by Paul Doherty
He had to wait almost an hour in a nearby tavern until Cade’s duties were done then they all made their way to St Lawrence Jewry. Maltote, now fully awake, eagerly whispered with Ranulf how pleased the Lady Mary would be when she woke up and found the roses. Corbett overheard them and hoped she would, otherwise Ranulf could find himself alongside the felons they had just left in the stocks. He stole a glance at Cade who was still quiet and rather nervous.
‘I must ask you some questions, Alexander,’ Corbett whispered so that Ranulf and Maltote could not overhear.
‘Such as?’
‘Did you know any more of the girls who were killed?’
Cade shook his head and stared away.
When they reached St Lawrence Jewry, Cade summoned the fat little priest who, protesting at the early hour, opened the small death house, grumbling that he was tired of having to bury one whore after another. He only shut up when Cade brutally reminded him that the city paid him good silver for his services. Corbett took one quick look at the corpse inside, the great purple slash across her neck, the horrible mutilations in the groin, and walked back into the fresh air.
‘I agree with you, Priest!’ he called out, ‘Having to look at seventeen such corpses would try the patience of a saint!’
The priest, still wary of Corbett since their last meeting, shook his head.
‘Sixteen!’ he squeaked. ‘She is the sixteenth!’
Corbett noticed Cade’s face suddenly pale.
‘No, no,’ Corbett queried. ‘She is the seventeenth victim, or eighteenth if we include the Lady Somerville.’
The priest shrugged and waddled back into his house; he returned, carrying a huge, purple-dyed ledger.
‘This is the church’s burial book,’ he explained, opening the yellowing pages. He turned to the back. ‘Here are those given a pauper’s grave. I have starred the names of the victims – the whores killed over the last few months.’
Corbett took the book and scanned the pathetic entries. An old man who had died in the stocks; a young boy who had fallen from a belfry; a tinker killed in Floodgate Lane. Interspersed with these, each with a star next to the name, were the prostitutes who had been killed. Corbett walked away, ignoring the priest’s protests. He placed the book on top of a crumbling tombstone, took from his wallet the list of victims provided by the under-sheriff and compared the two. Cade now stood far away with his back turned, whilst Maltote and Ranulf lounged against the wall watching the sun rise. Corbett scrutinised both lists carefully. He then closed the book and gave it back to the priest.
‘Thank you, Father. You will probably never know how valuable that book is. Ranulf! Maltote!’ he called. ‘Stay where you are! Master Cade, come with me!’
Whilst the priest scurried away Corbett led Cade around to the back of the church. Once alone, Corbett pushed the under-sheriff against the wall, one hand grasping Cade’s throat, the other pushing a dagger tip into the soft part of the under-sheriff’s neck just under his right ear.
‘Now, Master Cade,’ Corbett whispered. ‘No lies, no fables. What’s gone on here? Eh? According to your list, a whore named Judith, living in Floodgate Lane, was supposed to have been killed six weeks ago!’
The under-sheriff’s mouth opened and closed. Corbett banged his head gently against the wall.
‘Don’t lie, Master Cade. You are responsible for all burials. What happened to this woman’s corpse?’ Corbett smiled thinly. ‘Oh, by the way, you’re well known by the prostitutes in the city.’
Cade gasped. ‘I’ll tell you,’ he grated. ‘Take your hand away and sheath your knife, Sir Hugh. Sooner or later the truth would be out.’
Corbett sheathed his knife and put it away as Maltote and Ranulf suddenly appeared.
‘I told you to wait!’ Corbett shouted. ‘Now, go back!’
The under-sheriff, rubbing his neck, crouched on a stone plinth jutting out from the church wall.
‘Yes, yes,’ he began. ‘I knew some of the murdered girls. I am a bachelor, Sir Hugh. All I have are the clothes on my back and the fees of my office. I take no bribes, I never look the other way but, like any man, I get lonely. The blood boils within me and a fair face and a soft body, any face, any body will be solace enough. I knew the last girl, Hawisa, as well as others, Mabel, Rosamund, Gennora, but Judith was my favourite. You see, Master Corbett, she was attacked but not killed. I took care of her but put her name on that list to protect her.’
‘You what?’ Corbett gasped. ‘You mean to say there is a girl still living who survived an attack by this insane killer?’
‘She saw very little,’ the under-sheriff muttered. ‘She was frightened. She threatened she would tell others what she knew about me and other city officials unless she was protected.’
‘So where is she now?’
‘I lodged her at the Friars Minoresses near the Tower. The good sisters agreed to look after her.’ Cade wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘That is until I raise enough money to send her south to one of the Cinque Ports.’
‘Well, Master Cade, we’d best go there.’
They collected a mystified Ranulf and Maltote and made their way down to the Guildhall where they borrowed horses to continue their journey through the half-waking streets to Aldersgate and out into open countryside. They turned south through lush fields, past dairy farms to where the grey flagstoned building of the Friars Minoresses lay nestling amongst woods and fields.
The Sisters, who followed the rule of St Clare, were welcoming enough, always eager to see visitors, especially males. They fussed and clucked round Corbett’s party like a group of mother hens. The clerk had to pay the usual courtesies of joining them in the small refectory for bread and ale before Cade asked to see ‘his dear sister, Judith’, in one of the guest rooms.
The good Sisters agreed but Corbett caught their coy glances and hidden smiles. Whatever the under-sheriff claimed, the nuns were not as innocent as they seemed and had more than a vague idea of Judith’s true calling. A young novice was immediately despatched to prepare the girl. Ranulf and Maltote were left in the cloister gardens with strict orders to behave themselves and Corbett and Cade went to the white-washed cell where Judith was waiting. She was a plump, red-headed, pleasant-looking girl, dressed in a dark brown smock, tied closely at the neck. She greeted Cade warmly, kissing him on both cheeks and pressing his hand, but the dark rings round her eyes betrayed her anxiety.
‘The nuns still think I am your sister,’ she said pertly.
‘And why do they think you are here?’ Corbett asked.
‘You know who I am, sir, but who are you?’ she retorted archly.
Corbett smiled, apologised and introduced himself.
‘And now my question?’ he repeated.
‘The nuns,’ Cade intervened, ‘think Judith is my sister who was attacked by a house breaker.’
‘And the truth?’
The girl smiled and looked away. ‘I am Master Cade’s doxy,’ she replied. ‘I had a chamber above a shop in Floodgate Lane. Master Cade used to visit me there. I had,’ she continued, her voice rising, betraying a faint sing-song accent, ‘I had other friends. I lived a good life. I heard of the murders but I thought someone was settling a grudge.’ She sat down on the room’s one and only stool. ‘Then one night,’ she continued, ‘I came back late and climbed the outside stairs to my chamber. I often left my door open for my pet cat. I went in and lit a candle. I had a large cupboard, a gift from a carpenter, where I hung my gowns. I heard a sound and, because I couldn’t see the cat, thought the poor animal had got trapped inside.’ Judith stopped speaking and laced her fingers together. ‘I’ll never forget it,’ she whispered. ‘I picked up the candle and opened the cupboard door. I think it was the candle which saved me. I saw a dark figure, the glint of steel and, as I stepped back, the knife cut me.’ The girl undid the lacing at the neck of her dress and pulled it low to reveal a long, angry red welt which ran from shoulder to shoulder beneath her neck. ‘I screamed ev
en as the blood pumped out, then I swooned. Someone must have heard me. Master Cade was sent for.’ She glanced up at Corbett. ‘I think you know the rest?’
‘I thought it best if the killer believed she had died,’ Cade added.
‘So you must have seen something?’ Corbett asked.
The girl made a face. ‘Who would believe me?’
‘What did you see?’
‘I only caught a glimpse but I thought it was a monk.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘The figure was cloaked, cowled and hooded but you see, Sir Hugh,’ the girl smiled primly, ‘when I held the candle up I caught a glimpse of the attacker’s sleeve. It was the dark brown of a monk. I also saw something else.’
‘Come on, girl, tell me!’
‘As I drew away and the candle fell, I am sure I saw a white tasselled cord.’ She looked up. ‘Only a monk wears that.’
Corbett looked accusingly at Cade. ‘That’s why you were quiet when we went to Westminster Abbey and met the sacristan and his bosom friend. Only Benedictines wear brown habits. Don’t you realise, Cade, the killer must be a monk!’
Cade banged his fist against the wall. ‘Of course I realised!’ he retorted. ‘But who would believe a prostitute?’ He looked at Judith’s sad eyes. ‘I am sorry,’ Cade muttered, ‘but that’s what they’d say, a prostitute’s word against a monk’s and what proof would she have, Sir Hugh, except her own assessment? Any monk accused of a crime would have his brethren swearing mighty oaths that Brother So-and-So and Father This-or-That were elsewhere at the time of the attack.’
‘You’ve never put it like that before,’ the girl interrupted. ‘You always said you had me here to protect me. You were protecting yourself!’ She looked at Corbett. ‘Before the under-sheriff continues,’ she added, ‘and asks me what motive a monk would have in attacking a whore, well I’ll tell you, Sir Hugh. You will be the only person I have spoken to about it.’
Corbett crouched before the girl and held her fingers lightly.
‘Tell me the truth,’ he insisted. ‘Tell me everything you know and I will catch the man who attacked you. I will give you protection, the King’s own writ and a substantial reward. Yes,’ he added as he saw the hopeful gleam in the girl’s eyes. ‘Good silver to go elsewhere and begin a new life. A small dowry, perhaps you can return to your village, marry and settle down.’
The girl gripped Corbett’s fingers.
‘You promise?’
Corbett raised his other hand. ‘I swear by the King and by the sacrament, and my oath is a solemn one. You will be protected and rewarded.’
‘About a year ago,’ Judith began, ‘in the late summer and early autumn, I and other girls were hired to go to the empty Palace of Westminster. We were paid good silver and taken down river by barge. We were led up King’s Stairs and into one of the chambers of the deserted palace. We went there at least a dozen times, indulging in the most riotous revelries. I have never seen anything like it. Wine poured like water, food stacked high on platters,’ she smiled. ‘But the light was always poor. We would be joined by men. One I recognised, I think he was Steward or Bailiff of the Palace, he was always drunk.’
‘And who else?’
‘Well, as I have said, the wine would flow like water. We’d take our clothes off, there’d be music and dancing. Our companions were always masked but I am sure,’ the girl paused, ‘I am sure some of them were monks from the nearby abbey.’
Corbett whistled through his teeth and glanced up at Cade. ‘Hell’s teeth, Cade! I’ve heard rumours of these revelries. Does anyone else in the city know about them?’
The under-sheriff had paled. ‘There have been rumours,’ he mumbled.
‘When the King hears this,’ Corbett continued, ‘his rage can only be imagined.’ He smiled at the girl and tightened his grip. ‘Oh, not you, Judith. The King will have bigger fish to fry than you. You’ll be safe.’ He stared into the girl’s frightened eyes. ‘Who was the leader, the organiser of these parties?’
‘I don’t know. At first I thought it was the steward but he was a born toper. He was so drunk he couldn’t do anything with the girls. No, there was another man. Tall, well built, his body muscular but he always wore a satyr’s mask. It was he who made sure the rooms were in darkness, that the food was served, the wine poured and, most importantly, that by dawn we were out of the palace and back in some barge being rowed up river.’
‘Do you know who he was?’
‘No, he was always called “the Seigneur”.’
‘How do you know monks were involved?’
The girl laughed. ‘Sir Hugh, I may be ignorant but if you work the streets of London you soon learn enough about men to fill a thousand pieces of parchment.’ She shrugged. ‘I know it was dark but the men’s bodies were pampered, well fed. Anyway,’ she chuckled, ‘only monks have tonsures!’
Corbett grinned. ‘So, they would be drinking, eating, dancing and—’
‘Yes,’ the girl interrupted with a smile. ‘And the other. We’d separate into pairs, then a horn would be blown, fresh meats and full cups served and the revelry would go on until the early hours.’
‘You said a year ago. Why did it suddenly stop?’
‘I didn’t say it did. All I think happened is that the Seigneur chose a different group of girls.’
‘Ah!’ Corbett got to his feet. ‘Of course, just in case you or your companions became too knowing.’
‘But why,’ Cade interrupted, ‘didn’t anyone report this to the authorities?’
The girl looked at him pityingly. ‘Alexander,’ she replied. ‘You are a good man but you’re such a fool. Who was going to tell? The Seigneur and his coven? The girls? And so be deprived of good silver, food and drink? Who would dare?’ She tossed her head. ‘And, as you said, Alexander, who would believe us, whores and prostitutes!’
Corbett went to stand near the small casement window. He stared out at Ranulf and Maltote who sat in the green cloister garden warming themselves in the early morning sun, laughing and chuckling over their exploits of the previous evening.
‘What you say, Judith,’ he concluded, ‘makes sense. You think some monks from the abbey were involved in these all-night revelries. Perhaps one of them began to feel concerned, even threatened, and decided to remove the evidence?’
The girl nodded. ‘I suppose so,’ she replied. ‘But there may be more than one killer, Sir Hugh. The deaths have occurred throughout the city.’
‘Perhaps,’ Corbett replied. ‘But everything you say, Judith, fits the puzzle. First, Lady Somerville.’ He glanced at the girl. ‘She was one of the members of the Sisters of St Martha, brutally murdered at Smithfield. You have heard of the good Sisters?’
Judith nodded.
‘Well,’ Corbett continued, ‘she had a very low opinion of monks. She was always quoting a proverb that the “cowl does not make the monk” and she drew some rather crude caricatures of them. Perhaps she knew about this debauchery and had to be silenced? Secondly, what has always puzzled me is how the killer could slip unobserved around the city and, of course, who would stop and question a monk? Thirdly, a monk was seen entering the house where one of the victims was found. Finally, everyone trusts a monk, which is why the victims always allowed their killer to get close.’
Corbett stared out of the window at the sunlit cloister garth. Of course, he thought, it also fits in with what Brother Thomas had said: perhaps the monk killed these girls, not only to silence them but because he felt guilty at what he had done and believed he was atoning for his sin by spilling their blood. What the old, mad beggar had said now also made sense: the gnarled toes of the devil were really the bare sandalled feet of the monk. And, of course, Lady Somerville would stop in the dark and greet a monk hurrying behind her.
‘Father Benedict’s death!’ Cade interrupted excitedly. ‘The old priest died because he saw or knew something about the midnight revelries of these monks. That’s why he wanted to see me. And that’s why he
was murdered!’
Corbett leaned against the wall and nodded. But why, he thought, were these illicit parties organised? Who was this Seigneur? The girl admitted it was not William of Senche. Perhaps it was the sacristan Adam of Warfield? But why, why, why? Corbett stared at the grass, the dew twinkling like diamonds, and he suddenly went cold.
‘Of course!’ he shouted. ‘Of course!’
He strode back to the girl and gripped her tightly by the wrist. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’
‘No, sir. No, I have told you all I can.’
‘Good, then you will stay here. Cade, follow me!’
Corbett walked briskly out to where Ranulf and Maltote still sat in the cloisters.
‘Ranulf! Maltote! Come on! Don’t sit there like two love-lorn squires when there’s treason and murder afoot!’
The two men scampered after him like rabbits. Corbett bade a swift farewell to a surprised Mother Superior, collected his horse and cantered out of the convent gates as if the devil himself was driving him.
They rode through the winding lanes, not pausing till they entered the narrow warren of streets in Petty Wales round the Tower where they stopped and dismounted at The Golden Turk tavern.
‘No drinks for you, Master Cade, you have work to do!’ Corbett drew a warrant from his wallet. ‘Take this to the Constable of the Tower. Give him the compliments of Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Seal, and tell him in an hour I want three barges assembled at the Wool Quay. One for us, the other two full of royal archers. I want veterans; good men who will carry out any order I give them. No.’ He shook his head at the under-sheriff’s face. ‘No explanations now. Just do it and come back here when everything is ready.’
He stood and watched Cade stride away.
‘Master, what’s wrong?’
‘For the moment, Ranulf, nothing. I am hungry. I want to eat. You are welcome to join me.’
Inside the tavern, Corbett told Ranulf and Maltote to look after themselves but asked the greasy-aproned, bald-headed landlord for a chamber for himself.
