Hugh Corbett 06 - Murder Wears a Cowl

by Paul Doherty

  Corbett, Ranulf and Maltote hired a wherry from Queenshithe and made their way up river, disembarking at the Custom House near the Wool Quay. They walked along the riverside, past the darkening mass of the great Tower and out through open fields to where the lights of the hospital of St Katherine beckoned. Ranulf kept silent, sulking, for he always loved to catch his master out and matters were not helped by Maltote openly preening himself. At St Katherine’s a porter let them through and took them across to the small church which stood next to the main hospital building.

  ‘The Sisters always meet here,’ he announced. ‘I believe they’ve arrived already.’

  Corbett pulled open the door and walked into the porch. The church was simple enough; a long, narrow, vaulted nave under a soaring hammer-beamed roof, a chancel screen at the far end and fat rounded pillars down each side of the nave. Most of the Sisters were already assembled. At first, Corbett and his companions were ignored as the ladies scurried around, lighting braziers, pushing long trestle tables together. On these they piled clean clothes and cut up long loaves of bread, putting out bowls of salt, dishes of dried meat and bowls of apples and pears sliced and covered with sugar. Lady Fitzwarren came in through a side door, smiled and waved at them. Behind her, Lady Mary looked coyly at Ranulf.

  ‘You have come to watch, Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Aye, Madam. But also to ask you some questions.’

  Fitzwarren’s smile faded. ‘When I’m ready! When I’m ready!’ she snapped. ‘The wine jug’s not yet out! I think the weather will change and we could have a busy night.’

  Corbett and his companions had to sit on a bench and kick their heels before Fitzwarren and Lady Mary joined them.

  ‘Well, Sir Hugh, what questions do you still have?’

  Corbett caught the exasperation in her voice.

  ‘First, Lady Mary, you were with Lady Somerville the night she died?’

  The woman nodded.

  ‘And you left St Bartholomew’s, when?’

  ‘About a quarter of an hour after Lady Somerville.’

  ‘And you noticed nothing untoward?’

  ‘Nothing at all. It was pitch dark. I hired a boy to carry a torch and made my way home to Farringdon.’

  ‘Lady Fitzwarren, did you know any of the girls who died?’

  ‘Some, but you must remember the victims were all petty courtesans. We tend to meet the most degraded.’

  ‘Did you know Agnes, the girl killed in the church near Greyfriars?’

  ‘Yes, I did, and strange you mention her name. After her death I had a garbled message from someone who knew her that she wanted to speak to me.’

  ‘Who gave the message?’

  Lady Fitzwarren shook her head. ‘I meet so many girls, it was one of them.’

  ‘So you never met Agnes?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Is there anything else, Lady Catherine?’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘Well, you meet in Westminster Chapter House. Have you noticed anything untoward in the abbey or palace?’

  ‘Well, they’re fairly deserted,’ Lady Mary interrupted. ‘The old abbot is ill and they have no prior, the King should really return to Westminster.’

  Lady Fitzwarren stared at her companion, then back at Corbett.

  ‘Sir Hugh, I think there is something you should know,’ the woman lowered her voice as Lady de Lacey swept into the church as briskly as a March breeze. ‘Over a year ago,’ Lady Fitzwarren continued in a half-whisper, ‘just after these terrible murders began, Lady Mary, here, heard a rumour, a story quite common amongst the street-walkers and courtesans, how certain girls had been taken to the abbey, or rather the palace, for parties and roistering which lasted all night.’ The woman shrugged. ‘You know how it is, Sir Hugh. A common occurrence. Royal palaces are often left deserted, especially in time of war. The stewards and officials become lazy and decide to amuse themselves at the expense of their betters.’ She smiled thinly. ‘I believe even Christ told parables about it.’ Fitzwarren looked over her shoulder and waved at Lady de Lacey who was shouting for her attention. ‘That’s all I know, Sir Hugh. But, tell me, do you have any idea of who is responsible for these terrible murders?’

  ‘No, my Lady, but I hope to prevent any more.’

  ‘In which case I wish you well, Master Clerk.’

  ‘Oh, Lady Catherine?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you or the Lady Mary know anything about the French envoy, Sir Amaury de Craon? Or a man known as Richard Puddlicott?’

  Both women shook their heads.

  ‘De Craon means nothing to me,’ Lady Fitzwarren answered quickly. ‘But I have heard of Puddlicott. He’s a villain, a trickster. Some of the street-girls talk about him with as much awe and respect as I would the King.’

  Corbett nodded and watched the two women walk away. He sat down on the bench and glanced at Ranulf who appeared to be blind and deaf to everything except the Lady Mary Neville. Corbett blinked and looked away. He had seen Ranulf drunk, angry, sad, lecherous and maudlin but never lovelorn and he still found it difficult to accept that Ranulf was so love-struck. Corbett sighed and diverted his mind to what he had just learnt. Everything pointed to something amiss at Westminster. Lady Fitzwarren was right: it was quite common for officials in deserted royal palaces to spend their time roistering – on one occasion he had acted as a marshal of the royal household in bringing such malefactors to judgement – but did the solution to these terrible murders lie in such roistering? Had the monks of Westminster become involved in these all-night revelries? Had something happened and the murders been committed to silence clacking tongues and scandalous whispers?

  The door of the hospital opened slowly and Corbett gazed speechlessly at the two harridans who staggered into the church; their clothes were mere rags around their emaciated bodies, their hair was thin and straggly, they looked like twin witches with their hooked noses, rheumy eyes and slack, slavering mouths. They chattered and cackled like half-wits, crawling towards the tables, snatching mouthfuls of bread and slurping noisily from pewter wine cups. The stench of their unwashed bodies drew even Ranulf from his reverie.

  ‘Sweet Lord!’ he muttered. ‘We needn’t wait until death, Master, to see visions of hell!’

  Lady de Lacey noticed their revulsion and strode over.

  ‘Master Corbett, how old would you say those women were?’

  ‘They are ancient crones.’

  ‘No, no. Both have yet to reach their thirty-fifth year. They are street-walkers raddled and ageing, rotting with disease, the discarded objects of men’s lust.’

  Corbett shook his head. ‘I disagree.’

  ‘What do you mean? Men have exploited them!’

  ‘And they have exploited men – though, I suspect, where men had the choice, they had none.’

  De Lacey stared at him shrewdly.

  ‘So-called “good men” used these women,’ Corbett continued. ‘Upright citizens, burgesses who sit on the council, walk in the Guild processions, who go to Mass on Sundays, arm-in-arm with their wives, their children running before them.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘And such men are liars and their marriages are empty.’

  ‘Most marriages are,’ de Lacey retorted. ‘A wife is like a chattel, a piece of land, a possession, a horse, a cow, a stretch of river.’

  Corbett thought of Maeve and grinned. ‘Not all wives.’

  ‘The Church says so: Gratian wrote that women are subject to their husbands. They are their property!’

  ‘The law of England,’ Corbett replied, ‘also says that a man guilty of treason should be hanged, drawn and quartered but that does not mean it is right.’ He smiled at de Lacey. ‘You should read St Bonaventure, my Lady. He says “between husband and wife there should be the most singular friendship in the world”.’

  De Lacey’s harsh face broke into a genuine smile. ‘Ah,’ she replied as she turned away, ‘and if pigs flew, there would be plenty of pork in the trees!’

/>   Corbett watched her go over and talk gently to one of the old crones.

  ‘She’s formidable,’ Ranulf muttered.

  ‘Most saints are, Ranulf. Come, let us go.’

  Later that night Corbett lay beside a sleeping Maeve in their great four-poster bed, staring up at the dark tapestry awning above him. He had chased the problems facing him round and round his tired mind but, though he had suspicions, there were no firm conclusions, nothing he could really grasp. He remembered the sights at St Katherine’s, the two ancient street-walkers, Lady de Lacey’s gentle care and his remarks that a man and wife should be the best of friends. He glanced at Maeve sleeping quietly beside him. Was this true? he wondered. Strange; he kept remembering Mary, his first wife, and the memories had become more distinct after his meeting with the Lady Neville. Corbett closed his eyes, he couldn’t go down that path, the past was best left alone. He chewed his lip and wondered what to do when this business was over. He had seen the filth, the degradation of the street-walkers. Perhaps he should do something and not just turn up his nose and walk on the other side of the street. In France, he thought, at least they tried to control the situation, an official known as the King of Riddles imposed some sort of order and afforded a little protection to the ladies of the night. In Florence, action was more drastic, brothels were controlled by the city authorities who actually appointed clerks to work in what was termed ‘the Office of the Night’. But surely the Church could do something apart from just condemn? Hospitals, refuges? He must advise the King that something should be done, but what? Corbett’s mind drifted sleepily over the possibilities.

  At the very moment their master was slipping into sleep, Maltote and Ranulf, with rags wrapped round their boots to muffle their footsteps, stole downstairs, unlocked the side door and crept out into the darkened street. Ranulf ordered Maltote to keep his mutterings and curses to himself as they slipped along Bread Street where Ranulf had hidden a nosegay of roses in a small crevice in the alleyway. He had stolen these earlier from a merchant’s garden in West Cheap. Ranulf sighed with relief, the flowers were undisturbed, and they continued on up the alleyways, passages and runnels to the old city wall, past the Fleet prison and into Shoe Lane where Lady Mary Neville lived. Ranulf refused to let Maltote even whisper, keeping a wary eye on the watch and one hand on his dagger against the footpads, cutpurses and sturdy beggars who prowled the night looking for prey.

  Outside the darkened house, Ranulf stopped and, using his old skills as a burglar, carefully edged up the wall, securing footholds in the white lathed plaster and on the rim of the supporting black beams; hissing and muttering, he told Maltote to climb on a lower window sill and hand up the roses the young messenger was forlornly holding. Ranulf worked expertly, using the many holds and gaps in the plaster around the window sill of what he guessed to be Lady Mary’s bedchamber, until the whole area was circled by a garland of roses. Some would fall but Ranulf had taken enough to intrigue and fascinate this only love of his life. He then jumped down, laughing softly and, with Maltote in tow, hurried back to Bread Street.

  In another part of the city, Hawisa, a young courtesan, recently arrived in London from Worcester, tripped along Monkwell Street near Cripplegate. She had spent the evening comforting an elderly merchant in the room behind his shop whilst his wife and family had gone on a pilgrimage to St Thomas of Canterbury. Hawisa lifted the hem of her murrey skirt, taking great care as she picked her way round the mounds of refuse, jumping and giggling with fright as the rats scurried back to their holes. At last she reached the end house built against the old crumbling city wall and the basement cellar the wool merchant had bought for her. Hawisa was tired and so glad to be home in a chamber which she had decorated and furnished to suit her own comfort. She put the key in the lock, turned it, then froze as she heard a sound behind her. Another rat? Or someone else? She stopped, certain it was a footfall she had heard in the street above her. She stepped out of the porch and looked back up the darkened steps. Nothing. She went back and fumbled with her key then started as she felt a light touch on her shoulder.

  ‘Hawisa,’ the voice whispered, ‘I have been waiting for you!’

  Hawisa smiled, face up, just as the killer’s knife swept towards her neck, ripping it in one long, bloody gash.

  Chapter 9

  Corbett was breaking his fast in the buttery early next morning when the entire house was disturbed by a pounding at the door. He anticipated the news even as he swung the door open and saw the under-sheriff, Alexander Cade, dishevelled and unshaven, standing there.

  ‘There’s been another murder, hasn’t there?’ Corbett said softly.

  ‘Yes, about four hours ago. A prostitute named Hawisa was killed outside her own tenement.’

  Corbett waved him in. ‘The dead will wait for a while,’ he murmured. ‘You have broken your fast?’

  Cade shook his head. Corbett led him into the kitchen and seated him at a table, pushing a bowl of wine and a trancher of dried meat and fresh brown loaves towards him. Cade ate and drank voraciously, wolfing the food down whilst Corbett watched him curiously: despite his hunger, the under-sheriff seemed upset.

  ‘Did you know Hawisa?’ Corbett asked as a bleary-eyed Ranulf and Maltote slipped into the buttery. The under-sheriff looked up, his half-open mouth full of bread and meat. Corbett knew he had caught him unawares. ‘You did know her, didn’t you?’

  Cade nodded. ‘Yes,’ he mumbled. ‘I knew the girl, but that’s my business!’

  Ranulf and Maltote sat on the bench beside him.

  ‘Master Cade, a moment. Ranulf, I must speak to you.’

  Outside in the passageway Corbett grasped Ranulf by the front of his jerkin. ‘You left the house last night, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Master. But, as Master Cade said, that’s my business!’

  ‘When you leave the door off the latch, you make it mine!’ Corbett snarled. ‘I have enough enemies in this city without extending a public invitation to every felon and footpad, not to mention some red-handed killer of the night!’ He pushed Ranulf against the wall. ‘Where did you go? The Lady Mary Neville’s?’

  ‘Yes, I did!’ Ranulf glared back.

  ‘She’s a Lady and a widow!’

  ‘And what am I?’ Ranulf snapped. ‘Some commoner? Am I to know my true station in life, Master?’ Ranulf stepped closer. ‘Or would you like her for yourself, Master? Is that it? I have seen the way you look at her.’

  Corbett’s hand flew to his dagger and Ranulf grasped the hilt of his.

  ‘I have served you long, Master,’ Ranulf continued quietly. ‘And I have served you well. God knows who my father was whilst my mother was the daughter of a peasant farmer. She had aspirations but not the talent to match. Believe me, I have both. One day I will kneel in front of the King.’ Ranulf jutted his chin forward. ‘I shall be knighted!’

  Corbett let his hands fall away and leaned against the wall of the passageway. ‘God save us, Ranulf!’ he murmured. ‘Here we are, hands on daggers! Do what you wish. We have other business at hand.’

  They collected Cade and a half-sleeping Maltote from the buttery and walked down a deserted Bread Street and up into Cheapside. The great thoroughfare was empty, only a lonely friar, a chasuble across his shoulder, and a sleepy-eyed boy carrying a lighted taper, hurried along with the viaticum for the sick. Dogs and cats fought over mounds of litter. Two members of the city watch staggered by as drunk as the roisterers they hunted. Corbett stared up at the grey sky.

  ‘Where is the girl’s corpse, Master Cade?’

  ‘It’s already been moved to St Lawrence Jewry. We put it on one of the dung carts.’

  ‘Who found it?’

  ‘A member of the watch.’ Cade looked away and spat. ‘He heard the dogs snarling and bickering over the body.’ Cade tightened his lips to stop himself retching. ‘God save us!’ he whispered. ‘The curs were licking and drinking her blood!’

  Corbett breathed a silent prayer. ‘There’s little
point in going to the place,’ he said. ‘Was the girl killed in her room?’

  ‘Oh, no, just outside. She had the key in the lock when the killer struck.’

  ‘Shall we go to St Lawrence Jewry?’

  ‘Master Corbett, I have to attend to other matters first. Would you wait?’ Cade tapped his pouch hopefully. ‘I asked my clerk to make a search of the records. He has drawn up a memorandum on what we know about Puddlicott.’

  Corbett smiled. ‘Let’s attend to your business first, Master Cade.’

  The under-sheriff took him up to the Great Stocks near the Conduit where soldiers wearing the blue and mustard livery of the city, had assembled the felons and night-walkers in order to carry out the day’s punishments. As Corbett arrived, a cleric caught in the arms of a burgess’s wife was being led away, preceded by a man playing the bagpipes.

  ‘He’s to walk six times to Newgate and back, bare-arsed,’ Cade explained. ‘His breeches round his ankles!’

  The soldiers roared with laughter as the poor unfortunate was led away. Cade had to see to the ordering of other punishments. A counterfeit man who had purchased two satin cloaks for five pounds; on the excuse of taking one away to show a friend, the man had paid a quarter of a noble, offering as a deposit fifteen similar coins tied up in a purse. The shopkeeper had accepted this, and only when the fellow had gone did he find the coins were mere counters. Another, a cobbler had claimed he could find stolen goods by using a loaf with knives pressed in each side. Now the knives dangled round the man’s neck and, as he was clasped into the pillory, the loaf, soaked in horse’s urine, was rubbed into his face. The punishments continued. A blasphemer had to carry three pounds of wax to a church in Southwark. A man pretending to be dumb, so he could beg for alms, had the tip of his tongue burnt with a red-hot poker. Corbett got tired of the summary punishments and walked away.