Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Of course,’ Ranulf joked, ‘the abbot immediately disciplined the guest master for wasting his resources. And then there’s the other story,’ he continued, ‘about a priest who’d been visiting his mistress. He arrived home late at night. Beside his church stood a haunted house, and as the priest passed, he heard a voice shout: “Who are you?” The priest went over. “I’m the parson of this church,” he declared, “and who are you?” “I speak from hell,” the voice replied. “Are you sure you are a priest?” “Why?” the parson replied. “Well,” the voice declared, “so many priests are in hell, I didn’t think there were any more left on earth . . .”’

  Ranulf stopped as the guest master bustled in to inform Corbett that Les Hommes Joyeuses would like to see him the next morning to thank him for his kindness towards them. Corbett agreed, then decided to join the good brothers in the choir to sing Vespers. Ranulf claimed he was tired and said he’d make his own oraisons.

  Corbett went over to the darkening church. For a while he squatted at the foot of a pillar watching the monks file in as the bells marked the hour. He then respectfully approached the abbot, who indicated the stall next to him and gestured for a lay brother to bring a psalter. Corbett revelled in the atmosphere. For a while he could lose himself in this beautiful church with its curving arches and ornate pillars, the high altar bathed in light, the lamps and lanterns glowing and the massed voices of the brothers as they chanted the evening prayer. He glanced round. It was also a ghostly place. Shadows shifted amongst the monks, their faces half hidden in the light, tonsured heads lowered, yet all was redeemed by that melodious chant echoing through the church, reaching every darkening corner.

  Corbett sang lustily with the rest, and later, as he sat listening to the lector, he thought of Griskin. The reader had chosen a text from the Second Book of Samuel, declaring in a clear, carrying voice David’s lament over Saul and Jonathan: ‘Alas, the glory of Israel has been slain on the heights! How did the heroes fall and the battle armour fail!’ Corbett wondered how Griskin had been trapped, but put such thoughts away as they rose to sing the psalm: ‘Lord of hosts, how long will you ignore your people’s plea . . .’

  Once Vespers was over, Corbett remained in his stall. He politely refused the abbot’s invitation to join him in his parlour, smiling up as the other monks passed by, for he wanted to be alone. He turned in the stall and stared at the high altar. Its great candles still flamed vigorously. He looked down the church, where a night mist had curled in beneath the door, moving like a cloud up the nave. He glanced up at the top of the pillars; gargoyle faces smirked stonily back. The place was now empty. He suppressed a shiver, got up, genuflected towards the pyx cup hanging from its gold chain, and made his way out through the Galilee Porch.

  The night was freezing cold. Corbett walked along the path into the deserted cloisters. Lanterns hung between the pillars. At one point he stopped and glanced around. He felt uneasy. The cloister garth was hidden under a deep frost. In the centre a lonely rose bush extended its stark arms upwards as if seeking solace from the bitter cold. Shadows danced in the moving light of the lanterns. Somewhere a bell clanged. A voice echoed, then all fell silent. Corbett walked briskly on. Once again he paused and turned round. He felt he was being watched, yet nothing but a deathly silence permeated these holy precincts.

  He was halfway down one side of the cloisters when the crossbow bolt zipped through the air and smacked into the grey ragstone wall behind him. He immediately crouched down, protected by a rounded pillar, and glanced across the cloister garth. The other side was hidden by the dark; an army could lurk there and he would never see it. ‘Pax et bonum,’ he shouted, hoping more to attract attention than discover who his assailant was. A voice echoed chillingly back.

  ‘Pax et bonum, king’s man, royal emissary.’ Another crossbow bolt sliced through the air.

  Corbett realised that the archer, whoever he was, did not intend to kill but to frighten. There was no attempt to take aim, to mark his quarry. He half rose and glanced around the pillar. He could detect nothing. He stared up at the carving grinning back at him, a monkey’s face shrouded in a cowl with glaring protuberant eyes, tongue sticking out between thick lips, a wicked grimace on an evil face. He edged his knife out of its scabbard. He was safe as long as he didn’t move. He heard a movement on the far side of the cloister and quickly shifted into the shadows so as to confuse his attacker. Abruptly a door at the far end of his side of the cloister opened, and a voice shouted.

  ‘Who’s there? Is everything all right?’

  ‘God save you, Brother,’ Corbett called out. ‘I’m Sir Hugh Corbett, king’s emissary. I’m a little lost.’ He heard a sound from across the garth and realised his assailant was slipping away. The lay brother came lumbering forward. Corbett waited until he was almost upon him before he moved. ‘Thank you, Brother.’ He grasped the lay brother’s hand and stared into his face. ‘I was a little bit overcome and confused. Which way is it to the guesthouse?’

  The lay brother was full of questions, but Corbett walked as fast as he could towards the door and the pool of light shed by the lantern hanging from its hook. Once inside, he relaxed, his body sweat-drenched, his heart thudding. The lay brother stared at him curiously.

  ‘Sir Hugh, is all well?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Corbett gasped. ‘Just a phantom of the night, nothing much. I’d be grateful, Brother, if you would escort me to my companions.’

  Back at the guesthouse, Corbett found Desroches sitting at a table with Ranulf and Chanson, sharing a cup of wine. The physician rose as he entered.

  ‘Sir Hugh, I have been waiting some time. I thought Vespers was long over?’

  ‘It is,’ Corbett declared, sitting down and willing himself to relax. ‘But Master Desroches, why have you come at such a late hour in such inclement weather?’

  ‘Parson Warfeld is also here. He has gone to see the prior on some business, but—’

  ‘I asked what you wanted,’ Corbett insisted. He felt tired and exasperated. He wished to retire and compose his thoughts. He wanted to write to Maeve, meditate, allow his mind to float.

  ‘Lady Adelicia,’ Desroches declared. ‘She is pregnant.’

  ‘What?’ Corbett exclaimed.

  ‘You know what that means,’ Desroches continued evenly. ‘She cannot face execution now. Once we had left the Guildhall chamber, she demanded to see me. She claims that her courses have stopped for the last two months. I believe, Sir Hugh, after a superficial examination, that she is indeed pregnant. I have consulted with Parson Warfeld.’ He paused as the priest bustled through the door, shaking the water from his robe.

  ‘Sir Hugh,’ Warfeld declared. ‘Has Master Desroches told you the news?’ The parson eased himself over the bench and sat down. Grasping the wine jug, he poured himself a generous goblet and slurped noisily from it. ‘Our good physician told me the news and thought you should know – whilst I had business with the prior over the supply of communion breads so I came with him. It’s impossible!’ he gasped.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Well,’ Desroches sighed, ‘one important fact: Rauf Decontet may have married Lady Adelicia, but outside the seal of confession, Parson Warfeld and I can assure you, Sir Hugh, that he could no more have begotten a child than a eunuch in the seraglio of the great Cham of Tartary.’

  ‘Parson Warfeld?’

  ‘Sir Rauf often talked about it,’ the priest replied. ‘How he would love to have a son. Sir Hugh, in a word what Master Desroches and I are saying is that Sir Rauf Decontet was impotent, incapable of begetting a son. Therefore, the Lady Adelicia must have had a lover. I suspect you know who—’

  ‘Wendover!’ Ranulf intervened. ‘It’s Master Wendover, captain of the city guard.’

  ‘True, true,’ Desroches murmured.

  ‘Who is Wendover?’ Corbett asked. ‘What is his background?’

  ‘He is Sir Walter Castledene’s man, body and soul,’ Warfeld replied. ‘He
served in his personal retinue, and when Sir Walter was elected mayor, Wendover was appointed captain of the city guard. He is a Canterbury man, a former soldier; he has seen service here and there. A blustery man but of good heart, with an eye for the ladies! More importantly, Sir Hugh, he was present when Adam Blackstock and The Waxman were brought to judgement. He witnessed the hanging.’

  ‘And he was also on guard at Maubisson,’ Corbett declared, ‘when Paulents and the others were killed.’ He filled his wine cup and sipped it gently. He was beginning to feel sleepy. He needed to withdraw, reflect and collect his thoughts. He recalled the lament of David over Jonathan and thought of poor Griskin, as well as something Les Hommes Joyeuses had said to him. ‘Is there anything else?’ he asked.

  Desroches got to his feet; Parson Warfeld also.

  ‘We thought it only proper to tell you now,’ the physician explained. ‘I mean, before we met tomorrow morning.’

  ‘And Decontet’s house is still under guard?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Parson Warfeld replied. ‘I pass it many a time. It is securely guarded at every entrance. Sir Walter Castledene has insisted on that.’

  ‘And Maubisson?’ Corbett asked.

  Desroches shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Sir Hugh. Perhaps you had best ask Sir Walter yourself.’

  When the two men had left, Corbett finished his wine whilst his comrades chattered amongst themselves. ‘I was attacked!’ he intervened brusquely, immediately the conversation died. ‘On leaving Vespers,’ he continued. ‘An assassin, a bowman as in the forest. Two crossbow bolts were loosed. I do not think he intended to kill but to warn me.’ He smiled thinly and was about to get up when Ranulf put a hand over his.

  ‘Sir Hugh, you should go nowhere by yourself. Next time I will be with you. Lady Maeve insists on that.’

  ‘And me,’ Chanson declared hotly. ‘My leg is well, the ulcer is healing.’

  ‘Who could it be?’ Ranulf mused. ‘Desroches was with us before Vespers ended and never left.’

  ‘And Parson Warfeld?’

  ‘He came but then went to see the prior; a lay brother took him there.’

  Corbett rose to his feet. ‘I shall retire to my chamber. I will close the shutters over my window, lock and bolt my door, then I shall think. Gentlemen, good night . . .’

  Corbett flung down the quill in desperation and glared at the triptych on the wall celebrating the arrival of St Augustine in Kent and his meeting with the Saxon king. He noticed with amusement how the artist had depicted Augustine in all three panels as if suffused by a golden glow, whilst his adversaries, the Saxon king and his entourage, were hidden in a cloud of shadows. He rose and stretched, easing the soreness in his legs and arms. He ignored the goblet of mulled wine standing on the table and stared down at the document taken from Paulents’ casket. In truth, he was unable to break the cipher. At first he had thought it would be easy. Now a faint suspicion pricked his mind: was it all a farrago of nonsense? But in that case why was Paulents carrying it? As far as he could see, the so-called Cloister Map made no more sense than the jabbering of an idiot. Or was it just that he was frustrated? He had used his own cipher book, moving the letters scrawled on that piece of vellum, but all to no avail. Only the occasional word made sense.

  Eventually Corbett had diverted himself by writing to Maeve, sending love and affection to her and the children, and concentrating on the petty aspects of their life such as the use of the long meadow at Leighton, the manor’s claims to the advowson of the local church, as well as his rights as manor lord over assart and purpresture. He left most of these things to Maeve, who loved the complex legal claims underpinning tenure. She thoroughly enjoyed arguing with her attorney, Master Osbert, their audacious serjeant at law, about payment in fee or the true meaning of assart. Once he’d sealed his missive to her, Corbett turned to the letters he’d received from Westminster. The first had been dispatched under the Secret Seal. The second was from the prior of the abbey there, William de Huntingdon. The King’s missive, written hastily, probably by Edward himself, gave details about the Lady Adelicia’s wardship. How it had been granted to Sir Rauf Decontet at the behest of Walter Castledene. How both men had been colleagues and comrades in the past and proved themselves to be loyal servants of the Crown. In other words, Corbett reflected cynically, they had loaned the Exchequer considerable amounts of money. Corbett had asked for such information before he left Westminster. He was surprised Sir Walter hadn’t described his relationship with Decontet more accurately, and wondered whether Castledene should be the right man to sit as judge of oyer and terminer in the case. The King had had no difficulty in sharing such information. Corbett could imagine Edward, iron-grey hair framing that falcon face, his right eye drooping, lips puckered, as he stood in some chancery chamber, kicking at the rushes and dictating the letter. Afterwards, pushing the poor scribe aside, he’d added a sentence in his own hand, a postscript about his precious snow-white hawk, now ill at the royal mews, reminding Corbett to pray at Becket’s tomb that the bird should recover.

  ‘I wish to God you’d given me more information about Castledene and Decontet,’ Corbett murmured. He tapped the letter against the table. That was another question he hoped to ask Sir Walter when they met tomorrow morning. In fact, although Corbett had made no progress with the cipher, he had decided how he would manage these affairs. So far he’d simply blundered around, acting on what others said or what he observed: that must end. He unrolled the King’s letter again and studied its hasty last line: ‘Dieu vous benoit, par la main du Roi.’ The Norman French letters were ill-formed, but the King wished Corbett well and assured his principal clerk that he still enjoyed his royal master’s favour and love.

  The second letter, from the Prior of Westminster, was brief and succinct. Brother Hubert of Canterbury had left their community early in the summer of 1293. Before his swift departure he had destroyed all records of himself and disappeared from view. He had never returned. Hubert’s departure, the prior confided, was as abrupt and sudden as a summer storm. Until then he had been a veritable beacon of light: a great scholar with a flair for study, well liked by his brethren, an obedient monk who strictly observed the rule of St Benedict in every way. As to his description, he was slim, of medium height, with comely face and pleasant manner. The only thing the prior had discovered was that Brother Hubert had received a mysterious visitor around the time of Pentecost. Once he had left, Brother Hubert had retreated to his private cell claiming sickness; three days later he was gone. Rumours had seeped back that Hubert had forsaken not only his vows, but any love of God, becoming a venator hominum – a hunter of men – but the prior could not comment on this.

  Corbett put both letters down as he heard a knock on the door and Ranulf calling his name. He unlocked and unbarred the door, and Ranulf came in bearing a fresh goblet of posset wrapped in a napkin. Uninvited, he sat down on a stool.

  ‘Chanson is sleeping, master, and so you should be.’

  Corbett took the goblet, sat on the edge of his bed and sipped carefully. He was determined on a soul-fast sleep, no heart-shaking dreams, phantasms or nightmares fed by too much wine. He stared down at the cold grey stone floor and shivered at a nasty draught which seeped like a fiend beneath the door to prickle the skin.

  ‘Master?’

  Corbett glanced up.

  ‘What sense do you make of this?’

  ‘What sense?’ Corbett laughed. ‘Why, Ranulf, none at all.’ He sipped once more from the wine, put the cup down between his buskined feet and leaned forward, hands together. ‘Ranulf, have you heard from Lady Constance?’

  Ranulf blushed at the mention of the daughter of the Constable of Corfe Castle. He’d met her only a few weeks before when he and Corbett were on royal business in the West Country.

  ‘Oh, not yet, Master, but this present business?’

  ‘I mention this present business because you are determined on advancement in the royal service or, if you decide so, to enter
the church as a priest, though one spurred by great ambition. Is that not true, Ranulf?’

  His manservant shuffled his feet, wiping the palms of his hands on his hose, but he held Corbett’s gaze. This was a matter he had often discussed with Master Long-Face. Ranulf was determined on his own advancement. He had studied every book Corbett had loaned him, and scrutinised his master’s methods as carefully and avidly as any hungry cat would a mousehole.

  ‘One thing I have taught you,’ Corbett held his hands up as if in prayer, ‘is never to make a judgement until you’ve collected all the facts, everything you can. What we are dealing with here, Ranulf, is murder, the killing of another human being by another, an unlawful slaying. Rest assured of this: murder is the fruit of a poisonous, hateful plant. Remember, however, it’s always the fruit, the rotten blossom, not the root. Think of a bush thrusting up on the edge of black, weed-filled water full of rotting cones and dead leaves. On that bush is a ripening fungus, full and plump as a cushion. You don’t like the countryside, Ranulf, yet you must have passed such scenes: that’s what murder is like, some rotten bush fed by hate, anger and resentment. It’s what we have here. On the one hand there’s that poor family massacred at Maubisson. Why? How? We also have Decontet, his skull shattered like a wine jug. We have seen some of murder’s fruit: the corpses, the hatred, the division. But in this case the roots go much deeper: Blackstock the pirate waging war at sea, dying a violent death; his half-brother Hubert fleeing from his monastery to become a hunter of men . . . and still we haven’t reached the roots. Why did Blackstock turn to piracy? What caused Hubert, a good monk, a follower of St Benedict, to renounce his vows and acquire a reputation as someone who feared neither God nor man? It’s only when we dig deep that we find the source, and possibly the cure, of all this rottenness. Many questions have to be asked and their answers closely analysed. If God gives me life and health, that is what I shall begin to do tomorrow.’ He rose to his feet and stretched out his hand for Ranulf to clasp. ‘Say your prayers,’ he murmured. ‘And if the spirit takes you, join me in the stalls for the Lauds Mass. Let’s sing, praise God and ask for his guidance . . .’