by Paul Doherty
‘I know so much about physic, the bodily humours?’
‘Of course you do, Master Hurbert. You are highly intelligent and skilled. I wager you know as much about the art of healing as you do about killing! You’ve read books, the pharmacopoeia of the Ancients. You’re probably more erudite than many a physician; you proved that when you treated Chanson’s ulcer. After all, your expertise in physic as well as artful diplomacy had secured the patronage of Castledene and others.’
‘And what did I do with Servinus’ corpse?’
Corbett eased the arbalest back. Hubert was waiting for him to tire.
‘You dragged it down into the cellar, took the lid off that vat, having first run off some of the ale, lowered the corpse in and resealed the barrel. You carefully looked for any spilt blood. I can imagine you going along the floor with a candle, wiping away any stain of violence. You then returned to the hall. You took all the wine cups, emptied them, washed them and refilled them with fresh, untainted wine. Your task was completed. Servinus was dead and so was Paulents. Revenge had been carried out. You went to the merchant’s chamber, took out the fresh copy of the Cloister Map and replaced it with another piece of parchment which was really nothing more than a farrago of nonsense.’
‘And how did I escape?’ The prisoner on the stool moved his head to ease the tension at the back of his neck.
‘Oh, that was quite easy for you, Hubert: a hunter of men, a skilled assassin. You had your city guard cloak which you had filched from somewhere. Wendover burst into the house; people were scurrying hither and thither, shouting the pass-call; you were just another figure hurrying about. Nobody would think to stop a city guard during the immediate confusion. I did wonder, however, about Oseric killed out at Sweetmead Manor. Did he notice something untoward? Did you kill him, or did Lechlade on your order, because you wanted him dead, or was it just to create more terror? Whatever, Hubert, you slipped into that manor and hid yourself away. You were elated but you also had to be prudent: the King’s man was coming, so you sent me warnings.’
‘Why?’
Corbett moved the arbalest. Hubert was whiling away the time, waiting, searching for a weakness, a mistake; the clerk strained to listen for any sound, but the guesthouse lay wrapped in an ominous silence.
‘Because three people were involved in the death of your brother: Castledene, Paulents and His Grace the King. You already knew I was hunting you. You murdered poor Griskin, didn’t you?’ Corbett accused. ‘You discovered that he wasn’t really a leper but an emissary from the Royal Chancery seeking out information, making enquiries in that part of Suffolk where the ancient treasure was supposed to be buried, about who had been there, why and when. Griskin had learnt something but it became garbled. He talked about Simon of the Rocks, a play on the name of the physician from Canterbury who was making similar enquiries. Was that Griskin’s way of concealing your true name? Or was it something else? Another alias used by you when you travelled into Suffolk? Had Griskin glimpsed you in the ruins of that lonely hermitage?’ Corbett shook his head. ‘I cannot say.’
‘I never knew the time and place Griskin was supposed to meet you.’
‘Oh, Master Hubert.’ Corbett smiled at the consternation on his enemy’s face as he realised his mistake, ‘who said anything about the time and place of my meeting with Griskin? Did you find my letters giving such information, or did you torture him? We will never know. In the end you trapped him in some lonely alleyway or on some wind-blasted heath. You killed him, strung his corpse up on that gallows, cut off his hand, pickled it and sent it as a warning to me. You also took Griskin’s chain; he would never be separated from that. You left it here in the chantry chapel of St Lazarus, a clear warning of the danger you posed. In the end you learnt about Griskin as I did about Edmund Groscote, also known as the Pilgrim. Oh yes, I’ve met him. He is a member of Les Hommes Joyeuses. He confessed everything. What I said to you at supper about what he knew of you was a mere fabrication, yet you believed it; hence your appearance tonight.’
‘And I could leave Canterbury for Suffolk just like that?’ Hubert waved a hand, his voice betraying his growing desperation: ‘Go here, there?’
‘Of course you could, Master Hubert. You are a master of disguise, a man of wealth, of status. You have no family, no wife, no maids or servants. No one has a clear description of you. Master Lechlade was always there to protect your back. So yes, when you were not pretending to be a physician in Canterbury, you made the occasional journey into Suffolk, your heart set on finding that treasure. Griskin found that out; perhaps not the full truth, but certainly enough information to threaten you, so you killed him. You enjoy such games, don’t you? You like hunting men down. Griskin, me, Paulents and his family, we are just quarry in your eyes. You love giving yourself titles, sending out warnings; such power of life and death gladdens your heart!’
‘And Sir Rauf Decontet?’
‘Oh well, you had matters to settle with Sir Rauf, and what better time than when his wife was out playing the whore with Wendover. Again time was pressing. Paulents was coming to England, Decontet had that map. Lechlade undoubtedly found out about Stonecrop. He’d certainly have been aware of Lady Adelicia’s furtive searches for the Cloister Map. Sometime on Thursday, the Feast of St Ambrose, he informed you that Lady Adelicia was leaving for one of her trysts with Wendover. You decided to visit Sir Rauf. Lechlade joined you. You bustled into the chamber in your role as Decontet’s physician. Once inside, however, you locked the door and, assisted by Lechlade, tied Sir Rauf down in his chancery chair. I felt the marks of the rope on the wood beneath the quilted arm of that chair. You see,’ Corbett patted his own arm, ‘Sir Rauf was probably wearing a padded jerkin against the cold. The rope wouldn’t show on his wrists, you’d be careful about that, but it did on the wood of the arms of the chair as he strained against his bonds.
‘You questioned Decontet about what had happened to your brother. You taunted him. You demanded the Cloister Map, but of course that map no longer existed, did it? Sir Rauf, clever man, had memorised it carefully and burnt it. Oh yes, Master Hubert,’ Corbett smiled, ‘I never found any map. By now Lady Adelicia must have realised that. She’ll have rushed into her late husband’s chancery, only to discover no secret pocket in the quilted seat of that chair. Eventually you and Lechlade concluded that Decontet could not, or would not, tell you anything, so you killed him with a swift blow to the back of his head. You laid his corpse out, took his keys and locked the chancery chamber. Later on, after Parson Warfeld had arrived and the door had been forced, you secretly replaced the keyring. The good parson, distracted by Decontet’s death and the administration of the last rites, simply saw what you wanted him to witness. I suspect that you or Lechlade replicated that small ring of keys, placing a similar one on his belt while you held the true one. You used these to lock the chamber after you opened Adelicia’s, then, during the chaos that followed the forcing of Decontet’s chamber, secretly replaced them.
‘Once Decontet was dead, you left his chamber, but not before you had taken some napkins and stained them with his blood. Going up to Lady Adelicia’s chamber, you unlocked the door, placed one bloodied napkin on the floor and the rest behind the bolsters. Later on you’d incriminate Lady Adelicia further: she’d left her cloak in the chancery chamber, an easy target for Lechlade to smear with blood when everybody else was distracted. You also used what time you had to search that house thoroughly. Ranulf noticed how things had been moved, but to your anger and frustration, no Cloister Map was found.
‘The day was passing. The one person you and Lechlade had overlooked was Berengaria. Everybody makes mistakes, Hubert, even you with your far-seeing gaze. You must have been furious with Lechlade: he had not learnt of the maid’s secret trysts with her master; she and Decontet had been very careful. Anyway, Berengaria came tripping back and saw something untoward involving you. Perhaps she saw you actually in the house when you later pretended to be locked outside. She also de
ceived me. She never actually approached the manor; she saw what she did from a distance, then fled back to Canterbury. Later on she decided to use her knowledge to blackmail you, the wealthy physician. Of course, she didn’t perceive the full truth; just enough to upset your story. Nor did she want to explain to anyone else why she had returned home that Thursday afternoon. When we were all at Sweetmead, she probably hinted at blackmail. Of course, by then she had moved chambers from Decontet’s household to Parson Warfeld’s, where again, her skill in certain sexual matters advanced her cause. Naturally Parson Warfeld would ask for the proprieties to be observed so people wouldn’t hint or gossip about scandal. Accordingly Berengaria attended daily Mass. The parson would read the Gospel and, as is the custom, deliver a short homily on it. Now a few days ago, during the very time Berengaria was staying with Parson Warfeld, the Gospel passage was about Jesus’ return to his home town of Nazareth, Our Saviour expressed his astonishment at the lack of faith of his fellow citizens in an enigmatic remark. You must recall it?’
‘Physician, heal thyself.’
‘Precisely. Berengaria, no Scripture scholar, was quick-witted enough to realise how such a phrase could also be applied to you, Master Hubert, and what truly happened on that fateful afternoon. Is that what she whispered to you at Sweetmead? “Physician, heal thyself”? That is why she scrawled the word “Nazareth” on her chamber wall, as an aid, a prick to her memory.’
‘But I was with Parson Warfeld when she was killed.’
‘Oh yes.’ Corbett eased himself back. ‘Worried about the souls of your dead parents. Did you take the name of Desroches, not only because of its links with that lonely hermitage but also because there was no one of that family alive in Canterbury to contradict you?’
‘I was with Parson Warfeld!’
‘But Lechlade wasn’t. Most of the time he acted the drunken sot. However, when I questioned him at Sweetmead, my first suspicions were roused. Lechlade leaned across the table. On his breath I could smell the stew Ranulf had cooked, but no ale, yet he acted as if he was drenched in beer. On the morning Berengaria died, you distracted Parson Warfeld and took him away; Lechlade followed you. Lady Adelicia despised him. What would she care about his movements, slipping in and out of Sweetmead? The guards at the front of the manor were also there to watch the lady of the house, not her sottish servant. On that morning Lechlade furtively slipped into St Alphege’s and Berengaria was quickly garrotted, her mouth closed for ever.
‘Two killers must have been involved. You used that to protect yourself. When Berengaria was murdered, you were with Parson Warfeld. When Sir Rauf Decontet was found, you couldn’t get through locked doors because Lechlade was asleep. No one could suspect you, especially when you called for Parson Warfeld to act as your witness. The same is true of other attacks. When I was journeying back from Maubisson to St Augustine’s, a secret assassin loosed crossbow bolts at us from the trees. How could I suspect Physician Desroches? He was with me? It must be someone else. In truth it was Lechlade, who was also responsible for that warning bolt loosed at the shutters of my chamber as you were leaving the abbey. Strangely enough, by sheer coincidence, you were with Ranulf and Chanson in the refectory below when I came up to my chamber. If it hadn’t been for the good Lord and our guest master, I would have drunk the tainted wine Lechlade undoubtedly arranged to be left outside. You insisted on accompanying us from Sweetmead. Lechlade secretly went ahead to prepare the poisoned wine, but it was a hasty job. Unable to use jugs from the abbey kitchen, he supplied his own, and of course, our guest master knows exactly to the last porringer what items are his and what belongs elsewhere.’ Corbett paused. ‘The same happened when I was attacked in the cloisters. You and Parson Warfeld were visiting the abbey. Our good priest definitely had business here, and so had you: the news about Lady Adelicia being enceinte. You decided to exploit that. You stayed with Ranulf and Chanson, Parson Warfeld went about his business, so who was lurking in the cloisters waiting for me to leave the abbey church after Vespers?’ Corbett glared at this man who’d plotted so assiduously against him. ‘Why, Master Lechlade, your silent, stealthy accomplice.’
Corbett drew a deep breath. ‘In truth I recalled that whenever anything happened, you were the one person who could account for his movements, be it the attack in the woods, the bolt loosed at my shutter, the poisoned wine, the death of Decontet, the murder of Berengaria, or the death of that poor city guard.’ He paused. ‘Oseric was killed in the garden. You were being questioned by me. Lechlade perpetrated that murder, opening the shutters of one of the rear windows. Why was that innocent man killed?’ Corbett pulled a face. ‘To frighten Wendover, or just to establish your own alibi? You and Lechlade are killers to the bone. Who would suspect the drunken servant? In truth he was your murderous shadow, following you, ready to exploit any opportunity. On all these occasions Physician Desroches could have gone on oath that he could not possibly be involved. Such obvious innocence certainly made me suspicious. Moreover, you also had the means to travel to and from Suffolk. You were known to Paulents, his wife and his family. It’s like a game of logic, isn’t it, Master Hubert? What is common to all these events? Why, Physician Desroches!’
‘If I stole the Cloister Map,’ Desroches replied, ‘why didn’t I just escape?’
‘Ah,’ Corbett nodded, ‘I thought of that, but of course you couldn’t allow there to be two maps, could you? You had Paulents’ copy, which you would certainly decipher, but you suspected Decontet still had the original. Moreover, you had unfinished business with him and others, including me. You wanted to make sure there’d be no other map, no rival hunter for that gold and silver. You realised the hour candle was burning away. Sooner or later you might make a mistake; sooner or later you would have to move, but you had to be certain. If Sir Rauf and Lady Adelicia didn’t have the map, there was the possibility that Wendover, that blaggart, that roaring boy, had it in his possession, so you watched him. He tried to flee Canterbury but you trapped him. You questioned him but he knew nothing, so he died. You and Lechlade then conferred on what might happen next. You had pushed matters to their logical conclusion – enough was enough, time was passing, the candle of opportunity was about to gutter out. Physician Desroches must suddenly disappear, Lechlade with him, but then you were invited to my supper. I dropped hints about Groscote, the ordinaires – the secret spies of the Chancery – as well as the possibility that I had found Decontet’s map. You had to act. Ranulf and Chanson had left for London. You watched how much I drank. I was very careful; I also kept my cup covered: I didn’t want a powder mixed with my wine. I begged the guest master for that poor man’s corpse to do some good before it was interred in sacred ground. You sent Lechlade ahead whilst you guarded the door. He came in here, stabbed a body he thought was mine and fled. You are quick-witted, Desroches. Lechlade alive might incriminate you, so you killed him and pretended to be my noble rescuer.’
Corbett paused at the faint sound of horses in the yard below. Voices echoed. Ranulf and Chanson had returned!
‘Of course, my companions were never travelling to London.’ He moved the arbalest as Hubert leaned forward, but the man simply undid the clasp of his cloak and let it fall away.
‘You have no evidence,’ Hubert said, ‘not really.’ He stretched out his hands in mock innocence.
‘Oh, I think I have,’ Corbett retorted. ‘The logic of my argument; your presence here. Moreover, Master Hubert, Ranulf and Chanson merely journeyed to the other side of Canterbury and back. They carry royal warrants and have mustered the city watch. By now they have searched Lechlade’s chamber and your house. I am sure they will find evidence enough.’
Hubert Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze, slumped his shoulders, Corbett glimpsed the stricken look in his eye. ‘You never considered that, did you?’ Corbett asked. ‘They too went hunting, and Ranulf is a good lurcher.’ He paused at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. ‘I am sure he has brought enough evidence to hang you, Fitzur
se!’ Corbett stretched out a hand. ‘The Cloister Map?’
Fitzurse smiled thinly. ‘Like Decontet,’ he murmured, tapping the side of his head, ‘I’ve memorised it. If you want to know, then I’ll trade it for my life. I’ll give you the map, I’ll even accompany you there, but I’ll demand a royal pardon and enough money to go where I want.’
Corbett chewed the corner of his lip. He thought of Griskin dangling from the gallows, that hand of glory sent to him. Staring at the killer in front of him, he reflected on all the others who had died at Hubert’s hands, especially Paulents and his family, strung up like a line of dead crows from those grim iron brackets in that ghostly hall at Maubisson.
‘I don’t think so.’ Corbett shook his head and watched the smile fade from his opponent’s face.
‘Sir Hugh?’
‘In here, Ranulf,’ Corbett called.
Ranulf swaggered into the chamber, followed by Chanson. He threw a leather pannier at Corbett’s feet.
‘Enough?’ Corbett asked.
‘Yes, master, enough to hang him, but no Cloister Map. Documents, memoranda; the same at Lechlade’s. He wasn’t the toper he pretended to be.’
‘Very good.’ Corbett clicked his tongue, then gestured at Hubert. ‘Bind his hands, Ranulf. Chanson, you and I will go into Canterbury. I have a goldsmith to visit, whilst you rouse Sir Walter Castledene. Tell him that before the day is out, the King’s Justice of Oyer and Terminer, Sir Hugh Corbett of Leighton, will sit in judgement.’
Two days later, just before Christmas Eve, the execution party left Canterbury, making its way through the streets to the gallows erected outside the main entrance to Maubisson manor. The news of Hubert Fitzurse’s summary trial, conviction and sentence had swept the city. Crowds had gathered to see justice carried out. Corbett, Ranulf and Chanson on either side, sat on his horse, cloaked and hooded. He watched Fitzurse be shriven by a friar. The prisoner thrust the priest aside and clambered to his feet, face towards Corbett.
