Hugh Corbett 06 - Murder Wears a Cowl

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Limmer, leave two, no, three archers to guard the prisoners, the rest follow me but walk carefully! The passageway is steep and ends in stairs but they have been smashed away. Take care!’ He turned. ‘Oh, by the way, where is Cade?’ Corbett realised how the under-sheriff had kept very much in the background.

  ‘He’s outside,’ Ranulf muttered.

  ‘Then bring him in!’

  They waited until Ranulf returned with Cade, who stood astounded at the broken treasury door.

  ‘Sweet Lord, Master Clerk!’ he whispered. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing!’

  ‘Sweet Lord!’ Corbett mimicked. ‘I think I am the only one who does!’

  They went down the passageway, the flames of the torches making their shadows dance on the walls; their footsteps sounded hollow and echoed like the beating of some ghostly drum. Corbett stopped abruptly and pushed the torch forward. Suddenly the passageway ended, and he edged forward gingerly, crouching and waving the torch above the darkened crypt below. The staircase was there – well, at least the first four steps – then it fell away into darkness. The ladder was brought, lowered and, once it was secured, Corbett carefully descended, with one hand on the rung, the other holding the torch away from his face and hair. He looked up, where the others were ringed in a pool of light.

  ‘Leave two archers there!’ he called. ‘And come down. Bring as many torches as you can!’

  He reached the bottom and waited while the archers, with a great deal of muttering and cursing, came to join him. More torches were lit and as their eyes became accustomed to the light they glanced around. The crypt was a huge, empty cavern, the only break being the central column which, Corbett deduced, was the lower part of the great pillar rising to support the high soaring vaults of the Chapter House above. He sucked in his breath. Was he going to be right? Then he glimpsed it: the precious glint of gold and silver plate from half-open coffers, chests and caskets.

  ‘Surely, they should be locked?’ Cade muttered, seeing them at the same time as Corbett did. He ran across to one. ‘Yes! Yes!’ he said excitedly. ‘The padlocks have been broken!’ He held his torch lower. ‘Look, Sir Hugh, there’s candle grease on the ground.’ He edged towards a white blob of wax. ‘It’s fairly recent!’ he cried.

  The others dispersed, examining the various caskets and chests. Some of them had their locks broken, others had been smashed with an iron crowbar or axe, and the contents had been rifled. But none was empty.

  ‘The crypt has been plundered!’ Corbett announced. ‘Some plate has been taken! But that is bulky, cumbersome and unwieldy and very difficult to sell. Look!’

  He pulled from a chest a small silver dish encrusted round the rim with red rubies. He held it close to the flame of his torch. ‘This is engraved with the goldsmith’s hallmark and the arms of the royal household. Only a fool would try to sell this. And our thief is no fool.’

  He went back to stare at the great pillar and noticed that portions of the column had been cut away by a stone mason to form a series of neatly made recesses. Corbett put his hand into one of these and drew out a tattered empty sack. ‘By all the saints!’ he muttered. ‘Everyone. Here!’ He held up the tattered remnants of the bag. ‘Our thief did not come for the plate but for the newly minted coins of gold and silver. I suspect these recesses were once full of bags of coins and now they have all gone. These sacks were the thief’s quarry.’

  ‘But how did he get in?’ Cade asked.

  Corbett walked over to the grey mildewed wall of the crypt, built with great slabs of granite.

  ‘Well,’ Corbett murmured, his words echoing through the darkened vault. ‘We know the thief could not come from above. He certainly didn’t come through the door.’ He tapped his boot on the hard concrete floor. ‘From below is impossible, so he must have burrowed through the wall.’

  ‘That would take months,’ Limmer answered.

  ‘You’ve been at a siege?’ Corbett asked.

  The soldier nodded.

  ‘These walls are thirteen feet thick. No different from many castles. How would a commander breach such a wall?’

  ‘Well, a battering ram would be useless. He would probably try and dig a hole, a tunnel beginning at the far side of the wall under the foundations and up.’

  ‘And if that didn’t work?’

  ‘He would attack the wall itself. But that would take a long time.’

  ‘I think our thief had plenty of time,’ Corbett muttered. ‘I want you to examine the wall with your torches. If the flame flutters from a violent draught, that’s the place.’

  It took only a few minutes before Ranulf’s excited yell, from behind some overturned chests, attracted their attention. Corbett and the others examined the place, and Ranulf pushed against the stone.

  ‘It’s loose!’ he said. ‘Look!’ He pointed to the mounds of dusty plaster around the foot of the wall.

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ Corbett whispered. ‘I know what he’s done.’ He tapped the wall. ‘On the other side of this is what?’

  ‘The old cemetery.’

  ‘Let’s go there.’

  They rescaled the ladder. Corbett ordered the archers to guard it whilst, outside the door, the three prisoners stood silent and forlorn, their hands and feet quickly bound. Corbett and the others, at a half-run, went out of the abbey and into the old cemetery. They had to wade through the waist-high hempen coarse grass and other shrubs before they stood before the walls of the crypt. Here the signs of an intruder were more apparent: a broken spade, a rusting mattock, pieces of old sacking and Ranulf even found a silver noble shining amongst the weeds. Corbett tried to visualise the inside of the crypt and pointed to a fallen, battered headstone.

  ‘Pick that up!’ he said.

  The stone was easily shifted to one side, revealing a hole large enough for a man to go down. Corbett looked round and grinned to hide his own nervousness. He could not stand such enclosed spaces and knew what terrors would assail him if he got stuck or was unable to turn. He shrugged uneasily.

  ‘I have a fear of such places,’ he whispered.

  Ranulf needed no second bidding but, on hands and knees, wriggled down the hole, Corbett heard him scuffling down the tunnel like some fox returning to its earth. After a few tense minutes Ranulf returned, covered in dirt, but smiling from ear to ear.

  ‘The tunnel gets wider as you approach the base of the wall.’

  ‘And the wall itself?’

  ‘Nothing but a hole. Apparently our thief simply hacked his way through, crumbling the stone by lighting a small fire then bringing it out in sacking and scattering it amongst the graves.’

  ‘It would take months!’ Limmer repeated unbelievingly.

  ‘It can be done,’ Corbett replied. ‘I have seen miners in the King’s army perform a similar feat against castle walls. Remember, it’s not natural rock but man-made slabs of stone. Once cracked, it’s a matter of scooping it out.’

  ‘And the final stone?’ Cade said. ‘The one Ranulf disturbed in the crypt?’

  ‘The tunnel ends there,’ Ranulf replied. ‘But if you brace yourself and thrust with your feet, the stone simply slides in and out. Our thief even fashioned a great hook to pull it back. Once pushed away there’s a natural door into the crypt and the King’s treasure.’

  Corbett stared round the forlorn cemetery. ‘So, we have a man probably working at night. He begins here, digs through the soft clay until he reaches the base of the wall. He then hacks through the brickwork, probably weakened by fire, bringing out the results of his handiwork in sacks. The final stone is also attacked, weakened and an iron hook and ring placed in it so it can be pushed in and out. The thief helps himself to some of the royal plate, though his real quarry are those sacks of coins.’ He stared round. ‘And now they have gone.’

  Corbett rubbed the side of his face with his hand. He’d felt pleased that his theory had proved correct. But two problems remained. First, the thief? He had no doubt it was Puddlicott but where the hel
l was the man? And, more importantly, where were his ill-gotten gains? Corbett squeezed his lips between his fingers. Secondly, although the secret life of these monks had been revealed in the full glare of day, he still had no evidence to link them to the murders. Nothing except the scribblings of an old woman and the eyewitness account of a beggar boy and a common prostitute. Corbett sighed and looked up at the blue sky.

  ‘Of course,’ he muttered. ‘There’s a final problem. Who will tell the King . . . ? We have done what we can here,’ he continued loudly. ‘Master Cade, you are to take the archers and secure the treasury room, fill in the stone, bring masons and carpenters from the city and do what you can. Master Limmer, I want you to forget the law! Our three prisoners are to be taken to the Tower and, short of loss of life or limb, they are to be interrogated until the full story is known.’

  The soldier, nervous at what he was being involved in, spat and shook his head.

  ‘Sir Hugh, two of them are priests!’

  ‘I don’t give a damn if they are bishops!’ Corbett snarled. ‘Take them and do what you have to. This is treason, man. They have robbed a royal treasury. You would soon object if the King could not pay your wages.’

  ‘How do we know they were involved?’ Cade interrupted.

  ‘Oh, you will,’ Corbett replied. ‘Master William perhaps, Brother Richard maybe, but Adam of Warfield definitely. I also suggest you search the latter’s chamber. I am sure you will find more than an expensive pair of riding boots.’ Corbett clapped his hands. ‘Now, come on, there’s yet more to be done.’

  Limmer and Cade hurried away. Corbett slapped Maltote on the shoulder and the young messenger, who was staring open-mouthed at the hole in the ground, jumped and blinked.

  ‘Yes, Master?’

  ‘Take two horses, Maltote. The fastest we have. You are to ride to Winchester and tell the King exactly what you have seen here. You are to ask His Grace to return with all speed to London. Do you understand? You have money?’

  The young man nodded.

  ‘Then go now!’

  Maltote hurried off and Corbett grasped Ranulf by the arm.

  ‘Take your care whilst you can, Ranulf,’ he murmured. ‘For, when the King returns, the city will buzz like an overturned beehive!’

  They waited until Limmer sent archers round to guard the secret tunnel, then Corbett and Ranulf walked back through the abbey grounds.

  ‘What shall we do, Master?’

  Corbett watched Limmer’s archers now hurrying backwards and forwards and noted with relief that fresh troops, men-at-arms, had also arrived from the Tower. Some of the abbey lay-brothers, officials, scullions and servants from the kitchens wandered about asking questions, whilst at the gates, archers with drawn swords were pushing back a small crowd of curious bystanders.

  ‘Master, I asked, what shall we do?’

  Corbett looked at his dishevelled manservant.

  ‘Well, you need a wash and I need something to eat and drink. So, for a while, it’s back to The Golden Turk to sit and take stock.’ He squeezed his servant’s arm. ‘Oh, by the way, I am grateful for you going down the tunnel. I may have gone in but I doubt if I would have returned.’

  Ranulf was about to make some mischievous reply when, suddenly, Lady Mary Neville appeared, her black hair falling loose under her blue veil as she ran breathlessly towards them.

  ‘Sir Hugh, Master Ranulf, what is the matter?’

  The young widow stopped in front of them, her face slightly red, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

  ‘What is happening?’ she repeated. ‘There are soldiers all over the abbey. They say some of the brothers have been arrested! Have you found the killer, Sir Hugh?’

  Corbett took the young woman’s small, white hand in his, lifted it and brushed it softly with his lips.

  ‘Oh, more than that, Lady Mary. But for the moment, let the gossips have their way.’ He bowed and moved on, Ranulf trotting enviously behind him.

  ‘Oh, Master Ranulf!’

  Corbett deliberately walked on as Ranulf stopped and returned to Lady Neville.

  ‘Yes, Lady Mary?’

  The young widow looked at him coyly. She lifted her hand and Ranulf, with a flourish which would have been the envy of any courtier, caught it and raised it to his lips. The young woman laughed, withdrew her hand, turned and walked swiftly away. Only then did Ranulf realise she had pressed a small gold amulet into his hand with the phrase ‘Amor vincit omnia – Love conquers all’ inscribed on it. Ranulf gazed after her, speechless with amazement, until the roars of Master ‘Long Face’ shook him from his golden reverie.

  Chapter 11

  After their journey down river, Corbett went into the tavern whilst Ranulf stayed to wash himself in the water butts near the horse trough. By the time he rejoined his master, the landlord was serving two bowls of hot spiced lamb and chunks of meat, roasted on a spit, floating in a thick gravy with onions, leeks and other vegetables. Corbett had bought a small jug of wine, the best the house could provide, and as he filled their cups commended Ranulf for his bravery, until his servant blushed crimson with embarrassment.

  ‘Do you think we’ve reached the end of the story, Master?’ Ranulf said trying to divert the conversation away from his own achievements.

  ‘I don’t know. What do we have here, Ranulf? Mischievous monks and a subtle thief who has stolen the royal treasure. These things we can prove but what is more difficult, is to make the logical leap and link the debauchery in the abbey with the robbery of the royal treasure house and then with the deaths of those poor prostitutes in London, not to mention the murder of poor Lady Somerville and Father Benedict.’ Corbett scraped his bowl clean with his horn spoon, then wrapped the spoon in a napkin and put it back in his pouch. ‘Everything we know seems to prove there is a link, but a good lawyer would demonstrate we have fashioned a net with as many holes as it has cords. Moreover, we do not know who the thief is.’

  ‘It must be Puddlicott?’

  ‘Oh, yes, we think it is; we know it is. You know; I know. We are all very knowledgeable,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Yet we have no proof. Who is Puddlicott, where is Puddlicott? We can’t even answer these questions.’ He picked up his wine cup and held it, gently rocking it to and fro. ‘Above all, we do not know who the murderer is.’ He took a generous swig of wine, and his servant glanced at him curiously – Corbett was known for his sobriety.

  ‘You are anxious, Master?’

  ‘Yes, Ranulf, I am anxious because when the King asks me to account, I’ll describe the problems but offer few solutions.’

  ‘You discovered the treasury was robbed.’

  ‘The king won’t give a fig for that. He will be more interested in getting his treasure back and hanging the bastard who stole it. No, no.’ Corbett loosened his tunic round his neck. ‘It’s the murders which fascinate me and I have two nightmares, Ranulf. First, are the murders connected to the abbey? And, secondly, are we talking of two or even three murderers? The prostitutes’ killer, the murderer of Lady Somerville and the silent assassin of Father Benedict.’

  ‘You have forgotten one thing, Master. Amaury de Craon, that cunning bastard must have some hand in all this dirt.’

  Corbett looked sharply at Ranulf. His servant’s words jogged a memory and he realised he had forgotten all about his French opponent.

  ‘Of course,’ he breathed. ‘Amaury de Craon. Look, Ranulf, have you finished? Good! Then go to Cock Lane.’ He shook his head at the smile on his manservant’s face. ‘No, no, keep your lusts to yourself. I want you to stand outside the apothecary’s shop and search out a little beggar boy dressed in rough sacking. Take him to Gracechurch Street and tell him to keep a sharp eye on the house of the Frenchman. If anything untoward happens, such as an unexpected visitor or busy preparations for departure, the boy is to come and leave a message at my house in Bread Street.’

  Ranulf agreed and hurried off. Corbett finished the rest of the wine and, feeling rather flushed and slightl
y sleepy, left the tavern and made his way to the main gateway of the Tower. He showed his warrants to the guards on duty, crossed the moat, went under successive arches and into the inner wards which surrounded the four-square central donjons, or White Tower. The clerk was challenged as he approached each gateway but, on producing the King’s writ, was allowed to proceed. At last he reached the inner bailey, quiet in the early summer heat though Corbett could see that building works in the Tower were now underway again as the King feared a French landing in Essex or even on the Thames estuary. Bricks were stacked around huge kilns, sand and gravel were piled high, and thick oaken beams lay in lopsided heaps.

  The Tower was a village in itself, with rows of stables, dovecotes, open-fronted kitchens, barns and hen coops all huddled along the inner walls. A small orchard stood in one corner next to the wooden and plaster houses of the Officers of the Tower. Corbett passed huge mangonels and battering rams being prepared and was half-way across the green to the White Tower when he was challenged by a burly-faced officer. The fellow was still trying to read Corbett’s warrant when Limmer suddenly appeared and hurriedly intervened.

  ‘Sir Hugh,’ he announced, ‘the interrogation has begun.’ He shook his head. ‘But, so far, we have learnt little.’

  He beckoned Corbett forward, leading him down a steep row of steps cut into the side of the White Tower and into a dungeon at the base of one of the turrets. Corbett shivered: the place was low-roofed, cold and damp and, despite the daylight, torches had been lit and were now spluttering against the darkness. He could smell the damp earth beneath his feet mingling with the stench of smoke, charcoal, sweat and fear. The chamber was bare of all furniture except for great iron braziers clustered together at each end. Chains and manacles hung on the walls but the clerk’s eyes were drawn to a small recess and the macabre group standing there. As Corbett approached, he glimpsed the torturers: men stripped to their waists, scraps of cloth wrapped around their foreheads to keep the sweat from running into their eyes. Their bodies glistened as if covered in oil and they lovingly stood over the braziers, pushing in and out long rods of iron, the handles wrapped in cloth to protect their hands. One of the torturers lifted a rod out, blew the red hot tip and moved to the shadowy recess. The fellow muttered something then Corbett heard a scream. He moved closer and saw that Adam of Warfield, Brother Richard and William the Steward had all been stripped of everything except their breeches, their outstretched hands being manacled to the wall. The torturer whispered something, then grunted and the iron was placed on a body that jerked in terror, the chains drumming against the wall. Another iron was placed, more whispers from a scribe sitting on a small stool keeping a faithful record of what was said. A curse, a scream, a cry, and so the questioning continued. Corbett turned away.