by Paul Doherty
‘Well, Sir Hugh, I’ve heard of you. What are you here for?’ Her bright button-black eyes studied his face. ‘You look cold and pinched. Have you eaten?’
Corbett smiled and nodded.
‘Would you like some wine?’
He shook his head.
‘Well, clerk, what is your business? Oh, by the way . . .’ She popped another delicacy into her mouth and slurped noisily from the goblet. ‘I am expecting other visitors.’
‘Lady Idola, I will not keep you long. You were married to the merchant Adam Chauntoys; I think you know his history.’
‘Let me tell you, clerk,’ she settled herself more comfortably, ‘I sit here nursing my memories. Oh yes, I know all about my late husband’s . . . how can I put it . . . dealings with the King.’
‘Which were?’
‘Master Chauntoys was first married to Lady Alice, daughter of Sir Walter Plumpton. Lady Alice was born of a wealthy family; she was well educated but had the morals of an alley cat. She brought my late husband a large and generous dowry. He thought that the ceremony at the church door, the binding of hands and the swearing of eternal love, meant that Lady Alice would change her ways, but she did not. There wasn’t a young man in Cheapside who, if he caught her eye, didn’t share her bed. My husband put up with such strumpet behaviour for at least five years of their marriage. She gave him no son. He suspected she took medicine or potions to prevent herself conceiving. He did consider seeking an annulment from the Church. Of course Lady Alice’s family were powerful, and would fight such a slight to their honour, whilst Master Chauntoys was advised by canon lawyers that no grounds existed for annulment. The years passed. What should have been love turned into a deep, languishing hatred between them. My husband decided to go to Southampton on business. While he was absent, his wife was attacked by street brawlers and killed.’
‘But that wasn’t the truth of it,’ declared Corbett. ‘Your husband had been communicating with a murderer, a professional assassin known as the Mysterium. An agreement was reached that whilst Master Chauntoys was absent on business, Lady Alice would be killed. This was accomplished. The Mysterium then demanded payment. Your husband was told to go to a tavern, the Liber Albus in Southwark, bringing the blood money with him. However, neither your husband nor the Mysterium realised they were being hunted by a chancery clerk named Walter Evesham.’ Corbett paused at the rude sound Idola made with her lips. ‘Did you ever meet Walter Evesham?’
‘I knew of him, sir, and I’ve heard what has happened. Evesham has received his just deserts, disgraced, dismissed and murdered, all richly deserved.’
‘Why, mistress?’
‘He destroyed my husband. If it hadn’t been for his grace the King, Master Chauntoys would have ended his days on the common gallows at Smithfield.’
‘Evesham was simply doing his duty.’
‘He relished it.’
‘What did your husband say about it?’
‘I married my husband about a year after Lady Alice’s death. He was still very prosperous and eager to begin again. I accepted his proposal. I thought I could make him happy.’
‘And did you?’
‘We were more friends than lovers, a relationship resting on the firm foundations of fidelity and common sense. My husband, however was broken by Evesham’s discovery, and of course he had to face the truth. He was indeed party to his first wife’s murder. During the last year of his life he began to describe what really happened. I shall talk about him rather than the Lady Alice’s many sins. She’s gone to God and can answer for herself. My husband was desperately unhappy with her. He received a message, pushed into his hand, saying that his enemy was also the enemy of the anonymous sender, and if my husband wanted, that enemy could be no more. At the bottom of this scrap of parchment was a reference to St Paul, with two numbers. My husband, being a merchant, knew what that meant: the great hoarding at St Paul’s. Provoked, shamed by his wife as a public cuckold, Master Chauntoys decided to rid himself of her. He placed her name in the numbered square of the hoarding, and a short while later he received a message.’
‘How was that delivered?’
‘Again pushed into his hand. Sir Hugh, you are a royal clerk. You know how it is. My husband would attend the Guildhall; people would present petitions to him, as they would to you. This time the scrap of parchment simply had one name: Lady Alice. If my husband agreed to confirm that, he was to place her name in the stipulated square on the hoarding at St Paul’s. So he did. Oh yes,’ Lady Idola pointed her finger, ‘he did have business with the Merchants of the Staple in Southampton, and during his absence, Lady Alice was apparently attacked in the streets and killed. When he returned to London, he received another message with a reference to St Paul’s; when he went there, he found a note giving the time and place, the amount of money and where he was to leave it. My husband, to put it bluntly, was very relieved to be rid of Lady Alice. He hastened across to Southwark and waited in that tavern.’
‘Did he recognise anyone who came in?’
‘No he did not. The clerk Boniface Ippegrave, the man later accused of being the Mysterium, entered. He seemed—’
Corbett held up a hand. ‘Lady Idola, I must ask you to be precise. What did your husband actually say about him?’
‘I truly will,’ she snapped. ‘According to my husband, Boniface Ippegrave looked very confused, staring around, hand on his dagger. He kept glancing at a scrap of parchment. My husband did wonder if he was the Mysterium, but then Walter Evesham, followed by his creature Engleat and others, burst into the tavern. My husband and Boniface Ippegrave were seized. Adam could not defend himself. He held that scrap of parchment and a considerable amount of gold.’
‘But Boniface Ippegrave?’
‘He seemed totally shocked, very surprised, but then . . .’
‘But then what?’
‘My husband, of course, was similarly distraught. He was under arrest. He knew what he had done. He faced the gallows. He glanced across at Ippegrave, but he had been taken aside by Evesham and they were deep in discussion. They all left the tavern, crossed London Bridge and walked up towards Cheapside, and my husband realised they were going to Newgate. Evesham was close to Ippegrave. Adam saw them argue, then Ippegrave apparently crouched down. The bailiffs stopped. The crowd milling around was hostile. It was then that Boniface Ippegrave escaped.
‘My husband was lodged in Newgate. He expected to go on trial, but then he received an offer of a pardon. If he confessed everything, divulged secrets about the machinations of the Guildhall and paid a most considerable fine, he’d be released. He agreed.’
‘How was this done?’
‘Evesham visited him in Newgate. He berated him, threatened him with torture and said he would ensure he’d hang very slowly at Smithfield. Then the King intervened. I understand his grace,’ Lady Idola’s words were tinged with sarcasm, ‘was concerned to discover how the Mysterium worked, and we all know the King.’ She bowed. ‘He is more interested in good silver and valuable information than in seeing a man dangle on the gallows.
‘After his release, my husband lived quietly. Sir Hugh, he did great wrong, but he was sorely provoked. He later went on pilgrimage to Canterbury. He crept to the cross every Good Friday. He was shrived, forgiven his sins, and did penance, but in the end he was a broken man. Only in the last year of his life did he begin to talk.’
‘Lady Idola, did he remark on anything extraordinary or remarkable about the day he was arrested?’
‘Yes, my husband learnt, as we all did, about Boniface Ippegrave: how he took sanctuary at St Botulph’s, his later disappearance . . .’
‘And?’
‘To put it bluntly, he did not believe Boniface Ippegrave was the Mysterium.’
‘Why?’
‘Think, Sir Hugh. My husband is sheltering in a tavern. He is there to pay an assassin, and has brought a considerable amount of gold. Boniface Ippegrave enters, but he does not act the resolute killer. Instead
he stares around like some lost child who doesn’t know why he is there. True, he glanced at my husband, but then he looked away.’ Lady Idola leaned forward to fill her cup.
Corbett stretched his hands out towards the fire. He felt a horrid chill, a cold creeping up his back, a sense of dread cloying his soul. What had been a mere suspicion hardened into fact. Was the very root of this mystery wrong? He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the scene. If Boniface was the assassin, why hadn’t he moved directly to seize the gold and flee? He opened his eyes.
‘Lady Idola, can you remember if your husband described the tavern as busy or empty?’
‘Oh, it was fairly empty, being mid-morning. He noticed only Boniface Ippegrave.’
Corbett nodded, pushed back the chair and got to his feet. He bowed.
‘Lady Idola, I thank you.’
‘You seem confused, Sir Hugh.’
‘Mistress, I am, and only God can clear the chaos in my mind.’
Corbett swept back into Westminster like a hungry lion. He threw open the door of the chancery chamber and strode in, startling Ranulf and Chanson.
‘Have the coroners’ rolls arrived yet?’ he demanded, clapping his hands. ‘Ranulf, I need them now.’
‘Sir Hugh, I received your message. I’ve sent to the Guildhall; they’ll be here shortly. I’ve also dealt with Mouseman,’ Ranulf added quickly. ‘He came here demanding his pardon. I have never seen a man so happy. He’s taken lodgings while he prepares to return to St Albans.’
Corbett pointed at Ranulf. ‘What the Mouseman said may be important.’
‘What’s the matter, master?’
‘A faint suspicion, Ranulf, though it’s no more than feathers in the wind. What we must do, to quote Scripture, is build our house on rock. I think I have found that rock. In the meantime,’ he gestured round, ‘make this place warm and lighted. I am going to return to my own chamber. I shall wash, change and go down to the kitchens. Let me know when the coroners’ rolls have arrived, then we’ll begin.’
The hour candle had burnt two more rings when Corbett returned to the chancery chamber to find his table heaped with rolls of manuscripts. They were arranged according to each regnal year. Fleschner had been coroner for about ten years before the capture of Boniface Ippegrave, and a host of entries were entered under his name, each giving the barest details of the crimes committed: the date, the place, the name of the victim, possible suspects and the outcome. Corbett and Ranulf worked steadily through the lists, and the abbey bells were tolling their dusk warning before Ranulf suddenly rapped the table.
‘Master, look at this.’
Corbett hurried across. Ranulf moved the oil lamp, repositioned the roll and pointed to a four-line entry for Candlemas 1280: Emma Evesham, wife of Walter Evesham, clerk, killed by unknown assailants just after dusk on the corner of Amen Court as she was returning from the almshouses. No suspects were listed. Corbett caught his breath. A further sentence explained how Emma’s maid Beatrice had also been with her; she had apparently escaped and could not be traced. The coroner’s conclusion was that Emma Evesham had died ‘an unnatural death other than her natural one’.
‘Emma Evesham,’ breathed Corbett, ‘killed in a street attack like so many others, what, about four years before the Mysterium was unmasked? And this maid Beatrice, who seems to have just disappeared? Was she party to the attack? Or was she abducted and later killed?’
Ranulf simply pulled a face.
Corbett could hardly contain his excitement. He went to his own chancery pouches and drew out the scraps of parchment taken from Boniface Ippegrave. He sifted amongst these and found the one with the list of names: Emma, Furnival, Bassetlawe and Rescales. This he handed to Ranulf.
‘Take great care of this. Go down to the exchequer and main chancery. Tell the clerks there to stop everything and search the records for these other names: anything to do with them. Once you have organised that, go to Evesham’s mansion in Clothiers Lane; talk to the maid, servants, neighbours, anyone, the cat, the dog, the pigeons.’
‘Master?’ Ranulf could see that Sir Hugh was excited, agitated, as he always was when a problem was about to unravel.
‘Try and trace,’ Corbett insisted, ‘an old servant, a maid, a nurse, anyone who knew Emma Evesham, who served in her household twenty-four years ago. There must be someone,’ he mused.
‘And you, master, you’ll take to wandering?’
‘Ranulf, I confess,’ Corbett struck his breast in mock sorrow, ‘I’m agitated and confused but I’m also hungry. I am going to eat and drink, adjourn to my own narrow room and reflect. Rouse me when you have made progress.’
He left the chamber, but instead of going down to the palace kitchens, he slipped into the exquisite, incensed-filled chancery chapel. He loved this little jewel of a chamber, an exquisitely furnished house of prayer with dark oaken wainscoting covering most of the walls, its floor tiled with the original design of a map of the world with Jerusalem at the centre. Prie-dieus with velvet padded kneelers ranged before an altar of carved porphyry. In the centre of this stood a pure gold crucifix flanked by candles of the same precious metal. Above the altar, against the backdrop of a luxurious Bruges tapestry depicting the Marriage at Cana, a silver-gilt sanctuary lamp glowed fiery red beside a jewel-encrusted pyx holding the Sacrament. Corbett crossed himself, knelt at a prie-dieu and quietly intoned the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’ – ‘Come Holy Spirit’. When he reached the line ‘If you take your hand away, nothing good in man will stay, all his good is turned to ill’, he closed his eyes. What he was about to confront was certainly devoid of God’s righteousness, brimming with the rottenness of sin, a corruption that had engulfed other souls over the years. He was about to enter the Garden of Midnight Souls, cross the Meadows of Murder, and there, sheltering in the shadows darker than night, lurked a true son of Cain.
When Corbett had finished his prayer, he blessed himself and rose, then crossed to the small Lady Chapel to the left of the altar, a simple recess holding a carved statue of Our Lady of Walsingham. There he lit three tapers, for his wife and children, blessed himself at the water stoup and left to make his way to the palace kitchens.
The kitchens, a range of buildings around a cobbled yard, were frenetically busy. The fleshing tables just inside the door were awash with the blood of deer, rabbit, pig and lamb. Quails, pheasants, larks and pigeons hung on hooks by their throats, drenching the floor beneath with their gore. Fires built up with dried pine logs blazed like the fury of hell. Cooks and spit boys, bathed in sweat, basted chunks of meat with oil and herbs. Bakers wailed about their pastry and sweetmeats being ruined. Chamberlains supervised the washing of royal cups, dishes and platters in vats of steaming water. Dogs and cats nosed the floor and fought over scraps. Stewards and comptrollers watched the stores being opened, the wine casks broached, the precious plate and cups being carried in. All this busy activity was directed at the huge door leading to the covered gallery stretching towards the King’s banqueting chamber.
Corbett slipped through the bustle. He begged a cup of wine and a piece of freshly roasted quail meat, which tasted delicious, then he went and sat on an ale bench just within the doorway, chewing quietly and enjoying the warm glow of the wine and the soft sweet meat. He was tempted to stay, eat some more, but his eyes were growing heavy, and he did not want to fall asleep in public. He retreated from the confusion and went back to his own chamber. There he took off his sword-belt, kicked off his boots, wrapped his cloak about him, stretched out on the cot bed and fell into a deep sleep, only woken by Ranulf shaking him vigorously.
‘Master?’ The clerk crouched down. ‘Master, you’ve got to wake up, it’s well past compline. You’ve been asleep for hours. We have news.’
Corbett, still half asleep, pulled himself up and swung his legs off the bed. Ranulf went across, fetched a stool and sat opposite him.
‘What news?’ Corbett asked.
‘Those three names . . .’ Ranulf paused as Corbett too
k a tinder and lit the small candelabra on the bedside table. He pulled both table and candelabra closer towards him.
‘The three names, Ranulf?’
‘All senior clerks of the chancery, old men. They died rather mysteriously in the eighth and ninth year of the present king’s reign.’
‘Mysteriously?’
‘One at a time. Their deaths,’ Ranulf shrugged, ‘were seen simply as accidents, but it’s strange that Boniface Ippegrave should list their names. Rescales fell down the steps of the old turret tower – you know where the chancery records are stored. He was an old man, the light was poor, he stumbled and broke his neck. Furnival? Well, he liked his wine and often drank deep at night. He also liked the river; his corpse was fished from the Thames close to King’s Steps. The verdict was that he was so inebriated he must have missed his footing and fallen into the water.’
‘And Bassetlawe?’
‘He died rather quietly, sitting at the buttery table enjoying a tankard of ale and some bread and cheese. He was found with his head on his arm as if asleep, but his heart had failed. Master, you don’t think they were accidents?’
‘A month ago I would have said they were.’ Corbett pulled his boots towards him, put them on and got to his feet, picking up his sword-belt. He rearranged his cloak. ‘There’s something else?’
‘Yes, master.’ Ranulf snuffed the candle and followed Corbett out of the chamber into the cold passageway outside. Only then did Corbett, glancing through a window, realise how long he’d slept.
‘I went to Evesham’s house and made diligent enquiries, and sure enough, I was given the name of Elizabeth Vavasour, a sort of maid and nurse to Lady Emma. When she retired, Evesham used his influence to obtain a corrody for her, a pension at St Catherine’s by the Tower. I went there and spoke to the master of the hospital, who introduced me to Elizabeth. I told her she must come to the chancery chamber after compline this evening, that it was urgent, King’s business.’
