by Paul Doherty
‘Did she object?’
‘Far from it. She was looking forward to a journey upriver, even if it was through the icy blackness of night.’ Ranulf grinned. ‘Be careful, master, she chatters like a sparrow on a branch. She is full of praise for Sir Walter Evesham, loudly proclaiming that she’ll brook no ill against him. She’ll be here soon.’
By the time Corbett reached his chancery chamber, washed his hands and face, prepared his table and instructed Ranulf and Chanson what to do, Elizabeth Vavasour had arrived. Two bargemen had escorted her through the palace corridors, and by the look on their faces, Corbett realised that they were more than happy to hand over their passenger. Elizabeth Vavasour not only chattered like a sparrow, she looked like one, her small nut-brown face framed by a white wimple above the grey garb of the hospital of St Catherine’s. Despite her age, she moved quickly, plumping herself down on a stool, her little black eyes darting around the candlelit chamber before coming to rest on Corbett.
‘So you’re Sir Hugh, I’ve heard of you. You must have known my master?’
‘Slightly.’
‘He was a good man, Sir Hugh. I know he made mistakes,’ she leaned across the table, her voice falling to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘but he was good, very good indeed.’
‘Tell me, Mistress Elizabeth, you worked for Lord Walter and Lady Emma?’
‘Oh yes, your grace.’
Corbett glanced sharply at Ranulf and Chanson standing behind the old lady, a threatening glance against their laughter.
‘Oh yes, your grace,’ she repeated, ‘I worked for them for many years. I was hired by Lady Emma when she first married Sir Walter. He was very ambitious, determined to rise high in the royal service. Sometimes he did not feel at home with the other clerks, but he soon won the King’s favour.’
‘And the Lady Emma?’
‘She was quiet, very pious, engaged in good works.’
‘And their marriage, it was happy?’
Mistress Elizabeth’s eyes rounded, lips pursed. ‘Of course, Lord Walter was devoted to her.’
‘There was another woman, Beatrice, Lady Emma’s maid?’
‘Oh, her!’ Mistress Elizabeth snorted, and turned slightly, glancing at Corbett out of the corner of her eye. ‘She had airs and graces, a rather haughty young woman. She kept herself to herself. I think there was bad blood between her and Lord Walter, though I never knew the reason. Sir Hugh, I was quite happy with my own little tasks. There was the usual chatter, but in the main, it was a happy household.’
Corbett studied this old woman. She was telling the truth. Walter Evesham had looked after her and made sure that in her old age she’d never starve. He had provided her with a comfortable, warm chamber at St Catherine’s, all the food she could eat and the delicious gossip of other retired retainers.
‘And Lady Emma’s death?’
‘Oh, sir, an evening like this. Lady Emma and Beatrice went out late in the afternoon. They were taking Mary loaves to the almshouses somewhere near the old Roman wall. Darkness had fallen. Lady Emma was courageous. She had Beatrice with her, so there was no link boy or guard. We don’t really know what happened; the attackers were never arrested. Beatrice fled, but Lady Emma was beaten to the ground, her head staved in, her money, goods and all the jewellery she wore taken.’
‘And Lord Walter?’
‘He was overcome with grief. He locked himself in his chamber for days and refused to come out. He didn’t eat or drink. We organised her funeral at St Botulph’s.’
‘And this Beatrice?’
‘Lord Walter scoured London, and her name was proclaimed at St Paul’s Cross. The mayor, sheriffs and bailiffs were all advised, but she had vanished, disappeared off the face of God’s earth. And of course, Sir Hugh, as you know, life goes on. Look at me, I’m a widow four times over! Oh yes, met my husbands at the church door and within a few years followed their coffins in. Surely the Good Book is true in what it says: life is changed not taken away.’
Corbett glanced up. Ranulf had turned his back and walked away, shoulders shaking.
‘Well,’ Mistress Elizabeth blinked, ‘two years after Lady Emma’s death, Sir Walter married again, the Lady Clarice. She was a hussy. I didn’t like her. By then I was growing too frail for heavy duties. Lord Walter said he would give me safe, comfortable lodgings, and so he did, God bless his name. Now, Sir Hugh, if you have finished, I would like to go back, if possible by barge. I know it’s dark, but the lantern horns are bright and those bargemen are so kind and attentive, they listen to every word I say. I must be back soon. There’s a special supper tonight. Cook has offered lampreys cooked in a rich sauce with soft white bread. Oh, every time I eat, every night I press my head against a feather-filled bolster, I always praise Sir Walter, and say a prayer for him. Terrible what happened, wasn’t it, Sir Hugh?’
Corbett nodded. ‘Mistress Elizabeth, I can see that you’re very busy.’ He got to his feet and, taking a silver piece out of his purse, stretched across and placed it in her vein-streaked hand. ‘Please take that, buy some comforts for yourself. I thank you. God bless you, mistress.’
11
Luparius: a wolf-hunter
Mistress Elizabeth, still chattering, allowed Chanson to escort her out of the chamber. Corbett sat down and heaved a sigh. ‘Ranulf,’ he glanced up, ‘when Chanson returns, go about your business. You must be hungry. One final thing, send a courier to Cripplegate ward, find out who holds the keys to St Botulph’s and have them brought here.’
When Ranulf had left, Corbett paced the chamber for a while. He shifted the brazier close to his desk, moving candles and lamps to create a pool of light and warmth, and settled himself. He tried to imagine being Ippegrave, so close and secretive, then smiled: he was that already.Yet in truth, Boniface had been different from him, a bachelor with a doting sister and a secret lover whose name began with M. Corbett smoothed the piece of vellum in front of him, dipped his quill pen in the ink and began to write.
Item: This mysterious Beatrice, Emma Evesham’s maid, had been present when her mistress was attacked and murdered. Was the assault simply a bloody street affray and Emma Evesham the wrong woman in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or was it a planned assault? Was Beatrice party to it? And what had happened to her? Was she killed and her corpse taken elsewhere? Evesham and Coroner Fleschner appeared to have searched for this elusive maid but discovered no trace of her alive or dead. So did Beatrice flee, but where? To whom? Why? Was she abducted and still alive? Again why? What had happened to her?
Item: Why had Boniface collected some of those horrid messages left on the corpses of the Mysterium’s victims? What was he searching for?
Item: How had Boniface been able to discover the secret machinations of the Mysterium and his use of the great hoarding at St Paul’s? Evesham had only established the truth of that after he had trapped the merchant Chauntoys and Boniface in Southwark.
Item: Why had Boniface listed Emma alongside other victims of mysterious death? She was certainly murdered, but there was no real proof that Bassetlawe, Furnival and Rescales had been. All three deaths could have been accidents, the verdict recorded at the time.
Item: Why had Boniface listed other clerks, Blandeford, Staunton, Evesham and Engleat? For what purpose?
Item: Boniface had protested his innocence.What was that phrase he’d scrawled on the page of the Book of the Gospels at St Botulph’s: ‘I stand in the centre guiltless and point to the four corners.’ What did it mean?
Item: Why did Evesham and others believe the Mysterium was a chancery clerk? Who had reached that conclusion? Why not a scribe at the Guildhall?
Item: Why did the Mysterium always leave that mocking message, ‘Mysterium Rei – the Mystery of the Thing’, on the corpses of his victims?
Item: Evesham, Engleat, Waldene, Hubert the Monk, Clarice, Richard Fink and now Fleschner had all been killed within a short period of time by the same killer: why? What linked all these victims to this bloody mysteri
ous mayhem?
Item: Nevertheless, there were incidents that seemed out of harmony with this murderous pattern. The writer from the Land of Cockaigne, who was he? The riot at Newgate: who had really caused both that and the furious fight at St Botulph’s?
Item: If Boniface was innocent and, for sake of argument, had survived, why had he returned to his sister to proclaim that he was carrying out vengeance? Why his interest in the woman Beatrice?
Corbett put his pen down. He felt lost, unable to form a rock-hard conclusion on which to construct a thesis that would match the evidence. He rose, paced the chamber, ate some of the stale food left on Chanson’s platter and returned to his chair. He dozed for a while and startled as the door latch rattled and Staunton and Blandeford strode in. Corbett immediately grasped the hilt of his knife. Both men looked sinister in their heavy cloaks and deep cowls, more like monkish rats than judge and clerk. They parted to go around the table, walking swiftly towards Corbett, who, hand still on his dagger, rose to his feet. Staunton stopped abruptly, drew a set of keys out of the pocket of his cloak and waved these tauntingly in Corbett‘s face.
‘We were coming to see you, Sir Hugh. We found the catchpole from Cripplegate wandering the galleries below. One of the guards stopped him. He was demanding to see you, so we took his keys. I gather,’ he smirked, ‘your companions Ranulf and Chanson are savouring the joys of a nearby tavern.’
‘They have worked hard.’ Corbett grasped the heavy bunch of keys and slammed then down on the desk. ‘So these are the keys to St Botulph’s?’
‘So the catchpole said.’
‘And you, sirs, what do you want?’
Staunton, uninvited, sat down on a chair; Blandeford pulled a stool up close.
‘We’ve heard rumours, Sir Hugh. You seem to be concentrating on events of twenty years ago rather than—’
‘I dig for the roots,’ Corbett intervened, asserting himself. He did not like the arrogance of these two men, who seemed slightly menacing in the shifting shadows. ‘Tell me,’ he sat down, ‘Boniface Ippegrave put your names on a list.’
‘So?’ Staunton pushed back the deep cowl from over his head.
‘Were you suspected of being the Mysterium?’
‘What do you mean? What are you implying? How dare you . . .’
‘Oh, I dare.’ Corbett laughed. ‘And I would dare again. Listen, Evesham believed the Mysterium was a chancery clerk, someone like us, party to the chatter of both city and court.’
‘That’s logical,’ Staunton conceded.
‘I disagree.’ Corbett crossed his arms and leaned closer, holding Staunton’s arrogant stare. ‘Learned judge, it is not logical. What about the clerks at the Guildhall, or even those of the merchants?’
‘What are you implying?’
‘Who first raised the possibility that the Mysterium must be a chancery clerk?’ Corbett glanced down the floor, waiting for the answer. Outside, the strengthening night breeze rattled the shutters, the icy draught seeping in making the timbers of the ancient palace creak.
‘I don’t know,’ Staunton blustered. ‘I cannot remember. Old Chancellor Burnell was beside himself. An assassin was loose in the city, hired by the great merchants to settle scores with their enemies. The Mysterium was taunting the authority of the law. You know how the King would regard that, especially in London. Burnell turned to his clerks for advice and help; that’s how I suspect the conclusion was reached that the Mysterium was a chancery official.’ Staunton rose abruptly. ‘Sir Hugh, we simply came to give our greetings.’
‘No you didn’t.’ Corbett also stood up. ‘You came to give me a bunch of keys and pry on what I’m doing. Why, sirs, are you reporting to the King? Or are you worried about your clerk Lapwing? I hold you responsible for him.’ He wagged a finger in Staunton’s face. ‘I must have close words with Lapwing on a number of matters. Now, sirs, unless you have further information for me . . .’
He ushered them to the door and closed it quietly behind them, drawing across the bolts. If Staunton and Blandeford could wander in here . . . Corbett felt uneasy. Why had those sly courtiers visited him? Did they also suspect something was wrong with the accepted story about Ippegrave? He heard a scratching at the door. He drew back the bolts and allowed the two cats through. They immediately went and sprawled near one of the braziers. ‘I wish I could do that.’ Corbett smiled. He crouched beside them, stroking them softly. ‘You’ve been hunting and I think you’ve killed, whilst I’m still prowling in the dark. Now, my two fine sirs, you’re more welcome than the other two who’ve just left, but what do they want? What are they frightened of? What are they concerned about?’ He stared at the fiery mess in the charcoal brazier. ‘What if . . .’ He rose and returned to his chair. ‘What if Boniface Ippegrave was not the Mysterium? Then who was?’
Corbett pulled across the crude copy he’d made of Boniface’s diagram of the first nine letters of the alphabet:
He was concentrating so hard, his eyes grew heavy and he dozed for a while. He started awake at a cry from the yard below, followed by the sound of swords being drawn. He hastened to the window, pulled back the shutters and stared down at the serjeant-at-arms and liveried guards standing in a pool of torchlight.
‘What is it?’ he called.
The serjeant-at-arms, shading his eyes, gazed up.
‘Is that you, Sir Hugh?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought so, all the other chambers are in darkness. Sir Hugh, it’s nothing. We thought there was an intruder, but it’s only the shadows, perhaps some dog. One of our lads is missing his sweet-heart. He imagines many things.’
Corbett smiled at the laughter this caused, then raised his hand and closed the shutters. Nevertheless, despite the cheery words, he felt uneasy. A prickling fear as if he was walking down some night-filled alleyway. He might be in this sealed chamber warmed and lit by glowing coals and leaping tongues of candle flame, where wall tapestries glowed colour and crucifixes and statues glinted in the jittering light, and yet . . . Guards patrolled downstairs, and he had his own sword-belt within reach, but Corbett sensed Murder was prowling, a demon deep in the shadows like some scuttling, ravenous rat. An assassin was loose. Whether it was the Mysterium or not was immaterial; this was a killer who struck swiftly and savagely with a keen eye to his own advantage.
Corbett sat down and picked up the scrap of parchment with the square of letters.
‘I stand in the centre,’ he whispered. ‘That is the E. I point to the four corners: A, C, G, I.’ He wrote out the four letters, rearranging them several times but could still make no sense of it. ‘I should be back at Leighton,’ he whispered. ‘God knows, Maeve, I miss you so much. I’m tired. I want to sleep.’
He thought of Staunton of Westminster, of himself, Corbett of Leighton, of Boniface of Cripplegate, Blandeford of the Guildhall, the way people defined themselves by the place they called home. He glanced down at the letter E and those in the four corners and his mouth went dry. He rummaged amongst his papers and found what he was looking for. He studied it carefully, then went back to those four letters.
‘The Land of Cockaigne,’ he whispered. ‘The world turned topsy-turvy, the hunted becomes the hunter, the righteous the wicked.’ He snatched up a piece of parchment, took a pen and listed the evidence.
Item: The Mysterium was a chancery clerk.
Item: The Mysterium used the great hoarding at St Paul’s.
Item: The Mysterium gloated about his work.
Item: The Mysterium’s murderous campaign ended with Boniface Ippegrave’s disappearance.
Item: Boniface Ippegrave maintained his innocence until now.
‘No, no,’ he murmured, and crossed out ‘until now’. ‘Go back,’ he told himself. ‘Go back twenty years and stay there. That’s where the truth is.’
Item: The Mysterium – Boniface Ippegrave – was captured red-handed with his accomplice in that tavern in Southwark.
Item: Only after that did Walter Evesham
claim he knew how the Mysterium carried out his dreadful crimes.
Item: Boniface Ippegrave was taken into custody but escaped.
Item: Boniface Ippegrave remained in sanctuary for two days at St Botulph’s. No one visited him except the parson, Evesham and Engleat. He received his mother’s ring from his sister and scrawled his proclamation of innocence on a page of the Book of the Gospels.
Item: On the third day, Boniface Ippegrave disappeared, but how?
Corbett glanced up. ‘I think I know,’ he whispered fiercely. ‘Yes, I’m sure I do, but how does it all fit?’
He rose and paced the chamber, lost in thought, trying to track down the assassin who’d prowled the city some twenty years ago. He kept returning to the table, fingering the scraps of parchment, scribbling down notes. He was certain that he had a hypothesis, but how could he link it to present events? He gathered his cloak about him, wheeled the brazier closer to his chair and sat down. Staring into the sparkling coals, sifting the evidence, his eyes grew heavy again. He fell asleep, and when he woke, the light outside was greying. He went to the garderobe, then returned and washed himself at the lavarium, and as he dried his hands and face, he glimpsed the ring of keys to St Botulph’s. He had to go there.
‘St Botulph’s,’ he exclaimed. ‘You are truly a house of secrets! I need to search you to test my hypothesis.’
He sat and wrote a short letter to Ranulf, then another to Sir Ralph Sandewic at the Tower. Dressing quickly and preparing himself, he went out along the gallery and down to the bailey. The early morning was bitterly cold; a river mist still hung heavy. Torches glowed. Muffled sounds echoed through the murky gloom. Corbett loosened his sword in its scabbard. Danger threatened, he sensed it. It was always so. The hunt was on! The assassin, clever and subtle, must have realised Corbett had not given up. The killer would ponder his own survival. What chance did he have? If Corbett closed and trapped him for such heinous crimes, a hideous punishment awaited, being forced up a ladder to slowly strangle to death on a Smithfield scaffold. Corbett murmured a prayer for help.
