Hugh Corbett 10 - The Devil's Hunt

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Is that really necessary, Sir Hugh?’ Lady Mathilda snapped.

  ‘Oh, I think so,’ Corbett replied. ‘I don’t want Master Moth coming back, Lady Mathilda, for I have never seen a man, anyone, being so close to a manifestation of someone else’s soul.’ Corbett sat down in the chair opposite and picked at the hem of his cloak. ‘On any other occasion, Lady Mathilda, I would have gone back to my chamber, written out my conclusions and reflected on what I should do. But I can’t do that here: with you, time is very dangerous!’

  Lady Mathilda’s face remained impassive.

  ‘No one suspects you,’ Corbett continued, ‘old and venerable, resting on a cane. How could Lady Mathilda go out and stab someone in an alleyway or send a crossbow bolt into a man’s chest? Or place a bolster over Appleston’s face and keep it there?’

  ‘This is preposterous!’ Lady Mathilda protested.

  ‘No, it’s not preposterous,’ Corbett replied. ‘But, when you have someone like Master Moth to do your bidding for you...’

  ‘Foolish!’ Lady Mathilda cried. ‘Your brains are addled!’

  ‘Ah mea Passerella - my little sparrow - isn’t that what your brother called you so many years ago, Mathilda, when you and he fought for the King against de Montfort? You, by your own admission, were a royal spy in London where you collected the tracts and broadsheets of de Montfort’s followers and sent them to your brothers. “Per manus P.P.”’ Corbett watched Lady Mathilda’s pebble-black eyes. ‘I noticed that on the back of various tracts in the book I found in Appleston’s chamber was scrawled “Per manu P.P.” - “by the hand of his parva passera”: “little sparrow”, as your brother called you. I have been through the other books in the library,’ Corbett continued, ‘as Ascham did. ‘But, although you tried to remove any letters which betrayed your brother’s sweet epithet for you, his little sparrow, you missed one place.’ Corbett paused. ‘He had a book of the Lives of the Saints, in which Ranulf wanted to read about the life of Monica, mother of Augustine. The first saint to appear under ‘M’ was “Mathilda”’ and beside the name your brother had written “Soror mea, Passerella mea”: my sister, my little sparrow. Ascham knew that, didn’t he? And when he was dying, his mind confused, he tried to scrawl the word on a piece of parchment.’

  ‘Sir Hugh.’ Lady Mathilda picked up the piece of embroidery. She jabbed the needle as if it were a dagger. ‘Are you accusing me of being the Bellman? Of trying to tear down what my brother built? Are you saying that I - FEEBLED, resting on a cane - killed my colleagues here at Sparrow Hall?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, Lady Mathilda: that’s why I asked Master Moth to leave. In my note to Bullock, I wrote that he should keep Master Moth with him and take his time getting here. Master Moth is more dangerous than he looks: the silent assassin. You don’t even need to make those strange gestures at him; he would know, just by watching your face, that you were in grave danger and act accordingly. By the time he returns with our good Sheriff I will be finished and you, Lady Mathilda, will be under arrest for high treason and murder.’

  ‘This is nonsense!’ Lady Mathilda spat back. ‘I am the King’s good friend. His most loyal subject.’

  ‘You were the King’s good friend and loyal subject,’ Corbett declared. ‘Now Lady Mathilda, your soul seethes with malice. You want revenge: revenge on the King; revenge on those here at Sparrow Hall who, when you die - and die you shall - will soon forget your brother’s memory, change the name of your precious Sparrow Hall and obtain royal confirmation of different statutes and regulations. In a way, the mad anchorite’s curse will be fulfilled.’

  ‘A witless harridan,’ Mathilda interrupted. ‘I should have dealt with her years...’ She paused and smiled.

  ‘You were going to say, Lady Mathilda?’

  ‘What proof?’ she asked quickly. ‘What proof do you have of this?’

  ‘Some. Enough for the Royal Justices to begin their questioning.’

  Corbett studied this small, passionate woman. Years ago, at St Paul’s, a priest had attacked him in the confessional with a knife. Corbett knew that Lady Mathilda, despite her apparent frailty, was just as dangerous. Murder didn’t always need brute strength - just the will to carry it out.

  ‘I asked for proof, Sir Hugh?’

  ‘I’ll come to that by and by, Lady Mathilda. Let’s go back to the root and cause of it all, forty years ago when Henry Braose and his sister Mathilda decided to support the King. Both of them were skilled, ruthless and determined. Henry was a brave soldier and Mathilda, who adored her brother as if he were God himself, was also accomplished: a woman of great cunning and deception, well versed in writing and reading, she acted as the King’s spy in London. She and her brother were opportunists with the ambition of eagles, to climb and soar as high as they could. The only obstacle was de Montfort. Glorious days, eh, Mathilda? While Henry fought with the King, you spied upon the King’s enemies. God knows how many men paid with their lives for trusting you.’

  Lady Mathilda smiled but she bowed her head and continued to sew.

  ‘At Evesham it all ended,’ Corbett continued. ‘De Montfort’s defeat was final and the Braoses came forward to collect their reward: land, tenements, treasure and the King’s personal favour. Men like de Warrenne and de Lacey were content just to grab and hold, but not the Braoses. Brother and sister shared a dream - to found a college, a Hall in Oxford.’

  Lady Mathilda looked up. ‘Golden years, Sir Hugh. But those who gambled and won ...?’

  ‘You, Lady Mathilda, were the source of your brother’s energy and ambition. He shared everything with you, didn’t he?’

  Lady Mathilda gazed back unblinkingly.

  ‘And you ensured that his dream was fulfilled. Land was bought here and across the lane, people were cleared out, and your lavish treasure was spent on building Sparrow Hall.’

  ‘It was our right,’ Lady Mathilda intervened. ‘Those who bear the sweat of the plough have every right to reap the harvest.’

  ‘And so you did,’ Corbett replied. ‘Your brother’s dream became a reality. But, towards the end of his life, he began to regret his avaricious acquisitions. Your brother died and, to your fury, you realised that what he had built had passed into the hands of others who wanted Sparrow Hall to break from the past. The King, your old master and friend, was no longer concerned, was he? There were no more grants, no more preferment. And the Masters here not only wanted to forget your brother, but heartily wished you elsewhere.’

  ‘You’ve still not mentioned any proof!’

  ‘Oh, I’ll come to that by and by. What I want to establish -’ Corbett rose and pulled his chair closer ‘- is why you did it? I think I know the reason. Like a child, Lady Mathilda, you felt that others should not possess what you could not have. You decided to destroy what you and your brother built up and, in so doing, waged a terrible war against your former friend the King. Revenge was your motive, the evil you called your good!’

  Chapter 14

  Corbett looked at Ranulf, who just stood with his back to the door, arms crossed, staring down at the floor. There was no excitement, none of his usual desire to participate in the questioning. Corbett hid his unease.

  ‘Are you going to tell me the rest?’ Lady Mathilda broke in, ‘Or should I pass you a piece of embroidery, Sir Hugh, so you can help me?’

  ‘I will weave you a tale,’ Corbett retorted, ‘of treason and bloody murder. Full of malice, Lady Mathilda, and angry at the King’s lack of support, you sat and brooded. You, above all, know the nightmares which haunt our King’s soul. You chose your tune and played it skilfully. You studied that book I found in dead Appleston’s chamber: all the old claims and challenges of de Montfort and his party. You became the Bellman.’

  ‘And, if I did, why should I name Sparrow Hall?’

  ‘Oh, that was the heart of your plot - to teach the King a lesson, never to forget you or Sparrow Hall. The crisis began: at the same time, you offered yourself as a spy to th
e King.’

  ‘And what did I hope to gain?’

  ‘Royal attention. Perhaps the removal of certain Masters who had plans to change the name and status of the Hall. To create suspicion and distrust, to strengthen your hand here.’

  ‘And I suppose I just slipped out of Sparrow Hall to post my proclamations on church doors?’

  ‘Of course not. Your servant did that - the ever silent Master Moth. I have seen where your chamber is positioned, it would be easy for him to slip out of a window, cross the yard and over the wall.’

  ‘But Master Moth can’t read or write.’

  ‘Oh, I think he was perfect for your plans,’ Corbett replied. ‘He’s young, able and vigorous. He could steal like a shadow along the streets and lanes of Oxford. And if he wanted to, be dressed for the part, act the beggar...’

  ‘Whatever he is, Sir Hugh, he still cannot read or write!’

  ‘Of course he can’t: that’s why you drew the bell at the top of each proclamation. He would understand that, and know where to pierce it with a nail.’ Corbett paused. ‘Every proclamation had the same symbol: each proclamation was pinned through that symbol. I wondered why. Now I know the reason.’

  Corbett was pleased to see he had gained Lady Mathilda’s attention: her needle no longer stabbed the piece of embroidery.

  ‘Murder is like any game,’ Corbett continued. ‘As in chess, you begin the game and you plan your moves. I doubt if your mind was bent on murder at first: more on catching the King’s eye and getting your own way here at Sparrow Hall... until Ascham became suspicious, God knows why or how? He was your brother’s friend. He, too, remembered the tracts and writings of de Montfort’s faction. He knew you were a trained clerk.’ Corbett pointed to her stained fingers. ‘That’s why you snatched your fingers away when I tried to kiss them once. A busy scribbler, eh, Lady Mathilda? Ascham was perceptive. He knew the Bellman was in Sparrow Hall with ready access to de Montfort’s writings. Perhaps he voiced those suspicions? And so you decided to kill him. On the afternoon he died, you were with Tripham - or so you said - but I suspect you murdered Ascham before you met the Vice-Regent. You, and Master Moth, had to move quickly before Ascham’s suspicions hardened into certainty. You went down into the deserted garden and there, hidden by the line of bushes, you and Moth committed dreadful murder. Moth tapped on the shutters, and when Ascham peered through, he did not see him as any danger and so opened. But you were there, as well, hidden beneath the sill or to the side. Anyway, you killed him with a crossbow bolt and then threw in that piece of parchment. Ascham, his mind drifting, tried to write down the name of his murderer with his own blood on that same scrap of parchment. He was still thinking about Henry Braose and Mathilda, his sister, the “Parva Passera”. He never finished.’

  Corbett glanced towards Ranulf who was staring at Lady Mathilda. Corbett hoped Moth would not return though he was confident that, if he did, Moth would be no match for Ranulf. Corbett wetted his lips.

  ‘Now, as in a game of chess, mistakes can occur when you make your moves. Ascham should have died immediately: however, you seized on his dying message as a stroke of good fortune - Passerel would take the blame. But then you started to brood: Ascham and the bursar had been friends, perhaps Ascham had voiced his suspicions about you to Passerel. So you arranged for a little legacy to be handed over to David Ap Thomas and his students, and the rest was easy. They blamed Passerel and he fled for sanctuary, but you knew the King was sending one of his clerks to Oxford, and that Passerel must not have the chance to talk with me. So, out went Master Moth with a jug full of poisoned wine and Passerel was no longer a danger. I know it was Master Moth, for when he entered St Michael’s by the side door, the anchorite saw him hit his leg against the iron boot bar but he did not cry out. Being a deaf mute, Moth would simply have to bear the pain.’

  ‘And Langton?’ Lady Mathilda asked.

  ‘Before I left for Oxford,’ Corbett replied, ‘I hanged an outlaw called Boso. Before I sentenced him to death, I asked him why he killed? His answer had its own strange logic: “If you have killed once,” he replied, “the second, the third and all other murders follow on easily enough.” You, Lady Mathilda, have a great deal in common with Boso. You are the Bellman, the avenger of all the insults over the years. You would carry out sentence of death against those Masters who had dared even to consider changing the Hall founded by your beloved brother. At the same time, you would prick the King’s conscience.’

  Lady Mathilda smiled and put the embroidery on the side table.

  ‘You talked of chess, Sir Hugh. I enjoy a good game: you must visit me some day and play against me.’

  ‘Oh, I’in sure you enjoyed your game,’ Corbett replied. ‘You were once the King’s spy: you like the cut and thrust of intrigue. Anyway, after you returned the book Ascham was studying, you felt safe; after all, you have been through your brother’s papers and removed any reference to his “soror mea, parva passera”. You had the run of Sparrow Hall, access to the papers and manuscripts of the dead men, Churchley’s poisons, all the time in the world to prepare, plot and protect yourself. Did you ever think that the deaths of the old beggar men might be connected to Sparrow Hall?’

  Lady Mathilda simply grimaced.

  ‘No,’ Corbett continued. ‘I suppose you were locked into your own foul and murderous plans. Perhaps you forgot your original purpose - to have the Masters of Sparrow Hall disbanded and the college closed down, only to be re-founded after you won favour with the King - and became more interested in the game than the outcome? The death of Langton was merely to increase the grip of terror,’ Corbett continued. ‘As the Bellman, you wrote me a letter before that dinner party, which you gave to Langton to hold. He was very biddable and would accept any story you told him, and you instructed him only to hand it over once the evening’s business was finished.’

  ‘Things might have gone wrong,’ Lady Mathilda mused.

  ‘In which case you would have asked for it back,’ Corbett replied. ‘It was a gamble but you enjoyed it. It would increase the fear and perhaps make me panic, as well as make the Bellman appear more sinister and powerful. We adjourned to the library. The servants brought in cups of white wine. You knew I was going to visit the library after the meal. Perhaps you handed Langton the letter as we left the refectory: I followed Tripham, and the rest, including my servants, had drunk deeply. During the conversation there, you picked up Langton’s cup, poured the potion in and ensured it wasn’t far from his hand. Langton drank, died and the letter was delivered.’

  ‘Is that how Copsale died?’ Ranulf interrupted brusquely. ‘Did you give him a sleeping draught to ease him into eternity?’

  Lady Mathilda didn’t even bother to acknowledge the question.

  ‘We can never prove that,’ Corbett replied. ‘But I am convinced that his murder was a sentence carried out against a man who had dared to question and plan changes at Sparrow Hall.’

  Corbett was about to continue when there was a knock on the door. He nodded at Ranulf to open it, and Tripham came in.

  ‘Sir Hugh, is there anything wrong?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ Corbett replied. ‘Master Alfred, I would prefer it if you stayed downtairs. Oh, and if Master Moth returns, detain him on some pretext.’

  Tripham was about to protest but Corbett held up his hand.

  ‘Master Alfred, I shall not be long. I promise you!’

  Ranulf locked the door behind him. Lady Mathilda made to rise but Corbett stretched across and pressed her back in the chair.

  ‘I think it’s best if you stay where you are. God knows what this room holds; knife, crossbow, poison? There’s plenty of poison, isn’t there, in Sparrow Hall? And it was not difficult for you to gain access to Master Churchley’s stores as, of course, you’ve got a key to every chamber.’

  ‘I have listened, Sir Hugh.’ Lady Mathilda breathed in deeply.

  Corbett marvelled at her poise and equanimity.

  ‘I have listened to
your story but you have still offered no proof.’

  ‘I shall come to the evidence soon enough,’ Corbett replied. ‘You are like all the assassins I have met, Lady Mathilda - arrogant, locked in hatred, full of contempt for me. Hence the mocking messages, the rotting corpse of a crow.’ He pointed a finger at her. ‘Now and again, you made small mistakes: like snatching your fingers away when I attempted to kiss your hand lest I notice the ink-stains, or feeling safe to drink your wine just after Langton had died from drinking his poisoned wine. Moreover, you, amongst all those at Sparrow Hall, seemed the least perturbed by Norreys’s killings.’

  ‘I am of that disposition, Sir Hugh,’ Lady Mathilda interrupted.

  ‘Oh, I am sure you are. You really believed you would not be caught. If you felt threatened you’d remove me, like your assassin Moth killed Maltote. What did it matter? Anything to fuel the King’s rage or suspicion. Nevertheless, you took precautions: the Bellman’s days seemed numbered so you killed Master Appleston so that he took the blame.’ For the first time Lady Mathilda’s lower lip trembled. ‘You really didn’t want to do that, did you?’ Corbett asked. ‘Appleston was a symbol of your brother’s magnanimity, his generosity of spirit. But someone had to take the blame. So, late last night, you and Master Moth paid him a visit with a jug of wine, the best claret from Bordeaux. Appleston would sit and talk. He then fell into a deep sleep and you and Master Moth held the bolster over his face, pressing down firmly. Appleston, drugged, unable to resist, gave up his life as easily as the others. Afterwards, with the door locked, you left enough evidence to make anyone think Appleston was the Bellman, then you disappeared back to your chamber.’

  ‘If,’ Lady Mathilda retorted, ‘that did happen, how can you prove it?’

  ‘Appleston had retired to bed. He was planning to go to the schools the following morning - he left out fresh robes. He also had a sore on his lip and when you pressed the bolster into his face, you touched the scab and made it bleed. You then turned the bolsters over and put the stained one beneath the others. In trying to depict Appleston as a suicide, you made a dreadful mistake.’