by Paul Doherty
Maeve grasped him by the hand. ‘Then forget him like I have. Come and see your daughter.’
Corbett followed her and stared down at his baby daughter. At three months, Eleanor already looked like Maeve: beautiful soft skin, clear regular features. He touched one of her tiny fingers. ‘So small!’ he whispered. The baby’s hand felt warm, soft as a satin cushion. He squeezed gently and, under her small quilted blanket, Eleanor moved and smiled in her sleep.
‘She is well?’
‘Of course.’
Corbett placed his hand gently against the baby’s forehead and Maeve watched him guardedly. Her husband, usually so calm, even cold, harboured the most terrible fears of what might happen to the child. Maeve looked away. Much as she could try, her husband’s mind was still plagued by ghosts. The most frightening, surprisingly enough for a man so detached, was of losing those close to him, of being left alone. She seized him by the hand.
‘Let’s go,’ she whispered. ‘Our chamber is ready. There is wine, bread and fruit, next to the bed.’ Maeve grinned. ‘A bed covered in red silk,’ she whispered. ‘And in the centre, two embroidered turtle doves.’ Her face became serious. ‘You may want to rest? Drink something sweet? You must be tired after your long journey.’
Corbett grinned back. ‘Call Anna,’ he murmured, pulling Maeve close to him. ‘Let her sit with Eleanor and I shall show you, Madam, how tired I am!’
Chapter 3
The next morning Corbett rose early. He doused the light in its sconce holder and opened the small latticed window which looked out over the gardens and small orchard at the back of the house. The day was about to break, the sky already scored with gashes of bright light. He could hear the bells of St Lawrence Jewry clanging as dawn broke, the usual sign for the city gates to be opened and a fresh day’s business to begin. He returned to his bed and kissed his still sleeping wife on the side of her face then stood over Eleanor’s cradle for a while and watched his little daughter gaze solemnly back. Corbett was fascinated. The child was so placid, so even-tempered. Before he had risen he had heard her gurgling to herself, smacking her little lips and chatting to the wooden doll Maeve had placed on the small bolster beside her. Corbett reluctantly turned away and dressed hurriedly in the clothes Maeve had laid out over the chest the night before; leggings of dark blue, a soft white shirt, with a sleeveless cote-hardie with a cord to fasten round the waist. Corbett threw the latter aside. He knew the horrors which might confront him so he took his sword-belt off the peg on the wall and buckled it round his middle. He picked up his boots and cloak, tiptoeing gently out of the room just as Eleanor suddenly realised she was hungry and began to bellow as if she wanted to show her father some new aspect of her character.
‘Her mother’s daughter,’ Corbett whispered to himself as he crept up the stairs and pushed open the door to Ranulf’s chamber. As usual, the room looked as if a violent struggle had taken place. Corbett could only tell his servant was there by a series of loud snores. Corbett enjoyed shaking him awake, then went down to the buttery to wait. Scullions had not yet started the fire so he poured himself a jug of watered ale. Ranulf appeared, bleary-eyed and unshaven. Corbett let him quench his thirst before pushing the still half-sleeping manservant out of the house and across the street to the tavern. There was the usual commotion of mocking argument until a burly ostler brought out and saddled their horses. Ranulf splashed water over his face from the huge butt and gave the fellow the rough edge of his tongue, bluntly informing him that some people had to work and not just loll around in warm straw. This provoked a stream of abuse from the ostler which Ranulf thoroughly enjoyed. He was still throwing catcalls over his shoulder when they rode out into the Mercery and down towards the Guildhall.
The day would be a fine one and apprentices and traders were already pulling out their booths in front of the houses, fixing up poles, putting up the awnings and laying out their goods. The air was thick with the wood smoke of the artisans in their little huts behind Cheapside. Carts bringing their produce into the city crashed along the cobblestones, the drovers cracking the air with their whips and cursing their horses. Apprentices, wearing canvas and leather jerkins, kept a wary eye on the beggars moving about in the shadows between the houses. These were the upright men: not the real poor but the cranks and counterfeiters looking for easy pickings before the day’s business began. Four of the city watch marched by, leading a line of night-walkers, drunkards, thieves, blowsy whores and roaring boys, towards the great water tank, or Conduit, where most of them would stand in a cage all day to be abused by the good citizens whose sleep they had disturbed.
Corbett looked up as the bells in the steeple of St Mary Le Bow began to chime and he saw the great night-light, the beacon which guided Londoners during the hours of darkness, being doused. Now other bells began to toll, calling the faithful to early-morning mass. Ranulf stared round and drank in these sights, then, glowering at Corbett, began to complain loudly about the lack of food and how he was starving. They stopped at a cook shop, the reins of their horses looped through their arms as they gulped small bowls of hot spiced beef. Ranulf chattered about his son, the illicit fruit of one of his many amours. Corbett listened attentively. Ranulf wished to bring the boy for a short stay at the house in Bread Street. Corbett smiled bravely but his heart sank with despair. Lord Morgan, Ranulf and Ranulf’s young son would utterly destroy the peace and quiet of his household.
Corbett finished chewing the meat and washed his hands in a small bowl of rose water brought out by a thin-faced urchin. The lad looked half-starved, his eyes almost as big as his face. Corbett pressed a coin into the boy’s hand. ‘Buy some food yourself, lad.’
He dried his hands on a napkin and waited to make sure the boy did as he was told. Then, leading the horses, they walked down Cheapside. Corbett, half-listening to Ranulf’s glowing description of his son, recalled the events of the night before: after their wild, passionate love-making, Corbett and Maeve had gone down for a meal in the kitchen before going back to bed. He recalled Maeve’s teasing and his idle chatter about affairs at court. His wife, however, became anxious as Corbett described the reasons for his return to London.
‘I have heard of these murders!’ Maeve commented, sitting up and drawing the sheets round her body. ‘At first no one noticed. In a city like this, girls are killed or disappear and no one cares but,’ she shook her head, ‘the deaths of these women, the manner of their dying – is it true?’ she asked.
Corbett, lying flat on his back, suddenly stirred.
‘Is what true?’
‘They say the murderer—’ Maeve shivered and brought her knees up under her chin. ‘They say the killer mutilates the bodies of the girls.’
Corbett looked up in surprise. ‘Who told you that?’
‘It’s common gossip. Most women are frightened to go out at night but that last death was during the day.’ Maeve went on to tell him of the recent killing and the mutilated corpse of a whore being found in the porch of a church in Greyfriars.
Corbett gently stroked her bare arm. ‘But why the fear? The women he has killed have all been whores and courtesans?’
‘So what?’ Maeve tossed her head. ‘They are still women and Lady Somerville was certainly not an whore!’
Corbett had fallen silent. Somehow he believed that Lady Somerville’s death was different from the rest. Had the old lady discovered something? Had she surprised the killer?
Corbett looked round as Cheapside began to fill. Already he could glimpse the whores in their bright clothes and garish wigs. Suddenly the day didn’t seem so bright and as he recalled Maeve’s words about mutilation he felt uneasy. His usual adversaries, be they de Craon or some calculating murderer, had reason and motive for their actions. But what now? Was he hunting – as Ranulf had described the previous day – some mad man, some lunatic with a twisted hatred of women who found it easier to prey upon poor street-walkers but who might change and strike at any woman, lonely and vulnerable enough.
Corbett wished he could turn and go back home. He felt he was about to enter a very darkened house with shadowy labyrinthine passages and, somewhere, a killer lurked waiting for him to come. Oh, God, he prayed, bring me out of this safely; from the snare of the hunter, Lord, deliver me.
At the Guildhall, Corbett’s sombre mood was not helped by a beadle standing on the steps auctioning the goods of a hanged felon: a battered table, two broken chairs, one ripped mattress, two thimbles, a set of hose, a shirt, a doublet and a battered pewter cup inlaid with silver. The man had apparently robbed a church but his accomplice had escaped so a rather shabby cleric, holding a candle in one hand and a bell in another, was loudly proclaiming his excommunication in a litany of curses.
‘May he be cursed wherever he be found. At home or in the field, on a highway or a path, in the forest or on water. May he be cursed in living and in dying, in eating and drinking, whilst hungry and thirsty, sleeping, walking, standing, sitting, working, resting, urinating, defecating and bleeding. May he be cursed in the hair of his head, in his temples, brow, mouth, breast, heart, genitals, feet and toe-nails!’ On and on the dreadful, sonorous declamation continued.
‘I think,’ Ranulf whispered to Corbett, ‘that the poor bastard should get the message now!’
Corbett grinned and threw the reins of his horse at Ranulf. ‘Stable him in a tavern,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll meet you inside.’
A beggar, his face hooded and masked, crouched in the doorway of the Guildhall whining for alms whilst, on the other side, a huckster sold pretty ribbons. Corbett stopped and indicated both to move out of his way.
‘I know who you are,’ he said softly. ‘You’re upright men, counterfeiters, and whilst I am busy with the beggar, the other will try and pick my purse.’
The two men fairly scuttled away and Corbett walked down the passageway, across a courtyard and into a small mansion. The Guildhall proper was merely a walled enclosure containing a number of buildings around a large, three-storied house. Corbett waited inside the doorway until Ranulf joined him. They went up a rickety wooden staircase into a spacious, white-washed chamber where clerks sat at a table scratching away at great rolls of vellum and parchment. Not one of them looked up as Corbett and Ranulf entered but a large fat man, seated at the head of the room, got up and waddled over. Corbett recognised the podgy, red face above the ill-fitting gown and food-stained jerkin.
‘Master Nettler.’ Corbett extended a hand which Nettler, Sheriff of the Wards in the north of the city, clasped, his watery blue eyes alight with pleasure.
‘We expected you, Hugh. The King’s letters arrived last night.’ Nettler glanced at the scriveners and lowered his voice. ‘No man can be trusted,’ he muttered. ‘The killer could be anyone in this room. I am not dealing with it. One of the under-sheriffs will advise you. Come! Come!’
He led them out along the passageway to a small, dusty chamber. A clerk sat at a high desk in the corner, copying letters. Beside him stood a tall, broad-shouldered, prepossessing man whom Nettler introduced as Alexander Cade, Under-Sheriff of the city. Once the introductions were finished, Nettler brusquely left; the Under-Sheriff completed the letter whilst Corbett studied him. He had heard of Cade, an excellent thief-catcher with an astute eye who could spot a villain across a crowded tavern. The rogues of London’s underworld rightly feared him yet, despite his size, Cade looked like a court fop in his gaudily trimmed gown, high leather riding boots, cambric shirt, and small skull cap which he wore on the back of his thick black hair. His forked beard was neatly trimmed which, together with his sallow features and lazy, good-natured eyes, gave Cade the appearance of a man who enjoyed the good things of life rather than the ruthless pursuit of villains and rogues. He waved Corbett and Ranulf to a window seat whilst he finished the letter. Once done he turned with a flourish.
‘You’re here about the murdered whores?’ Cade made a face. ‘Or should I be honest? Your presence here is not about them but about Lady Somerville’s death as well as that of Father Benedict.’
Cade whispered something to his clerk, who got down from his seat, went over to one of the shelves and brought back a sheaf of documents.
‘Thank you,’ Cade muttered. ‘You may go.’
He waited until the old man closed the door behind him then picked up a stool and sat opposite Corbett.
‘There are three matters which concern me,’ he announced. ‘The deaths of the whores, the deaths of Lady Somerville and Father Benedict, and Puddlicott’s arrival in London.’
Corbett’s jaw dropped in surprise.
‘Oh, yes,’ Cade said. ‘Our friend, that master of disguise, Richard Puddlicott of a dozen names and countless appearances, is back in the city.’ Cade’s eyes opened wide. ‘This time I want to catch him! I want to see that clever bastard in chains.’
‘How do you know he is here?’
‘Just read these.’ Cade handed the sheaf of documents over. ‘Read them,’ he repeated. ‘Take your time, Master Corbett. Or should I call you Sir Hugh?’ Cade smiled. ‘We have heard the news. Accept our congratulations. The Lady Maeve must be pleased.’
‘Yes. Yes,’ Corbett murmured. ‘She is.’
Cade went over, filled two goblets of wine and handed them to Corbett and Ranulf. ‘I will leave you alone. When you have read them, then we will talk.’
Cade sauntered off, Ranulf turned to stare out of the window at a file of prisoners being led out into the yard below whilst Corbett studied the documents. The first two were letters informing the sheriffs of London how angry the King was that so many bloody murders had been committed in the city; in particular, the grisly death of Lady Somerville and the mysterious circumstances surrounding the fire which had killed Father Benedict. The next document was a memorandum drawn up, apparently by Cade himself, listing the number of women killed and, beside each of them, the date of their deaths. Corbett whistled under his breath. There were sixteen in all, excluding Lady Somerville. All the deaths had occurred within the city limits: as far west as Grays Inn; on the east Portsoken; Whitecross Street in the north; and as far south as the Ropery which bordered the Thames. Corbett also noticed how the murders had begun about eighteen months ago and were regularly spaced once a month, on or around the thirteenth day. The only exceptions were Lady Somerville who had been killed on the eleventh of May and the last victim, the whore found in a church near Greyfriars, murdered only two days previously. The whore was killed usually in her own chambers, although three, including the last, had been murdered elsewhere. All had died in the same gruesome manner: the neck slashed from ear to ear and the woman’s genitals mutilated and gouged with a knife. Again, the only exception was Lady Somerville who had been killed in Smithfield by a swift slash across the throat. Cade had also written that there was no other mark of violence and each whore’s dress was always neatly rearranged. Corbett stared at the memorandum then looked up.
‘A death every month,’ he murmured. ‘On or around the thirteenth.’
‘What’s that, Master?’
‘The whores: they were all killed around the same date, their throats slashed, their genitals mutilated.’
Ranulf made a rude sound with his lips. ‘What do you think, Master?’
‘Firstly, it could be some madman who just likes to kill women – whores especially. Secondly, it could be someone searching for a particular whore or—’
‘Or, what?’
‘Some practitioner of the black arts – magicians always like blood.’
Ranulf shivered and looked away. From his window he could see the towering mass of St Mary Le Bow, where Corbett had struggled and fought against a coven of witches led by the beautiful murderess Alice Atte-Bowe.
‘I don’t know,’ Corbett murmured and went on to read the memorandum on the death of Father Benedict: a short, caustic report from the coroner’s clerk. According to this, on the night of the twelfth of May, the monks at Westminster had been woken by the roar of flames and had rushed out to see Father Benedict’s hou
se, which stood in a lonely part of the abbey grounds, engulfed in flames. The brothers, organised by William Senche, steward of the nearby Palace of Westminster, had tried to douse the flames with water from a nearby well but their efforts had been fruitless. The building was gutted except for the walls, and inside they found the half-burned corpse of Father Benedict slumped near the door, key in hand and, beside him, the remains of his pet cat.
There was no apparent cause of the fire. The shuttered window high in the wall had been open and a light breeze may have fanned the blaze caused by some spark from the fire or candle flame.
Corbett looked up. ‘Strange!’ he exclaimed.
Ranulf, half-watching the line of felons being manacled in the courtyard below, jumped.
‘What is, Master?’
‘Father Benedict’s death. The priest was an old man, Ranulf, and therefore a light sleeper. He gets up in the middle of the night, disturbed by a fire which has mysteriously started. He’s too old to climb out of the window so he grabs the key, reaches the door but never opens it. What is stranger still, is that his cat dies with him. Now, a dog might stay with his master but a cat would leave, jump out, especially as the window was open, yet the cat also dies.’
‘It could have been overcome by smoke,’ Ranulf suggested.
‘No.’ Corbett shook his head. ‘I can’t understand how a man could reach the door, have the key in his hand, yet not struggle for a few seconds more to insert the key and turn it. Yet, it’s the cat which really puzzles me more. The few I have known remind me of you, Ranulf. They have a keen sense of their own survival and a particular horror of fire.’
Ranulf looked away and pulled a face. Corbett went back and studied Cade’s scribbles on the bottom of the memorandum. According to the under-sheriff, earlier on the day he died Father Benedict had sent a short letter to the sheriff saying that he knew something terrible and blasphemous was about to happen but that no further details were available. Corbett shook his head and looked at the last, greasy, tiny scrap of parchment. A short report from a government informer about rumours of the master counterfeiter, Richard Puddlicott, being seen in Bride Lane near the Bishop of Salisbury’s inn. Corbett tapped the parchment against his knee and stared at the dirty rushes on the floor. So many mysteries, he wondered, but Puddlicott really intrigued him. The King’s messengers had been pursuing the villain all over Europe, so what was he doing in England? Was his presence linked to these deaths? Or was he in London for some other nefarious purpose? Either for his own or for Amaury de Craon’s? Corbett sat lost in his own thoughts, sipping his wine until Cade returned.
