by Paul Doherty
‘You made the tunnel at night?’
‘Usually. But sometimes I dug during the day. It was a brilliant plan, Corbett. No one likes cemeteries by night, or day, and, with the protection of Warfield and William, I could make all the progress I wanted.’ He shrugged. ‘You know the rest. I was after the coins. Warfield took some of the plate, the silly bastard! I moved and hid the sacks in an old dung cart. You guessed that, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Corbett replied. ‘Both Ranulf and I saw it there. Yet, strangely, the street seemed no cleaner.’
Puddlicott smiled. ‘What else did I do wrong?’
Corbett seized Puddlicott’s hands and turned them palm up. ‘When I shook your hand in de Craon’s lodgings I sensed something was wrong but didn’t realise what it was until later. You were a nobleman, Puddlicott, or supposed to be, yet your hands were calloused and rough. The legacy of a misspent youth as well as digging in the abbey graveyard.’ Corbett filled his prisoner’s wine cup. ‘Now the murders.’
Puddlicott sat back. ‘What murders?’
‘The whores! Father Benedict! Lady Somerville! We believe the whores were killed because of the midnight revelries, whilst Lady Somerville and Father Benedict were murdered because of what they knew.’
Puddlicott threw his head back and laughed. ‘Corbett, I am a thief and a rogue. If I thought I could kill you and escape, I would. But some poor girls, an old priest, a grey-haired old lady? Oh, come, come, Master Corbett.’ He sipped from the wine cup and his expression hardened. ‘A comfortable cell in Newgate and I’ll tell you something extra!’
Ranulf snorted with laughter. ‘Any more, Master, and he’ll be bargaining for his release.’
‘I agree to your request,’ Corbett snapped. ‘But no more. Well, what is it?’
‘Something I saw the night Father Benedict died. I was in the abbey grounds resting after hours of digging. I saw a tall, dark form slip through the grounds. I was intrigued so I followed. The figure stopped outside Father Benedict’s house, crouching before the keyhole. The figure, nothing more than a mere shadow, came round to the open window and threw something in. I saw a tinder struck, I guessed what was happening so I fled.’
‘And you know nothing more?’
‘If I did, I would tell you.’
‘Then, Master Puddlicott, I bid you adieu.’ Corbett rose and called for the guards even as Puddlicott grabbed the wine cup and drained it.
Corbett stood and watched the soldiers carefully secure Puddlicott’s chains to their own wrists.
‘Take him to Newgate!’ Corbett ordered. ‘He is to be lodged there as the King’s guest. The most comfortable room, everything he desires. The Exchequer will pay the bill.’ And, turning on his heel, Corbett left the tavern with Puddlicott’s fond farewell ringing in his ears.
Edward of England knelt on the window seat and stared out over the gardens of Sheen Palace. Corbett and de Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, sat watching him guardedly. Of course, the King had been pleased. The Barons of the Exchequer were already counting the coins from the sacks, and high-ranking clerks had been despatched to the treasure house to carry out a full audit. Searches had been made in the London markets for any of the King’s plate, and royal troops were now garrisoned in the abbey grounds. Edward had already sent a note of furious protest to his good brother, the King of France, in which the English King declared that Monsieur Amaury de Craon was persona non grata and if he set foot on English soil would face the full rigours of English law. Corbett had been thanked: a silver chain with a gold Celtic cross for Maeve; a silver goblet stuffed with gold pieces for young Eleanor. The King had clapped Corbett on the shoulder, calling him his most loyal and faithful clerk; but Corbett was vigilant. Edward of England was a consummate actor: the rages, the tears, the false bonhomie, the role of the courageous general and the stern law-giver. All of these were masks that Edward could don and doff to suit his pleasure. Now, Edward was cool, calm and collected and Corbett sensed the genuine fury in what the King saw as treason, breach of faith and blasphemy.
‘I could hang Cade,’ the King muttered over his shoulder.
‘Your Grace, the man is still young and inexperienced.’ Corbett said. ‘He has proved to be a great asset. He was the only official in London who helped me. A reward rather than a reproof would make him more loyal.’
Edward laughed to himself. ‘Agreed. I knew Cade’s father. He began life as a yeoman bowman in my households. Cade was his thirteenth son. Do you know that even as a child Cade was forever lifting girls’ petticoats? He has to learn the hard way that a royal official must be careful with whom he sleeps, as well as those he does business with.’
‘And the girl, Judith?’
‘She will have her reward.’
Corbett shuffled his feet and glanced sideways at de Warrenne.
‘And Puddlicott and the others?’
‘Ah!’ Edward turned and Corbett did not like the look on the King’s face. ‘They will hang!’
‘Warfield is a priest, a monk!’
‘He’s got a neck like any other man.’
‘The Church will object.’
‘I don’t think so. I’ll point out that the monks of Westminster not only betrayed their vows but also their King. Can you imagine old Winchelsea of Canterbury?’ Edward smiled to himself. ‘Good Lord, sometimes I love being King. I am looking forward to telling our venerable Archbishop of Canterbury and his brother bishops how lax they have been in their pastoral care. They should keep a sharper eye on their vineyards and what they sanctimoniously call “their flock”.’
‘I gave my word to Puddlicott,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘That he would hang but die quickly. No mutilation. And there is the business of his brother. . .’
The King slouched in the window seat. ‘I have no quarrel with witless men; the lad will be looked after. But Puddlicott . . .’ The King shook his head.
‘Your Grace, I gave my word.’
The King made a face.
‘I gave my word,’ Corbett repeated. ‘Knowing, your Grace, that you would respect it.’
Edward made a sweeping movement with his hands.
‘Agreed! Agreed! Puddlicott will stand trial before the Justices at Westminster. He will be given a fair hearing then he will hang.’ The King rubbed his hands together and smiled evilly at de Warrenne. ‘A pretty mess, eh, Surrey?’
‘As you say, your Grace.’ The Earl looked squarely at Corbett. ‘But there’s the business of the murderer still roaming the streets and not yet laid by the heels. That was your task, Corbett.’
‘I was distracted, your Grace!’ Corbett snapped back.
‘You have no idea?’ Edward asked.
‘None whatsoever. Vague suspicions, but that’s all.’
‘And the Sisters of St Martha are being co-operative?’
‘Of course.’
The King grinned. ‘Especially the Lady Neville?’
‘Especially the Lady Neville!’
‘And old de Lacey is still frightening the wits out of everyone?’
‘I deal more with the Lady Fitzwarren.’
‘Ah, yes.’ The King narrowed his eyes. ‘I remember when her husband died. We were in Wales, near Conway, the Feast of St Martin, pope and martyr. A good man Fitzwarren.’ The King rose and clapped his hands. ‘Well, in which case, Corbett, it’s back to London for you.’ Edward extended his hand for Corbett to kiss. ‘I shall not forget, Hugh,’ he murmured, ‘your loyalty and commitment in this matter.’
Edward closed the door behind his clerk and leaned against it, waiting till the footfalls faded. De Warrenne smirked.
‘You’ll keep your word, Edward?’
‘About what?’
‘Cade and the woman, Judith.’
Edward shrugged. ‘Of course. You know Edward of England’s motto. “Keep faith”.’
‘And Puddlicott?’
‘Of course,’ Edward smirked, ‘I will keep my word. But now I have a task for you, Surrey. You are to join Corb
ett in London, present my compliments to the Lord Sheriff, publicly praise Cade, supervise Puddlicott’s execution, make sure he dies swiftly.’
‘And then, your Grace?’
‘I want the bastard’s body skinned!’ the King hissed. ‘Do you understand me, de Warrenne? I want the skin peeled off and nailed, like that of a pig, to the abbey door so everyone knows the price for robbing Edward of England!’
Chapter 13
Corbett was relieved to find the Lord Morgan had not yet arrived at Bread Street.
‘He has been delayed,’ Maeve moaned. ‘Matters in Wales are not proving as easy to leave as he had thought.’
He’s bloody drunk, more like it, Corbett thought, and still can’t get his horse to take him across the drawbridge. However, he kept his unkind sentiments to himself for Maeve worried herself sick over the old rogue’s health and well-being.
Ranulf was absent when Corbett arrived but, on his return, declared that Maltote’s life was in no danger, though Brother Thomas could not say whether or not he would regain his sight.
Corbett retired to his small, chancery office, idly sifting through letters, memoranda, bills and petitions which the Chancery had sent on to him. Nevertheless, his mind was elsewhere: back in the abbey grounds watching that dark shape, so vividly described by Puddlicott, slip across to Father Benedict’s house to begin that dreadful fire.
Maeve came in with baby Eleanor, and Corbett cosseted and teased both until Anna arrived, talking volubly in Welsh. She seized the child, glared at Corbett, and mumbled something about the infant being too excited. Maeve stayed for a while as Corbett described his recent interview with the King and his frustration at being unable to catch the assassin and trap the murderer of the city whores.
‘It could be anyone,’ he muttered. ‘It could have been Warfield or another of the monks.’
Maeve seized him by the hand. ‘You are agitated, Hugh. Come, join me in the kitchen, I am cooking the evening meal.’
Corbett followed her down the passageway and helped prepare the meal, as Maeve chattered about this and that, trying to distract her husband. He always loved to watch her cook: she was so expert, so neat and tidy, and the dishes she served were always fresh and fragrant. After the hard-baked bread and rancid meat of London’s taverns and the royal kitchens, Corbett always appreciated whatever she cooked.
She deftly peeled the whitened flesh of a roasted chicken, dicing it with a small knife, scraping the portions into a bowl, mixing in oil and herbs. Then she looked up, startled, as her husband gasped. He stood, mouth open, staring at her.
‘Hugh!’ she exclaimed. ‘What is the matter?’
‘Of course!’ Corbett murmured, as if in a trance. ‘Oh, by Hell’s teeth, of course!’ He put down the knife he had been holding and moved like a sleep-walker towards the kitchen door.
‘Hugh!’ Maeve exclaimed again.
He just shook his head, leaving his wife puzzled and exasperated. Outside in the passageway, Corbett stared at the white plaster, so surprised by his own thoughts he leaned his hot face against the wall, relishing its coolness.
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘It can’t be, surely?’
Ranulf came running down the passageway. ‘Master, are you well?’
‘Yes,’ Corbett replied absent-mindedly. ‘I am glad Maltote’s well.’ He patted the surprised Ranulf on the shoulder. ‘Lady Maeve may need some help.’ Corbett shook himself and narrowed his eyes. ‘What did I say, Ranulf?’
The manservant just shook his head. ‘Have you been drinking, Master?’
‘No,’ Corbett murmured, striding down the passageway back to his office. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘But I wish to God I had!’ Back in his office, Corbett reached for the Calendar of Saints at the end of a Book of Hours then sat for an hour writing furiously as he developed the idea which had so surprised him in the kitchen. He tried to disprove his own theory but, whatever ploy he used, the conclusion reached was unshakeable and he cursed his own lack of logic.
‘So simple,’ he murmured to himself, lifting his head to stare out of the window. ‘I know the murderer. I can prove the murders, but what else?’
He rose, strode to the door and shouted for Ranulf.
‘Come on, man!’ Corbett urged. ‘We have business to do in the city. You will take the following message to the Lady Mary Neville.’
Corbett went back to his writing tray and scrawled a few words on a piece of parchment which he then deftly folded and sealed.
‘Give this to her; and watch her eyes. Then you are to go to the Guildhall and do the following. . .’
Corbett heard Maeve’s footsteps coming along the passageway so he quickly whispered his instructions to an even more surprised Ranulf.
‘Master, that’s foolish.’
‘Do as I say, Ranulf. Go now!’
‘What is the matter, Hugh?’
Corbett seized his wife and kissed her on the forehead. ‘I have been a fool, Maeve, but bear with me.’
He walked back, collected his sword-belt, boots and cloak and, shouting farewells to his wife and daughter, ran into the darkening street. He took a barge from Fish Quay and, ignoring the boatman’s chatter, sat, wrapped in his cloak, as the skiff, helped by the pull of the tide, swept him down to the King’s Stairs at Westminster. The abbey and palace grounds were now packed with soldiers, men-at-arms and archers. They had constructed their own bothies from branches, cut from the nearby trees, whilst officers had set up their own coarse-clad pavilions.
Corbett was challenged at every turn but, when he showed his warrant, was allowed through the different cordons thrown around the abbey until he reached the Chapter House. An officer, now carrying the keys of the abbey, unlocked the door for him.
‘Collect three men and stay outside!’ Corbett ordered. ‘But allow any visitors in!’
The soldier obeyed and Corbett walked into the long, high-vaulted, deserted room, his footsteps ringing hollow and eerie in the watchful silence. Despite the warmth of a summer evening, the Chapter House was cold and dark so Corbett took a tinder and lit a few of the sconce torches, and wax candles on the table, where he sat in de Lacey’s chair and waited for the drama to begin.
Ranulf and Cade came first, the under-sheriff looking haggard and tired.
‘Sir Hugh, what is the matter?’
‘Sit down, Master Cade. Ranulf, did you deal with the other matter?’
‘I did.’
Corbett tapped his fingers on the table top. ‘Then let us wait for our guests to arrive.’
They must have sat for half an hour, Cade trying to make desultory conversation, when they heard a knock on the door.
‘Come in!’ Corbett shouted and Lady Mary Neville slipped into the room.
She had the hood of her cloak well forward, and, as she pushed it back and sat in the chair Corbett offered, he caught the woman’s nervousness. Her skin had lost its lustre, she kept licking her lips and her eyes darted to and fro as if she suspected that some great danger threatened.
‘You asked to see me, Sir Hugh?’
‘Yes, Lady Mary. The night Lady Somerville died, you went to St Bartholomew’s hospital?’
‘I have told you that.’
‘So you did. And who else knew you were going?’
Corbett watched the woman closely as he heard the Chapter House door quietly open. ‘I asked you a question, Lady Mary. Who else knew? Or shall I answer it for you?’ Corbett looked up and stared at the woman standing just inside the doorway.
‘Well, Lady Fitzwarren, can you answer?’
The tall, angular woman swept towards him; her stern face looked harsh, her eyes were like two pieces of hard slate in her angry, drawn face. Corbett saw her hands were tucked into the sleeves of her gown and he did nothing to stop Ranulf drawing his own dagger.
‘Master Cade, a seat for our second guest.’
Lady Fitzwarren sat down carefully.
‘As I was saying, Lady Mary and her companion went to St Bartholomew’s h
ospital on Monday, May eleventh. Now, I always believed that Lady Somerville’s death was some accident, but I have changed my mind. I realise my own mistake, a lack of attention to detail. Only someone who knew Somerville would know she would walk across Smithfield Common by herself.’ Corbett smiled at both women. ‘Oh, yes, Lady Somerville knew her killer. You see, the murder was witnessed by someone.’ He saw Fitzwarren’s eyes flicker in fear. ‘A mad beggar squatting at the foot of the scaffold saw Lady Somerville stop and wait for her killer, he heard her call out “Oh, it’s you!” Now,’ Corbett leaned his hands on the table, ‘I was far too clever. I should have listened to that beggar man more carefully. He described the killer as tall as the devil with horned feet. I dismissed that as some phantasm of his imagination but, of course, he was talking about you, Lady Catherine. You are taller even than most men. And you were dressed in cowl and hood when you carried out your bloody murders.’
Lady Mary recoiled in fright and horror. Fitzwarren pursed her lips.
‘You speak gibberish, clerk!’
‘Oh, no, I don’t. Let’s go to another murder. Father Benedict. Someone blocked the keyhole of the poor priest’s door, threw a jar of oil through the open window then struck a tinder and flung that in as well. Go and look at the ruins of Father Benedict’s house. The window is high in the wall, someone well above average height threw that jar in.’
‘They could have stood on a log or a stone,’ Lady Mary whispered.
‘Yes, that’s true, but they didn’t. No log or stone was found near the window nor did the ground outside bear any such mark.’
‘You still haven’t produced any proof,’ Fitzwarren challenged.
‘Oh, I’ll come to that by and by. You see, when I examined the room, I found traces of the oil, clear and pure, of a very high quality. Only the wealthy purchase such oil for their food. I realised that this evening whilst watching my wife prepare our meal. The assassin used that oil because it was free of any reeking odour and, if spilt over dry rushes, would soon catch alight.’
‘The assassin could have bought it!’ Fitzwarren snapped.
Corbett steeled himself for the next lie to come.
