by Paul Doherty
Again Brother Cuthbert grasped Adelicia’s arm and stared hard at her. Corbett realised that whatever this priest had heard in confession, he’d already hinted the same to this woman.
‘I heard things, Sir Hugh, things that were of public interest. Later on, I met Master Fleschner and told him how in my view he had no right to act as coroner, that he was Evesham’s creature. He was a weak man, Sir Hugh, but still good. I suspect he knew what I was hinting at.’
‘Which was?’
Brother Cuthbert shook his head. ‘You push me too far. You recognise the seal of confession. I cannot break that.’
‘Very well.’ Corbett paused. ‘Let me phrase the question another way. Emma Evesham was killed in a street assault. Coroner Fleschner investigated the murder. No real conclusion was drawn. What do you think of that, Brother?’
Cuthbert smiled weakly. He realised where Corbett was leading him.
‘I would say, Sir Hugh, that Coroner Fleschner should have investigated such an assault more stringently, searched for suspects, but he did not.’
‘Why do you think that was?’
‘Because of Evesham, that devil incarnate.’
‘When Evesham took refuge at Syon Abbey, did you ever discuss these matters with him?’
‘Sir Hugh, I have told you the truth about that. I could hardly look at him, let alone talk to him. I knew what he truly was and so do you. What was the use of lecturing him? He was an evil man who did evil things.’
‘And you, Adelicia, you brought your mother’s ring to St Botulph’s but Evesham took it off you?’
‘I have told you that.’
‘We know from Brother Cuthbert that Evesham handed that ring over to Boniface Ippegrave. What happened to it then?’
‘Boniface must have kept it,’ Adelicia retorted. ‘My midnight visitor handed it back to me. Perhaps my brother is still alive.’
‘Mistress,’ Corbett stared sadly at her, ‘your midnight visitor was definitely not your brother. It would be cruel to hold out any hope that you will see him this side of heaven.’ He rose, came around the table and, crouching beside Adelicia, clasped her hand as he told her about his conclusions. How Boniface had been lured to this church, taken out in the dark and murdered. Once he’d finished, Adelicia sat, head bowed, quietly sobbing.
‘God save you, mistress,’ Corbett whispered, ‘but I can’t even tell you where he is buried.’
‘Then who?’ Adelicia lifted her tear-stained face. ‘Who approached me in the dead of night? How did he get that ring?’
‘I am sure your brother’s corpse was stripped of any possessions or valuables. Evesham and his assassins would have seen to that. No mark of recognition would be found. One of them must have taken it, but who, or how your mysterious midnight visitor acquired it, I don’t know, not yet.’
‘Hell’s foul fiend!’ Brother Cuthbert grated. ‘Evesham was a midnight soul. Now that you have told us the truth, Sir Hugh, I can reveal a little more.’ He swallowed hard, one rheumatic hand going to his unshaven cheek. ‘Boniface truly believed the Mysterium was a chancery clerk, but he was not certain. At one time he even suspected Staunton,’ Cuthbert crossed himself. ‘What you say is correct, in parts. Boniface, however, found it difficult to accept that Evesham, who could be so very charming, was an assassin, a man who’d killed his wife and any rivals in the chancery.’
‘So?’
‘Engleat,’ whispered Cuthbert. ‘Boniface wondered if Engleat was the Mysterium.’
‘But what was the logic to that?’
‘Think, Sir Hugh. Engleat rose with Evesham. When Evesham fell, so did Engleat. Did he clear rivals out of Evesham’s path? So that where his master went he could follow? Reflect.’ Brother Cuthbert pointed at Ranulf. ‘Have you not made him? Does he not ride high in your retinue? Engleat was no different. Did he arrange the killing of Emma? Did he see her as a rival, an obstacle for his master? When Boniface was arrested in Southwark he whispered such suspicions to Evesham, who then allowed him to escape to safe sanctuary here.’
‘Of course.’ Corbett rose and stared down the church. ‘Of course that makes sense!’
‘What does?’ Sandewic barked. ‘Sir Hugh, I cannot hear such whisperings.’
‘My apologies.’ Corbett went and sat down behind the table. ‘Imagine Evesham taking Ippegrave into the city. Ippegrave hotly but quietly hisses his own suspicions. Evesham appears to cooperate, but already a plan is forming. Boniface Ippegrave must be depicted as the Mysterium and killed, either fleeing the law or by accident. What he certainly does not want is Ippegrave appearing before King’s Bench to voice his allegations.’ Corbett spread his hands. ‘We’ll never know what plots curled and weaved in Evesham’s brain, busy as a box of worms, except for one decision. Boniface Ippegrave was marked down for sudden death. Evesham allowed him to escape from the comitatus to demonstrate his good will. Later he entered the sanctuary of St Botulph’s, a demon disguised as an angel of light, and lured Boniface out into the dark where the assassins clustered. Yes,’ Corbett tapped the table, ‘I can imagine him accepting Boniface’s allegations, whispering how he must escape until the matter was investigated. He may even have suspected you were hearing Boniface’s confession, but why should he care? You could not reveal what was said under the seal of confession, which in fact would only assist Evesham in persuading Boniface to escape from St Botulph’s and the supposedly malign influence of Longleat. An escape that would play directly into Evesham’s hands. Boniface would be publicly depicted as a guilty fugitive, but in truth he was taken out for summary execution and silenced for ever.’
Corbett stared down the nave. Cuthbert’s allegations made sense. Evesham’s actions possessed their own deadly logic. Engleat could easily be depicted as the wicked servant with a will of his own. He glanced quickly at Ranulf. Did the clerk nurse his own secret ambitions? Would his friendship for Corbett withstand the allure of power? Would all the years of comradeship be one day weighed in the balance and found wanting? Boniface had pursued his quarry but then made a fatal mistake: unable to accept Evesham’s true wickedness, he’d turned on Engleat.
‘But that square of letters?’ Ranulf insisted.
‘We thought of that.’ Brother Cuthbert gathered the knotted cord around his waist. ‘Adelicia and I have discussed it many a time. We could see how Boniface reached his conclusion. Engleat was the child of a Gascon squire and a Spanish woman who came to England in the retinue of Eleanor of Castile. The corners of the square hold the letters A,C,G and I. They are contained in the title of Evesham’s manor, but they are also part of Engleat’s first name, Ignacio.’
‘Whilst the E,’ Ranulf murmured, ‘could stand for Engleat as well as Evesham.’
‘But, in the end,’ declared Corbett, ‘it was all a lie.’
‘Yes,’ Brother Cuthbert conceded mournfully. ‘Evesham was the root and the cause of all this evil. He let Engleat take the blame to achieve what he wanted, Boniface’s death.’
Cuthbert grasped Adelicia’s hand. ‘We have discussed this over the years. After Evesham came to Syon, whenever I could I fled from St Lazarus’ Chapel. I wanted to be nowhere near him. I was not interested in talking to such a malevolent man.’
‘And the killer must have known this,’ Ranulf remarked.
‘Yes.’
‘What,’ Corbett asked, ‘did Evesham intend by taking refuge there?’
‘Certainly not repentance or absolution!’ Adelicia snapped.
‘I think he was waiting,’ Brother Cuthbert murmured.
‘For what?’
‘I don’t know. The King, perhaps, to change, to relent, I cannot say. I had so little to do with him.’
‘Brother Cuthbert, you heard Boniface’s confession. Did he ever mention a woman called Beatrice?’
The lay brother became agitated. ‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh,’ he pleaded. ‘You keep pressing me. You know canon law: to break the seal of confession warrants instant excommunication. The same penalty is levelled
against those who persuade a priest to break it.’
‘But you have discussed the same with Adelicia?’
‘Only when she asks questions that reveal that she knew the truth.’
‘Which is?’ Ranulf asked harshly.
‘I cannot, I will not break the seal of confession,’ Brother Cuthbert murmured. ‘But yes, I will tell you for other reasons. There was a woman, Beatrice, in Boniface’s life but I don’t know who she was. He confessed his sins; on one occasion I think he was going to ask me to take a message to her, but then,’ he shook his head and turned away, ‘he made no further mention of it.’
‘And the reason you are telling us this now?’ Ranulf demanded.
‘Some time later, just before I left for Syon, I was here in this church, listening to confessions, giving absolution. You know how it is. I sit with my back to the prie-dieu where those who want the sacrament kneel and whisper their sins. A woman came but she did not ask for confession; instead she demanded what I knew about Boniface Ippegrave. I was going to turn round, but she pleaded with me not to, pointing out that it would be to no avail, since she was cowled and visored. She said that all she wanted was the truth. What had happened to Boniface Ippegrave? She said her name was Beatrice. Hadn’t Boniface mentioned her to me? I think she told me that as reassurance, to convince me of her own good faith. She had a lovely voice. I smelled her fragrant perfume. I could not help her. I declared before God that Boniface Ippegrave had taken sanctuary here then disappeared. I dared not tell her my suspicions and so she left. Sir Hugh, I know what you are going to say. Why didn’t I tell you this before? Because it was all caught up in the sacrament of absolution, and in the end, what proof do I have that it is the truth? Not much. According to the law, Boniface Ippegrave was a felon who disappeared. How many lawyers in the King’s court would cry over him or plead for justice on his behalf?’
‘Tell me then,’ Corbett asked, ‘as a priest, a man who has the power to consecrate the bread and wine into Christ’s body and blood, have you, on solemn oath, ever discussed this with anyone apart from the Lady Adelicia?’
‘Never!’ Brother Cuthbert retorted. ‘Not even with my own confessor.’
‘Is there,’ Ranulf demanded, ‘anything else you know that could help us?’
‘Nothing. I don’t know how Evesham died. I don’t know why he came to Syon. All I can say, and not because Adelicia is his sister, is that I shall go to my grave claiming that Boniface Ippegrave was innocent.’ He leaned forward. ‘And you, Sir Hugh, have our most grateful thanks. If you can see this matter through . . .’
‘If I see this matter through,’ Corbett retorted, ‘I will ensure that a pardon is issued clearing Boniface Ippegrave of any crime, though God knows what good that will do in this vale of tears.’
‘It will help me, Sir Hugh,’ whispered Adelicia. ‘It will show me that God’s justice can be done, even if it is through a King’s clerk . . .’
Parson John came next. He sat composed on the stool fingering a small ring of Ave beads. Corbett asked what he knew about his father’s death. The priest held up a hand. ‘Sir Hugh, nothing, nothing, about his death or his crimes.’
‘Then listen.’ And in short, pithy sentences, Corbett described his conclusions. Parson John sat dull-eyed, mouth gaping. He did not exclaim or cry out, but rocked himself backwards and forwards, face in his hands.
‘Did you know any of this?’ Ranulf demanded.
Parson John took his hands away. ‘For the love of God,’ he wailed, ‘how could I? I was a mere child when my mother died, then I was sent away. Ippegrave, Waldene, Hubert the Monk, Engleat, who are these to me? Who’d come and tell me the truth, that my father, a leading justice in King’s Bench, was as foul a felon as any strangled at Smithfield, that he’d murdered rivals at Westminster as well as my beloved mother?’
‘You never suspected?’
‘In the name of all that’s holy, why should I suspect anything when the King himself did not know? My mother?’ Parson John fought back the tears. ‘I was told she had been killed in an attack by felons, wolfsheads.’
‘Was mention ever made of a woman named Beatrice, your mother’s maid?’
Parson John screwed up his eyes. ‘Yes, yes, but she disappeared at the time. People did not know what had happened to her. My father mentioned that she’d been abducted. Sir Hugh, my father was so busy about his many affairs that he’d very little time for me. I ask you again, how could I know all this? I knew nothing, I know nothing,’ he added flatly.
‘True, true,’ Corbett replied. ‘And these recent killings?’
Parson John touched the scar on his forehead. ‘Someone, Sir Hugh, who, rightly or wrongly, wages unholy war on my father and all his kin.’
‘Did Fleschner ever discuss your father?’
‘Fleschner was a good but very weak man. Like me he feared my father, but he hardly ever spoke of him.’
‘You know he was guilty of looking the other way regarding your mother’s death.’
‘Yes, so you told me, but that would be Fleschner’s way. He was hardly going to confess such a sin to me, was he?’
Corbett smiled in agreement.
‘I owe Fleschner my life,’ Parson John whispered. ‘He rescued me here in this hideous church.’ He began to mumble, and Corbett dismissed him, eager for Lapwing and his mother, Mistress Isabella, to take their seats. He gestured at this subtle clerk.
‘Master Lapwing, or Master Stephen Escolier, or whatever you like to call yourself, we do have questions about that riot in Newgate.’
‘Which are?’ The reply was impudent, delivered in an arrogant tone.
‘You went there,’ Corbett said, ‘you spread the rumours that one of the gang was to turn King’s Approver and accuse the other. A riot ensued.’ He leaned across the table. ‘No one here gives a fig about such wolfsheads, but they broke out and killed innocents, the King’s loyal, law-abiding subjects.’ He jabbed a finger. ‘You also spun the tale that St Botulph’s would be a secure refuge with a secret passageway to safety. In truth all you did was bring about the total destruction of those felons, as well as the savage murder of innocents, men hacked down, women raped and abused.’
‘If I did what you claim, sir, I was acting on the King’s orders. What these felons did, however, is a matter for their own consciences.’
‘Mistress Isabella,’ Corbett turned to the woman, ‘we were told you were sickly, yet you look comely and healthy enough.’
‘I was very ill with fever last Advent. Indeed, I feared death was so close I went to receive my Christmas shriving at St Paul’s, but yes, I am better, particularly now that my son has returned. Sir Hugh, he is a royal clerk, but what do I have to do with this business?’
‘Yes, yes.’ Corbett lowered his head to hide his excitement. He was sure, he was certain. ‘What do you, Mistress Beatrice, have to do with this business?’
‘Nothing!’ The woman’s hand flew to her lips. ‘I am sorry,’ she stammered, ‘you startled me.’
‘Of course I did,’ Corbett replied. ‘Let me see now. Isabella Escolier, so the son, so the mother. You were once called Mathilda? Yes? Or some other name beginning with M, but the one given you at the baptismal font was Beatrice. Twenty years ago you were maid to Emma Evesham, wife to Sir Walter, now deceased. You were with her when she was attacked in the streets. What happened to you afterwards, well, I don’t know the details, but one thing is certain. You became the leman, the mistress, perhaps even the wife of the chancery clerk Boniface Ippegrave, and this,’ Corbett pointed at Lapwing, ‘is your son, the child you had by Boniface.’ His raised voice alerted those clustered further down the nave. Parson John, Brother Cuthbert and Adelicia left their stools and were staring back up the church. Corbett waved at them to sit.
‘Oh yes,’ he insisted, ‘Beatrice who became Mathilda. Boniface was so in love with you, he scrawled the first letter of your new name against his, separated by a heart, the mark of lovers.’
‘I
don’t know what you are talking about,’ spluttered Lapwing, all the arrogant certainty drained from his face. ‘Sir Hugh, how can you say that about my mother?’
‘Very easily,’ Sandewic snarled. ‘You and your mother are on solemn pledge before the King’s commissioners. Lying on oath is perjury, and she can hang for that, as can you, sir.’
‘I’m a clerk.’
‘You’re still a liar,’ taunted Ranulf, hiding his own surprise. Sir Hugh had kept all this well hidden.
‘You’re wondering how I know?’ Corbett asked. ‘Stare around this church, Mistress Beatrice. Name me one person who knew exactly what happened twenty years ago, and I mean exactly. Staunton or Blandeford? They were only spectators. Parson John? A mere child. Brother Cuthbert and Adelicia? Broken by a man you hated deeply.’ Corbett pointed at her. ‘I believe only you know the truth, mistress. Now this is what will happen if you continue to lie. You will be confined to Newgate, and your son will tell you what a foul pit that is. It has a great cobbled yard, the stones of which are particularly sharp and pointed. You will be stretched out on your back and a door will be placed over you, then weights, increasingly heavy, will be loaded on to that. You’ll be pressed until you confess the truth.’
‘I am innocent.’
‘You are not innocent,’ Corbett countered. ‘You know the secrets behind all the murderous frenzy that plagues this church.’
‘I do not.’
‘Or at least some of those secrets,’ Corbett continued remorselessly. ‘One thing is certain, mistress, you are not going to leave this church wiping your mouth on the back of your hand and claiming you know nothing when indeed you do. Moreover, I’ll make careful investigation. Oh, it may take a week, two weeks, a month perhaps, but eventually,’ his voice rose, ‘you will be depicted as the liar you truly are and your son as the killer he is.’
‘That’s not true!’ Lapwing protested
‘It is, according to the evidence,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Someone in this church knew what happened twenty years ago. Your mother did and she passed that information to you. Take a mirror, Master Lapwing, look into it. I knew your father vaguely. I remember the colour of his hair. You have the same; that’s what made me wonder about young Lapwing flapping like a busy bird around all this. Sir Ralph, call your guards and have Mistress Beatrice taken into custody. She’ll spend the rest of the day in Newgate and be pressed tomorrow morning.’
