. I always thought Ap Thomas was responsible.’
Ranulf was about to reply when he heard a sound behind him. The alleyway was a lonely, narrow thoroughfare and he heard the slither of a boot. He grabbed Corbett, dragging him towards the wall, and as he did so, something smacked into the side of a house where it jutted out a bit further along. Ranulf peered up the alleyway - nothing, though he noticed a cat leap across as if it had been disturbed. Then he glimpsed a dark shape move out of a doorway, and an arm being brought back and again he pulled Corbett aside. Once more there was the smack
of a stone hitting a wall deeper down the alleyway.
Ranulf pulled out his dagger and edged forwards but, by the time he’d reached the place he’d glimpsed the figure, there was nothing except the sound of the faint patter of feet down the narrow runnel which led off the alleyway. Ranulf crouched and picked up some small, well-smoothed pebbles. Corbett came up.
‘Slingshot,’ Ranulf explained, getting to his feet with one of the pebbles in his hand. He threw the pebble up and caught it, allowing it to smack against the palm of his hand. ‘If one of these had caught us, Master ...?’
‘Would it have killed?’ Corbett asked.
‘I’ve seen it happen,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Have you forgotten the bible story: David slaying Goliath?’
‘No,’ Corbett replied, taking the pebble from Ranulf’s hand. ‘I have also seen boys at sowing time, following their fathers, armed with a slingshot to drive away the marauding crows.’ He stared down the narrow, darkened runnel. ‘And that’s how the Bellman regards me,’ he continued. ‘A noisy, interfering crow that should be brought down.’
They continued on their way. Corbett paused where the jutting wall of a derelict house had stopped the first pebble: he noticed how the slingshot had pierced deep into the plaster.
‘That’s it!’ he declared. ‘Unless we have to go out, Ranulf, we’d best stay indoors.’
‘It could have been Bullock,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘He knew we had left the castle.’
‘Aye,’ Corbett replied. ‘Or the Bellman. Or, indeed, one of Ap Thomas’s friends.’
Corbett was relieved to reach Carfax, crossing the busy thoroughfare, shouldering his way past the crowds; he kept one hand on his wallet, the other on his dagger, wary of the pickpockets who clustered there. Ranulf followed behind. Now and again he’d turn, standing on tiptoe to look over the crowd but he could glimpse no one who appeared to be following them. They reached the hostelry, entering by the rear entrance because the front was thronged with scholars and Corbett wanted to avoid any confrontation over Ap Thomas. Norreys was in the yard, standing by the well, cleaning out some casks.
‘Ah Sir Hugh.’ He came over. He smiled but his eyes looked anxious, his face haggard and white. ‘The news about Ap Thomas’s arrest is now all over Oxford,’ he stammered. ‘Master Tripham and his colleagues have asked to meet you in the library.’ Norreys wiped his hands on his leather apron. ‘They asked if you’d be so kind as to go across immediately?’
‘We noticed the scholars in the lane,’ Corbett remarked. ‘So we decided to come this way.’
‘Oh, there’ll be no trouble,’ Norreys explained. ‘Ap Thomas and his henchmen were not well liked. They are now more a source of laughter than anything else.’ He returned to the cask he was cleaning, put the lid firmly back on, hammering in the wooden pegs. He took off his apron. ‘I’ll fetch my cloak and follow you.’
Corbett walked through the hostelry. This time he found the atmosphere much lighter and the scholars more respectful, the bachelors and commons standing aside as he passed. They crossed the lane to the hall where a servitor ushered them into the library. A short while later they were joined by Tripham, Master Barnett, Churchley and Appleston. Dame Mathilda came in last, her black polished cane tapping the floor, her head held as regally as a queen’s. Ranulf watched as Moth helped her into the high chair at the top of the library table; he then glanced curiously at Corbett who seemed to be lost in a reverie. Norreys came over, huffing and puffing, wiping his hands on his gown. Tripham told them to take their seats.
‘I would offer you some wine, Sir Hugh, but,’ he added sardonically, ‘Master Churchley has told us how wary you would be of eating or drinking anything here.’
‘I think the same applies to all of you,’ Corbett replied. ‘There’s no rhyme nor reason for the deaths of Ascham or Passerel. Or, indeed, that of my good servant Maltote. The Bellman strikes when he wishes, not just to safeguard himself but to heap insult upon injury. You asked to see me?’
‘I...’ Tripham stammered. ‘We would like to protest - the Sheriff has informed us that Sparrow Hall is to be placed under curfew from dusk till dawn. Is that really necessary?’
Corbett shrugged. ‘That is a matter for you and the University,’ he replied. ‘But Maltote was a king’s servant and was brutally murdered. Furthermore, a number of your scholars, Master Tripham, are to face serious charges of debauchery, and perhaps even dabbling in the black arts.’
‘We are not responsible,’ Tripham snapped, ‘for the private lives of each individual scholar.’
‘And neither am I,’ Corbett replied, ‘For every royal official. Moreover -’ Corbett’s voice rose ‘- on my way back here I was attacked yet again. A piece of slingshot narrowly missed my head.’
‘We have all been here,’ Tripham expostulated. ‘Sir Hugh, all this morning no one has left the hall. We have sat in close council in the parlour discussing what should be done with Ap Thomas and his cronies.’
Corbett hid his surprise. ‘You are sure, Master Tripham?’
‘We would all take oaths on it,’ Dame Mathilda snapped. ‘And you could interrogate the servitors who brought us wine and sweetmeats. Since we rose this morning and heard Mass in our chapel, no one has left Sparrow Hall. And, Sir Hugh, to my knowledge nobody left the hall last night when your servant was murdered.’
‘I don’t want Maltote’s body to be dressed here,’ Corbett replied, ignoring the outburst. ‘It is to be sent to Osney Abbey for embalming.’
‘Norreys will take it there,’ Tripham replied. ‘But, Sir Hugh, how long will you stay here? How long will this go on?’
‘How long will you continue to pry into our lives?’ Barnett snapped.
‘Until I find the truth,’ Corbett, stung by their arrogance, retorted. ‘What about you, Master Barnett, and your secrets?’
The sneer faded from Barnett’s fat, smug face.
‘What secrets?’ he stammered.
‘You are a man of the world,’ Corbett continued, wishing he had kept better control of his tongue. ‘Yet you feed the beggars and are well known to Brother Angelo at St Osyth’s hospital. Why should a man like you bother with the underdogs of this world?’
Barnett stared down at the tabletop.
‘What Master Barnett gives to the poor,’ Tripham murmured, ‘is surely a matter for him alone?’
‘I am tired,’ Barnett replied. He glanced round the library. ‘I am tired of all this. I am tired of the Bellman. I’m tired of attending the funerals of men like Ascham and Passerel: of lecturing to students who neither comprehend nor like what you say.’ He stared at Corbett. ‘I’m glad Ap Thomas has been arrested,’ he continued, ignoring the gasps of his colleagues. ‘He was an arrogant layabout. I don’t need to reply to your question, master clerk, but I will.’ He got to his feet, knocking away Churchley’s restraining hand. He undid the buttons of his long gown and then the clasps of the shirt beneath. ‘I have spent my life in avid study. I love the taste of wine, the dark passion in a bowl of claret, and young girls, full-breasted, slim-waisted.’ He continued to unfasten the clasps of his shirt. ‘I am a wealthy man, Corbett, the only son of a doting father. Have you ever heard the phrase in the Gospels: “Use money, tainted though it be, to help the poor so, when you die, they will welcome you into eternity”?’
Barnett pulled open his shirt and showed Corbett the hair-cloth beneath. Barnett sat down on a stool, his arrogant face now downcast.
‘When I die,’ he murmured, ‘I don’t want to go to hell - I have lived in hell all my life, Corbett. I want to go to heaven so ... I give money to the poor, I help the beggars, I wear a hair shirt in reparation for my many sins.’
Corbett leaned across and pressed his hand.
‘I am sorry,’ he murmured. ‘Master Tripham, I have told you what I know: soldiers from the castle will guard every entrance from Sparrow Hall until this business is finished.’ He got to his feet. ‘Now I would like to pay my last respects to my friend.’
Trip
ham led him out of the room and along to the corpse chamber.
‘We have done what we could,’ he murmured as he opened the door. ‘We’ve washed the body.’
Corbett, followed by Ranulf, stood by the bed and looked down.
‘It’s as if he’s asleep,’ Ranulf whispered, staring at the boyish, ivory-white face.
‘We dressed the wound.’ Tripham stood behind them. ‘Sir Hugh, did you know about the terrible bruise on his ankle?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Corbett replied absentmindedly. ‘Master Tripham, leave us for a moment.’
The Vice-Regent closed the door. Corbett knelt beside the bed and wept as he quietly prayed.
Chapter 11
Corbett and Ranulf returned to their own chamber, passing Norreys on the stairs. He offered some food and drink but they refused. Ranulf said he wanted to go for a walk so Corbett went and sat in his chamber: deeply upset by Maltote’s death, he tried to distract himself. He took out the proclamations which Simon had given him at Leighton and sifted through them. They were all similar: the shape of the bell at the top through which a nail had been pierced; the broad, clerkly brushes of the quill; the phrases full of hate for the King. At the foot of each was the same phrase: ‘Given by our hand at Sparrow Hall, The Bellman.’
Corbett pushed them away. He wiped the tears from his face and picked up Maeve’s letter from his chancery bag, going carefully over the phrases. One sentence caught his eye. Maeve’s complaint about how uncle Morgan teased Eleanor with stories of decapitated corpses and heads hanging by their hair from branches.
‘That’s it!’ Corbett breathed.
He put the letter down and recalled the clothing he had examined at the castle: no grass, no soil, not a leaf or a piece of bark.
