Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Did he keep monies in the house?’

  ‘Very little, Sir Hugh. Most of it went to the goldsmiths, both here and in London.’

  ‘And that particular afternoon?’

  ‘As I’ve said, I bought a jug of ale, went up to my garret, drank and slept. I only knew something was wrong when I heard that pounding on the door and Desroches shouting!’

  ‘What do you think of Desroches?’

  ‘Well, he’s been in Canterbury for over three years, I believe, and, like all physicians, loves gold and silver. He is skilled enough. He brought himself to the attention of the council, and purchased a house in Ottemele Lane. It’s no great mansion house but he lives within his means. Sir Rauf tolerated him.’

  ‘Did he treat Sir Rauf?’

  ‘For a number of minor ailments. Sir Rauf was as strong as an ox. Anyway, on that day I went down and opened the door for Desroches, and the rest you know.’

  ‘Did you ever discover,’ Corbett asked, ‘that Berengaria sometimes returned to be closeted with Sir Rauf?’

  Surprise flared in Lechlade’s eyes.

  ‘Impossible!’ he slurred.

  ‘No, it’s true.’

  Lechlade wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and suppressed a belch. ‘Before Sir Rauf married he would sometimes go out at night. He visited the mopsies and the doxies of the city, or so I suspect. Berengaria has a pert eye. She is the sort of girl who would catch Sir Rauf’s attention. If there was no bed-twisting with Lady Adelicia, Berengaria, I suppose, in return for money and favour, might be more obliging.’ Lechlade was now mumbling his words, eyes drooping in sleepiness.

  ‘You’re mawmsy,’ Ranulf barked. ‘For the love of God sleep, clear your wits, empty your head of ale fumes.’

  Lechlade shuffled to his feet. He gestured at Ranulf, bowed mockingly at Corbett and slouched towards the door.

  Desroches came as a welcome relief, clear and precise, gaze moving from Ranulf back to Corbett. He answered the clerk’s questions bluntly, declaring that he’d been a physician in Canterbury for over three years. He’d been brought to the attention of Sir Walter Castledene and Sir Rauf and openly admitted that the prospect of profit was one of the attractions of being in Sir Rauf’s service. He also confirmed that the dead miser had had an iron-hard constitution and suffered very few ailments. Desroches had certainly heard about The Waxman, Hubert Fitzurse and his half-brother Adam, but nothing tangible or significant. He freely admitted that Sir Rauf, on at least one occasion, had talked about his impotence with the Lady Adelicia, though he conceded that Sir Rauf was not a gelding.

  ‘You see, Sir Hugh, with such conditions it may not be the man’s fault.’

  ‘You mean the Lady Adelicia?’

  ‘In a word, yes, Sir Hugh. I believe Sir Rauf, despite the fact that he held the purse strings and held them very fast, was rather frightened of Lady Adelicia, her beauty, her comeliness. To other men this would be a spur, but to Decontet it was a rein. I suspect he found satisfaction elsewhere, but how and with whom,’ he shook his head, ‘I do not know. The Lady Adelicia acts very cold and distant. I’ll be blunt. I’d also heard the rumours about her. Canterbury may be a city, but it’s no different from a village: people watch, people listen; sooner or later Sir Rauf would have discovered the truth.’

  ‘And the afternoon he was murdered?’

  ‘Sir Rauf had asked me to visit him. He’d sent me a letter the previous Sunday. I had not replied. Anyway, on that particular day I walked over to his house about mid-afternoon. You already know the rest.’

  ‘Tell me again,’ Corbett asked.

  ‘I knocked and knocked. At last Lechlade came down. We then tried to rouse Sir Rauf, but there was no answer. You know,’ he waggled his shoulders, ‘I had an ominous feeling something was very wrong. I decided not to do anything, not with just Lechlade present. So, as I’ve said, I went out and found a farmer’s boy and sent a message asking Parson Warfeld to join us. We then broke the door down. Sir Rauf lay face down; the blood had gushed out of the back of his head. Apparently he’d been dead for some time. Parson Warfeld tended to him. I sent another messenger to Castledene and waited for him. Lady Adelicia returned; she was questioned, the blood was seen on her cloak and her room was searched.’

  ‘Do you think she killed her husband?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Desroches retorted.

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘She certainly hated Sir Rauf; that was well known. She had little to do with him, but,’ he spread his hands, ‘she is not the killing sort. She is too much a lady, too delicate, and of course there’s that great mystery: how could anyone get into that chamber, commit murder, then escape through a locked door?’

  ‘The windows?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘Impossible.’ Desroches moved in his chair. ‘You’ve seen them, Sir Hugh: too small. The casement door is narrow whilst the shutters were clasped and barred. Lechlade and Warfeld will tell you that.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s impossible,’ he repeated. ‘A true mystery.’

  ‘Very much like Maubisson,’ Corbett observed. ‘And what happened there?’

  ‘Sir Hugh, again from what I gather, Paulents landed at Dover, he and his family fell ill and sent a message to Castledene. Castledene met them at Maubisson on the Dover Road. He asked me to join him.’

  ‘Why?’ Corbett asked. ‘Why you?’

  ‘I’m indentured to the city council, Sir Hugh. Castledene was about to receive important visitors. I was part of his care for them.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps I’m a little more amenable than other physicians.’

  ‘And Castledene’s guests?’

  ‘I didn’t think they were suffering from any contagion; only from seasickness. They certainly felt better when I met them. I know little, Sir Hugh, about the secrets and mysteries which existed between Paulents and Castledene. What I do know is that the visitors were in good health. I also learnt that Sir Walter and his guest had been threatened, but little else. Paulents’ wife asked me to stay with them at Maubisson but I refused. I had to return to Canterbury.’

  ‘You gave them some physic?’

  ‘I mixed a little camomile in a jug of wine when we met.’ Desroches smiled. ‘Both Castledene and I drank cups from the same jug.’

  ‘And the bodyguard Servinus?’ Corbett continued.

  Desroches lifted his hands. ‘What can I tell you, Sir Hugh? He was dressed in black leather, slightly fastidious, a professional soldier, harsh-faced with a balding head. Very much like Wendover; a man who gloried in the camp and the clash of armour. Paulents’ wife seemed rather sweet on him. He certainly acted the part of the valorous warrior.’

  ‘So you think he was a fighter?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘He would certainly have given a good account of himself in any attack.’

  ‘Do you think he could be guilty of murder?’

  ‘Sir Hugh, I cannot answer that. I mean—’ Desroches was about to continue when suddenly a raucous shouting broke out. The door was flung open and Castledene burst into the chamber.

  ‘Sir Hugh, you must come! A man has been killed!’

  Chapter 10

  Inferno tristi tibi quis fatetur.

  Sad in your hell, who will confess to you?

  Sedulius Scottus

  Corbett ordered Ranulf to stay while he and Chanson, followed by Desroches, went out into the icy passageway. Castledene led them through the back of the house and outside. It was bitingly cold and a ring of torches glowed at the far end of the garden. Wendover came hurrying up.

  ‘Sir Hugh, one of our city guards has been killed.’

  Desroches hastened ahead. Corbett followed and reached the group of men gathered round the corpse sprawled face down in the snow. Desroches glanced up, shaking his head.

  ‘Dead!’ He pointed to the heavy crossbow quarrel embedded deep between the man’s shoulder blades. ‘A fatal wound.’ He turned the corpse over.

  As Corbett stared down at the victim – a young
man, sandy-haired, his eyes staring unseeingly, his face slightly unshaven and pockmarked – he noticed something amiss: the guard wasn’t wearing the ordinary liveried cloak, but a light blue one usually worn by Wendover.

  ‘What happened?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Oseric, that’s his name.’ One of the men spoke up. ‘He’d been with us only a few months.’

  ‘What happened?’ Corbett insisted.

  ‘He went out to relieve himself,’ the man replied. ‘He was in a hurry so he took Wendover’s cloak. He was gone for some time. We were all in the buttery, drinking and chatting. I became concerned.’

  Corbett snapped his fingers, ordering the torch-bearers to move closer to the speaker. The man, small and squat, glared angrily at him.

  ‘Why should someone kill one of us?’ he asked.

  Corbett shook his head and stared round the snow-covered garden, the bushes and trees, the high curtain wall. Once again the Angel of Death had swept in, soft and silent, invisible yet menacing, like some formidable hawk floating over the fields of this world, keen to grasp a living soul in its greedy claws. But why now? How? Who had guided it in, selected its prey? He walked back towards the rear door and noticed the shuttered windows on either side; he tried both of these but they held fast.

  ‘Sir Hugh, what is happening here?’ Castledene came hurrying up.

  Corbett turned. ‘Sir Walter, I do not know. What I suspect is that the assassin thought he was killing Wendover; instead poor Oseric met his death, but how?’ He gestured at the back of the house. ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Is it true?’

  Corbett turned. Wendover stood dancing from foot to foot, his blue cloak now draped over one arm.

  ‘I am not sure,’ Corbett replied. ‘He was wearing your cloak and he was killed. You know as much as I do, Master Wendover.’ He took a step forward. ‘Or do you know something more?’

  Wendover, crestfallen, shook his head.

  ‘Then I suggest you and your companions look to Oseric’s corpse.’

  Wendover glared at Corbett, swung the torn cloak round his shoulders and stamped off.

  ‘Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Walter.’

  ‘The manuscript you took from Paulents’ coffer: have you broken the cipher?’

  Corbett walked over to him. ‘No, Sir Walter, I have not. Indeed, I deeply suspect it is a farrago of nonsense.’ He rubbed his arms, increasingly aware of how raw and biting the night had turned, then led Castledene back into the house and summoned Desroches to join them. Once inside the chancery chamber, Corbett warmed his hands in front of the fire.

  ‘I have questioned enough. We shall return to Maubisson. I know,’ he straightened up, ‘the hour is late, but you, Sir Walter, and you, Master Desroches, must accompany me. We’ll walk that manor house again. Wendover will accompany us. We’ll see if there is anything we have missed.’

  Corbett issued instructions for the city guard to be placed around Sweetmead. He informed Lady Adelicia, who received him icily, that she would not be returning to the Guildhall, but that she would remain under house arrest and not leave without his written permission. She agreed coolly. He also added that Berengaria and Lechlade could stay with her if they wished. He then thanked Parson Warfeld, and a short while later, hooded and cowled, cloaks wrapped firmly about them, they led their horses out of Sweetmead and took the road back into the city. It was bone-chillingly cold, black as a malkin. The bells of the city were calling for evening Vespers, booming like a death knell through the darkness.

  Once out of Sweetmead, Ranulf rode in front. Castledene urged his horse forward, its hooves slithering on the freezing ground, and tugged at Corbett’s cloak.

  ‘We’ll not go through the city,’ he advised, ‘but take the road to the postern gate and down Warslock Lane. It will be easier.’

  Corbett agreed. In the end it was a strange journey. The horses were nervous and slithered on the ice. A piercing breeze blew under a cloud-free sky. Dark shapes came and went: tinkers and chapmen, carters travelling back into the countryside. The occasional torch shuddered in the dark. Here and there a lantern glowed, casting its reflection on banks of snow or pools of frozen water. They had to pull aside to quieten their horses as a group of Crutched Friars, led by a crucifer, processed by with two biers on their shoulders carrying the corpses of beggars found frozen near Schepescotes mill. The air became strangely sweet with the fragrance of incense. The awesome words of the funeral dirge, ‘My soul is longing for the Lord, more than the watchman for daybreak’, rolled through the air like a sombre tambour beat and caught an echo in Corbett’s mind. He longed for daybreak; not just for a fresh new day, but for an end to this frozen darkness around him, the sense of menace and the spine-chilling dread and fear which cloaked the mysteries now gripping him fast in their vice-like grip. He wanted to be home, to be with Maeve. He took a deep breath and blinked his watering eyes.

  ‘Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,’ he muttered, and forced himself to hum the tune of a Goliard song, ‘Fas et nefas ambulant’. He waited until the funeral cortege had disappeared into the gloom, then, much to the surprise of his companions, burst into song. Ranulf decided to accompany him. The Latin words of the merry chant rang out like a challenge to the darkness about them. When they had finished, Corbett felt more settled and calm. They were now following a secure path, cleared by the constant traffic around the city walls. Castledene pointed out certain buildings: St Mary Northgate to their right, and in the far distance to their left, the dark mass of St Gregory’s priory.

  At last, after an hour’s ride, they reached Maubisson. Its gates, walls and grounds were still patrolled by the city guard. Doors and window shutters had been sealed with the insignia of the city. These were now broken and opened. Castledene ordered Wendover to go into the house to light torches, lamps and candles as well as rekindle fires in the hearth. Inside it was winter-cold and dank. Corbett walked into the ill-lit hall. He still found it a harrowing place. Even though the corpses had been removed to a nearby church, his eyes were drawn to those grim iron brackets fastened to the wall, those terrible branches which had sprouted such gruesome fruit. He shook himself from the hideous reverie and ordered his companions to search the manor. Accompanied by Chanson, he carried out his own search, whilst Ranulf followed the others, vigilant for anything untoward. They found nothing.

  Corbett was glad to leave, to be free of a place which seemed to reek of evil. He went down the steps, mounted his horse and, gathering his reins, stared down at Castledene and Desroches.

  ‘We have finished for the day,’ he declared. ‘I need to reflect.’

  ‘Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Yes, Master Desroches.’

  ‘May I accompany you?’

  ‘Why, Physician,’ Corbett joked, leaning forward and stroking his horse’s neck, ‘are you not tired of our company?’

  Desroches stepped closer, grasping the bridle of Corbett’s horse. He forced a smile, but then quickly winked as if communicating a secret.

  ‘I could do with some company.’ He let the bridle go and stepped back.

  Corbett shrugged. ‘We are returning to St Augustine’s Abbey; you can be our guest at supper.’

  Desroches agreed and clambered gingerly on to his own palfrey. Corbett could see he was a poor horseman. They said farewell to Castledene and the others and made their way out on to the main thoroughfare. Desroches pushed his horse alongside Corbett’s. ‘Sir Hugh, I am glad of the company. I must tell you two things. First, when poor Oseric was killed, Wendover was not in the buttery.’ He noticed Corbett’s surprise. ‘Lechlade told me that.’

  ‘And second?’

  ‘From the little I gather, Lady Adelicia knew more of her husband’s dealings than she pretends.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Sir Hugh, she saw her hated husband bury that corpse and did not use it against him.’

  ‘Master Physician,’ Corbett edged his horse closer, ‘you’ve earned your supper
.’

  Once back at the abbey, Corbett went to his own chamber, leaving Ranulf, Chanson and Desroches to wait in the refectory below for the guest master to serve some food. On the table outside his chamber a lay brother had left two jugs of wine, red and white, covered with a napkin. Corbett opened his door and went in. He took a tinder, lit the candle on its stand in the centre of the table and then the other capped candles. As he rekindled the brazier, warming his hands over it, he heard a soft footfall on the gallery outside and whirled around, hand going to his dagger. There was a knock on the half-opened door.

  ‘Come in!’ Corbett shouted.

  The guest master stepped in, his face all concerned.

  ‘Sir Hugh, I learnt you were back,’ he gabbled. ‘I came up to see if all was well. I mean, I told your companions—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘If some supper could be served we’d be grateful. Perhaps more braziers? The night is chillingly cold.’

  The guest master nodded. He was about to turn away when he paused, peering at the wine jugs Corbett had placed on the table beside the candle.

  ‘Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Yes, Brother?’

  ‘You brought your own jugs?’

  Corbett felt a tingle of fear curdle his stomach. ‘Brother, what are you talking about?’

  The guest master walked across and picked up the napkin. He held this up and peered at the stitching along its hem, then crouched down and moved the jugs.

  ‘I know every jug and cup in this guesthouse.’ He straightened up. ‘That napkin was not fashioned by us, whilst the jugs certainly do not come from our kitchen.’ He picked up one of the jugs and went to sip from it.

  ‘Don’t!’ Corbett urged. He walked across, took the jug from the surprised monk’s hand, sniffed and caught a rather faint bitter smell, as if some herb had been crushed and mingled with the red wine. He picked up the white and detected a similar odour.