Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders

by Paul Doherty

  ‘And?’ Lady Adelicia asked.

  ‘At this moment in time, the Pilgrim is taking sanctuary in St Michael’s church at Cornhill in London. He will speak only to me. I have sent Chanson and Ranulf along the icy roads to seize him and take him to the Tower or Newgate, or to bring him here. I suspect it will be the Tower. If the weather holds tomorrow, I shall certainly leave Canterbury. You see, the Pilgrim lived a chequered life. There are men and women who work for me. In a sense they are a secret society; I call them ‘the ordinaires’. They collect mere trifles, snippets of information, bits and pieces; the Pilgrim is one of these and he has earned his keep.’

  ‘Who do you think . . .’ Lechlade slurred from where he sat at the far end of the table. ‘Who do you think this Fitzurse is?’

  ‘What he claims to be, Master Lechlade: an assassin who lurks in the shadows.’

  ‘And those grisly murders,’ Desroches asked, ‘at Maubisson and elsewhere?’

  ‘I haven’t solved them yet,’ Corbett lied. ‘Nor why that poor city guard was killed at Sweetmead or how Sir Rauf and Berengaria were murdered. Of course, you’ve heard the news about Wendover?’ They replied that they had. Corbett glanced sharply at Lady Adelicia, who simply put her head down and picked up her knife to play with a piece of meat on her dish; embarrassed, she coughed, lifting her goblet to conceal her own confusion.

  ‘When we seize Hubert,’ Corbett continued, ‘I am sure the King’s interrogators will secure the truth, but more importantly,’ he smiled, ‘I have found the Cloister Map!’ His words created immediate silence; even Lechlade glanced up sharply. ‘Ah yes,’ Corbett declared, ‘we know how Stonecrop, who betrayed Adam Blackstock, survived the sea battle off the Essex coast. He stole the map before The Waxman was taken. For a while he hid, then made his way inland. Stonecrop needed good silver to discover that treasure, so he approached Sir Rauf Decontet and brought him the map. Sir Rauf, however, murdered Stonecrop, stole the map, then hid it.’

  ‘Where?’ Lady Adelicia asked.

  Corbett sensed she was speaking for all, expressing their deep hunger for this marvellous ancient treasure. ‘Lady Adelicia,’ he asked, ‘where did your late husband spend most of his time?’

  ‘In his chancery chamber.’

  ‘And?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘He sat at his desk, but I—’

  ‘Oh, I am sure you looked for the map there,’ Corbett intervened. ‘But you were searching in the wrong place, Lady Adelicia, everybody was. You do remember me sitting in your late husband’s chair? I did so every time I used his chamber?’

  Lady Adelicia’s face crumpled in disappointment.

  ‘I found it,’ Corbett declared, ‘in a secret pocket of the seat beneath the quilted cushion. When you return home tonight, you’ll find the gap, the aperture from which I drew it.’

  ‘I know you searched his chamber . . .’ Adelicia mumbled distractedly, ‘and sat in Sir Ralph’s chair.’

  ‘Of course you did,’ Corbett agreed quickly. ‘At first I could not understand it, but the map is clear. I will be gone within the day. Soon it will be in the hands of the King’s ministers. When spring comes, the royal household will go hunting in the wilds of Suffolk. True,’ Corbett picked up his goblet, ‘the murders of Paulents and others, Wendover and Sir Rauf, cannot be explained, but in time, royal justice will have its way and the felon responsible will go to the scaffold. Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your cooperation. I toast you . . .’

  Corbett added that he would answer no further questions and deftly turned the conversation to other matters. Glancing around the table, he knew the effect he had created and pretended to celebrate by drinking copiously. The evening drew to an end. The guests made their hasty farewells and left. Castledene dallied for a while, but Sir Hugh refused to answer any of his questions or see him alone. Eventually the guesthouse and the stable yard outside fell silent, cloaked in darkness and, as Corbett had whispered to Ranulf just before he’d left, the dead gathered to witness God’s judgement carried out . . .

  Chapter 14

  Ferreae virgae, metuende iudex.

  Dreadful judge, your rod is of iron.

  Sedulius Scottus

  Shortly after midnight, the shadowy figure of the assassin slipped across the yard and in through the unlatched door of the guesthouse. Hooded and visored, knife in one hand, a small axe in the other, an arbalest handing from a hook on his war belt, he gazed quickly round. One night flame still beckoned like a beacon, but the fire in the refectory was banked, the braziers capped, the candles snuffed, the table still littered with bits and pieces from the feast. The man started at the squeak of a rat; a dark shape scurried across the floor. He took a deep breath and softly climbed the stairs, pausing at every creak and groan of the weathered wood. Yet the night remained silent. He reached the stairwell and peered along the narrow gallery. One door was closed, the other slightly opened. He edged his way along, gripping the knife and axe tighter; he tiptoed closer, pushed the door open and crouched down, edging into the room. The chamber was still lighted; a candelabra stood on a table. One of the candles had guttered out but the other two still flickered beneath their metal caps. He gazed at the bed and glimpsed the outline of the sleeping clerk, his woollen jerkin, boots and hose strewn on the floor. The assassin smiled to himself. Corbett had drunk so much he must have staggered upstairs and fallen asleep, confident and secure that his task had been finished. The assassin raced towards the bed, stretched over the body and drove the dagger deep into the sleeper’s chest. He heard a sound, whirled round and gazed in horror as Corbett walked from the shadows in the far corner, sword and dagger out.

  The assassin looked at the open door. He sprang to his feet, kicked a stool towards Corbett and raced across. He scrambled down the stairs, Corbett in pursuit. Another figure abruptly appeared in the doorway at the bottom, hood drawn back, a primed arbalest ready. The bolt was loosed and took the would-be assassin in the chest. He crumpled to his knees, then fell, crashing down the stairs.

  Corbett lowered his own sword and dagger and hurried down the stairs towards Physician Desroches, who was already lowering his crossbow. Corbett, gasping for breath, turned the corpse of the assassin over, pulling back the hood and mask to reveal Lechlade’s ugly unshaven face. The man was dying, eyelids fluttering, blood bubbling between his lips. Corbett let him fall back and kicked him further down the stairs so that he landed at Physician Desroches’ feet.

  ‘Master Physician.’ Corbett walked down the stairs, sheathing both his sword and his dagger. He stretched out his hand. ‘I thank you. I owe you my life. Come.’ He gripped Desroches’ hand, making it clear he would accept no refusal. ‘You must come up for some wine. Fortify yourself, explain what happened.’ He waved Desroches up into his own chamber. The physician immediately went across to the bed and pulled back the sheet from the corpse Corbett had secretly taken from the mortuary house. He stared down at the pallid, pinched face of the beggar framed by a greasy mat of hair.

  ‘You dressed him in your clothes?’ Desroches declared, not turning round.

  ‘Of course. I begged the guest master. I knew the death house had the corpse of a beggar found frozen to death in the abbey grounds. The rest is as you see. Lechlade thought I was asleep, drunk, wits fuddled by wine, so he struck. And what brought you here, Master Physician?’

  ‘I watched Lechlade at your supper. He acted the drunk yet I always had my suspicions.’ Desroches flinched as the point of Corbett’s sword pricked deep into the back of his neck.

  ‘Turn round, Master Desroches, or, to be more precise, Hubert Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze. Turn round!’ Corbett ordered.

  Desroches did so, his hand going towards the belt under his cloak.

  ‘Unbuckle it!’ Corbett stood back, sword still raised. ‘Let it fall to the ground and move over there.’

  Desroches did so, sitting down on a stool. Corbett pulled another one across and picked up the primed arbalest, aiming it straight at D
esroches’ chest.

  ‘Sir Hugh, you are making a mistake. I was watching Lechlade. I had had my suspicions for some time. I thought—’

  ‘No you didn’t,’ Corbett declared. ‘I too had my suspicions about Lechlade, but I also began to suspect that two killers were on the prowl, not one. Hubert Fitzurse, that is you, had an accomplice. What I believe, Master Hubert, is this. A gang of outlaws attacked your manor house many years ago and killed your parents. Decontet and Castledene were members of that coven. At Westminster you were visited by someone who told you that, a revelation which abruptly, very dramatically, changed your life. Your visitor was Lechlade. When I looked at the accounts for your parents’ manor, I came across a list of those old enough to pay tax: your father was one, your stepmother another; the rest were servants, except for one other individual, John Brocare. I believe Brocare and Lechlade are one and the same person. Somehow Brocare escaped, concealed himself and re-emerged as Lechlade. From what I understand, he was a relative of your father, perhaps a cousin? Anyway, he discovered what had actually happened that night and brought the news to you at Westminster. In a way it was like a messenger from God, wasn’t it? You learned that the very city which had helped you, men who were now its leading merchants and traders, had been involved in your parents’ death. You decided to forsake God, your king, your order and become a hunter of men. I would wager you hunted down surviving members of that murderous coven, and, apart from Castledene, they are now probably all dead. You also shared Lechlade’s startling revelation with your brother Adam, who, by then, had turned to a life of piracy. Little wonder that Adam Blackstock waged war on Castledene’s ships.

  ‘Then the Cloister Map emerged. Adam found it on one of Paulents’ ships. He seized that and sent a message to you. He had not only stolen the map; he may also have deciphered it correctly. You and he were to meet along the Orwell, near the ruined hermitage with its chapel dedicated to St Simon of the Rocks; that’s where you took your false name, isn’t it: Peter Desroches? Desroches is French for “of the rocks”, whilst you changed the name Simon to Peter, as happened in the Gospels, just in case anyone remarked on the coincidence that you bore the same name in French as the hermitage where Adam Blackstock used to meet Hubert the Monk. The rest of the story you know better than I do. Stonecrop betrayed your brother. The Waxman was intercepted, your brother killed and gibbeted. I can only imagine your rage, which cooled in to a deep desire for bloody revenge. You are a highly dangerous but very intelligent man, Master Hubert. It wouldn’t be hard for the likes of you, who has always hidden deep in the shadows, to change character, shape-shift as they say. You ceased being Hubert, the venator hominum, the former monk, and became Monsieur Peter Desroches of Gascony, who’d studied at this university and that. You had acquired enough wealth as Hubert to finance such a clever deception.’

  Corbett paused and studied his adversary staring so coldly back at him, not a flicker of emotion in those hard eyes, no shift or twitch to his body; he sat perfectly composed, hands on his knees, scrutinising Corbett, searching for any weakness, any gap he might exploit.

  ‘You are skilled enough to forge letters of accreditation, official seals, to be a physician from this school or a scholar of the other. You could study and absorb medical treatises; as a venator you’d also become skilled in the treatment of wounds and ailments. You’d soon learn the knowledge, customs and mannerisms of a physician, be it the treatment of Chanson’s ulcers or the use of rats to test tainted food and drink. I suspect you’re a finer physician than many a genuine one. After all, as a boy you’d displayed a talent to mimic, to imitate. Anyway, you pretended to be the wealthy physician who had studied abroad.’ Corbett paused. ‘When I talked to you and Lechlade, both of you mentioned how you had been a physician in Canterbury for over three years, some time before The Waxman was intercepted, but of course that is not strictly true, is it? It is just over three years ago that The Waxman was captured. Only after that did you arrive in Canterbury with your wealth, knowledge, expertise and pleasant diplomatic ways. Castledene accepted you, and so did others.’

  Corbett paused, shifting the arbalest for comfort’s sake.

  ‘Of course, you must ask why should they patronise you? Very easy.’ Corbett smiled. ‘Physicians are noted for their love of gold, their haughty ways, their insistence on protocol. You played your own lure like a hunter with his snare: the easy-going, charming, knowledgeable Desroches who, perhaps, charged less than the rest. Tactful, diplomatic, you wormed your way into people’s affections. You played the same affable physician for me, the man who didn’t like weapons, who found it difficult to mount a horse.’

  Desroches snorted with laughter and flailed a hand, but his eyes remained watchful.

  ‘You acted the physician very well, both for our good mayor and for Sir Rauf Decontet,’ Corbett continued. ‘You were in Canterbury for two purposes: first to wreak revenge, and second to discover the whereabouts of the true Cloister Map. You bided your time. When Castledene told you about Paulents coming to Canterbury, you laid your plans. Your confidant and accomplice Lechlade played his part. He too had assumed a new identity, a new guise. He was the lumbering, lurching, foul-mouthed, drunken sot whom Sir Rauf tolerated because it cost him next to nothing. In fact Lechlade was as sharp-witted as you, and equally bent on revenge.’ Corbett paused. ‘I reflected: in the past Lechlade may have been a toper, but revenge sobered him up. He would keep you informed of what was going on, be it Lady Adelicia playing the two-backed beast with Wendover and, above all, the whereabouts of that map. I realised two killers must be involved. When Paulents landed at Dover, he was given a warning; at the same time Castledene was threatened in Canterbury. It is possible for one man to travel from Dover to Canterbury, but I concluded it more likely that two people were involved: you in Canterbury, Lechlade in Dover. Your accomplice would find it easy to slip away: his master was murdered, Lady Adelicia held fast in prison and Berengaria safely lodged with Parson Warfeld, so who would be bothered about that drunken oaf? I also suspect Lechlade interfered with the food and drink served to Paulents and his family at the Dover tavern. Nothing serious, just enough to agitate the belly, to worsen the symptoms of a rough sea crossing. Paulents left for Canterbury. Lechlade also swiftly returned to the city before the snows set in.’

  ‘And what was the purpose of all this?’ The question was taunting, yet brisk.

  ‘Well, if Paulents and his family were unwell, naturally, as a city physician, you would meet them.’

  ‘Castledene could have hired someone else.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Corbett replied drily. ‘As I’ve said, you’d proved to be most accommodating. Moreover, and I’ve asked Castledene this,’ he bluffed, ‘when Paulents and his family arrived in Canterbury, you happened to be in the Guildhall or nearby. Yes?’ His adversary gazed stonily back. ‘You swiftly established a cordial relationship with Castledene’s guests, assuring them that all was well. Paulents’ wife was much taken with you and even asked you to stay at Maubisson. Of course, you refused; you had other plans. Now, Wendover was to guard Maubisson. However, our captain was deeply distracted, you knew that. He had been playing the fornicator, the adulterer with Lady Adelicia, who had now been arrested and lodged in the Guildhall dungeons for the murder of her husband. It would be easy for you, with your skill at disguise, to pretend to be a city guard dressed in his cloak, hood pulled up against the cold, and slip into Maubisson carrying this parcel or that.’

  ‘As easy as that, Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Very much so! Wendover was distracted. Guards milled about. Who would notice you? Who would really care? No one suspected an assassin had crept in carrying the means to inflict bloody mayhem.’

  ‘And?’ The self-proclaimed physician leaned forward. Corbett’s fingers curled round the catch of the arbalest.

  ‘A short while later Paulents and his family arrived. They locked themselves in. The guard was set, the fires lit, the food cooked, the wine served, and you emerged.�
��

  ‘Corbett, you are raving: too much time spent on idle speculation. How could I—’

  ‘Very easily, Master Hubert. You’d learnt the guards’ password; you pretended to leave. No one would give you a second glance either disguised as a guard or as the special friend of Castledene, the mayor of Canterbury. You made your farewells, went down the stairs, then slipped quickly into that cellar. Even if you’d been discovered, a remote possibility, you could have bluffed and lied your way out, but fortune favoured you. Paulents and his family wished to relax, Castledene to be gone, Wendover to reflect on his own troubles.’

  ‘If I emerged, as you put it, why wasn’t the alarm raised?’

  ‘Because Paulents would see you as a friend: the gentle physician who carried no weapons. You’d offer some pretence as to why you had been allowed to slip back into the manor. They must have thought Wendover had let you pass. You’d make up some story, how, perhaps, the mayor had given you a key to this postern door or that. You were the kindly physician, Castledene’s close colleague: why on earth should they suspect you? You had the night in front of you. You reassured them that all was well; they would relax as you secretly mixed a sleeping potion with their wine. While they drank, you took Servinus outside on some pretext or other. You’d already established, when talking to them earlier, how Servinus did not drink alcohol, so he was brutally dispatched with a swift crossbow bolt to the chest. You laid his body down, turning it over so no blood dripped on to the floor, staunching it with a rag. By the time you returned to the hall, Paulents and his family were sleeping. You had the rope; it was simply a matter of dragging your hapless victims across to those iron brackets, putting a noose around their necks and hoisting them up. You are a strong man, Hubert; they eventually all dangled like corpses on a gallows. They never regained consciousness, slipping from sleep into death,’ Corbett snapped his fingers, ‘like that! Servinus was a different matter. In all this you had to be careful of time passing. You knew I was coming to Canterbury. Castledene told you that. Your business had to be done quickly, then you and Lechlade were to be gone. You slit Servinus’ stomach so its foul vapours could escape and thus slowed the stench of putrefaction, staunching the wound with more cloths and napkins.’