‘The dead are beyond us now,’ Corbett replied. ‘What I must do, Father, is discover who murdered this loyal subject of the King, and, more importantly, who plundered those coffers and caskets. I believe, Dame Marguerite, though I have yet to establish this, that the Sanguis Christi and other precious items were kept here.’
The abbess, eyes closed, nodded in agreement.
‘According to what I see,’ Corbett continued, ‘Lord Scrope came over here last night. You, sir,’ he pointed to Pennywort, ‘brought him across?’
‘Oh yes.’ Pennywort was pleased at the importance being shown him. ‘Oh yes, Sir Hugh, ever since his hounds were killed, Lord Scrope ordered some of his men out beneath the trees. I suppose I was in charge, Robert de Scott being killed in the marketplace. My task was to row him across. I did so.’
‘When?’
‘Oh, late last night, sir, after he returned from the town. It must have been well after Compline.’
‘And how was Lord Scrope?’
Pennywort closed his eyes and smiled, his teeth nothing more than little stumps. ‘I would say he was morose, withdrawn. He said we would have visitors in the morning, Dame Marguerite and Father Thomas. We reached the jetty. As usual he did not thank me but went straight up the steps.’
‘Did you follow him?’
‘Yes, yes, I did,’ Pennywort replied. ‘I always had to. Lord Scrope wanted to make sure there’d be no disturbance. He unlocked the door and went inside. I helped build up the fire as I always did, made sure everything was as it should be. Lord Scrope sat in that chair drumming his fingers on the arm, impatient for me to go. I lit the candles. Lord Scrope growled at me to keep a close and careful watch that night with the rest. He missed his two dogs, Romulus and Remus. Perhaps he felt wary. I left. Now as I went down the steps, I definitely heard him draw the bolts and lock the door behind me. As I rowed across, I could see lights glowing between the shutters. I then joined the rest of the guards in the clump of oak trees further up the hill; you know, sir, where the dogs used to lie. We built a fire. There was a full moon last night. It was bright.’
‘Did you patrol the banks of the lake?’
‘No, we watched,’ Pennywort replied, glancing away, ‘but we saw nothing.’
‘And there is no other way across,’ Corbett insisted, ‘between the two jetties, except by boat?’
‘None, Sir Hugh.’
‘Dame Marguerite, you know this island – you came across as a child?’
‘There was a bridge where the jetties now stand. A rickety wooden affair more dangerous than useful. My brother totally destroyed it.’
‘And the lake,’ Ranulf asked, ‘how deep is it?’
‘Very deep indeed, sir,’ Pennywort replied. ‘I would say at least three yards in places. It would swallow you up. It is weed-encrusted, a dangerous stretch; not even Satan himself could swim across such an icy lake at the dead at night. If someone crossed they would have to use one of those boats. If they did, I would have seen them. I would certainly have noticed something wrong this morning but I didn’t.’
‘Did you observe anything untoward?’ Corbett asked. ‘Anything at all, Pennywort?’ He opened his purse and took out a coin.
Pennywort almost sighed with pleasure, and his fingers went out. ‘Sir, I could make up lies and stories, but if you put me on oath in Father Thomas’ church, my hand placed over the pyx, I would swear I saw nothing, I heard nothing, nor did any of my companions. True, we kept ourselves warm, true we ate our dried meat and drank our ale, but we kept close watch, sir. Nothing happened.’
9
I have been an enemy to his enemy.
Annals of London, 1304
‘About this morning?’ Corbett stretched a hand out to the flames and glanced across at Ranulf, who was listening intently.
‘You know what happened, Sir Hugh.’ Father Thomas spoke wearily. ‘I finished the Jesus Mass. I intended to go back into town to celebrate the funeral rites for those who’d been murdered. However, Dame Marguerite and I had agreed with Lord Scrope to visit him here after mass.’
‘And when was this arranged?’
‘Oh, about two days ago. As you know, Lord Scrope intended to refurbish and renew the convent buildings as well as St Alphege’s. Of course the events of the last few days had rather dimmed the prospect.’
‘Father, tell the full truth,’ Dame Marguerite intervened. ‘I am sorry, there was something else. Sir Hugh, we were not only going to ask about our churches and buildings. My brother was a very wealthy man and, only God knows, he had reparation to make. We were also going to make a plea that he’d be a little gentler with everybody.’
‘Including me,’ Ormesby spoke up cynically. The physician leaned forward, playing with the rings on the fingers of his left hand. ‘Sir Hugh, I’ve heard of your reputation in Oxford. I know you work in the Secret Chancery. You’ll find the truth here. I must be honest. Very few liked Lord Scrope. You’ll probably discover that I certainly did not.’
‘Who told you about the murder?’
‘The news spread like God’s breeze,’ the physician replied. ‘Scrope is dead. The word went out, servants tell servants, people hurried into town. I was in the marketplace and came immediately.’
‘Lady Hawisa, have you tended to her?’ Ranulf asked. ‘I mean in the past?’
‘Oh yes, but as to what happened and why, Hawisa should tell you that.’ Ormesby nodded. ‘Just like the priest here, I have my confessional, covered by its own seal.’
‘This morning,’ Corbett insisted, pointing at Pennywort, ‘Father Thomas and Dame Marguerite came down to the jetty.’
‘I saw them come,’ the boatman replied, ‘and hastened to meet them. I remember telling you, Father, to wrap your cloak firmly about you because the water was icy cold and the oars would splash.’
The priest nodded, half smiling.
‘I rowed them across,’ Pennywort declared. ‘I brought my oars in. I tied the rope to one of the posts and helped Father Thomas out, and then we both assisted Dame Marguerite. They went up the steps. I decided to wait just in case Lord Scrope had a task for me. Some of my companions came drifting down …’
‘We knocked on the door, but there was no reply.’ Dame Marguerite took up the story. ‘We knocked and hammered to no avail. Outside, Sir Hugh, you’ll find an axe. I picked this up and handed it to Pennywort. I told him to break the shutters.’
‘So I did,’ the boatman replied. ‘I hacked the shutters; the bar across is metal but the shutters themselves are wood.’
‘I’ve noticed that,’ Ranulf said drily.
‘I lifted the bar and scrambled in. Lord save us, sir, Lord save us.’ Pennywort shook his head. ‘I’ve seen sights in my life, Lord Corbett, oh yes, sir, I have fought in the King’s wars, I have seen—’
‘Tell us what you did see.’ Corbett handed over the silver coin. Pennywort grasped this, a look of supreme pleasure on his face. Corbett sensed the boatman would use the money and what he’d seen to regale all of Mistleham before the week was out.
‘It was dark, Sir Hugh. The fire had burnt low. Most of the candles had guttered out. I called out to Lord Scrope but there was no answer, then I saw him sitting in the chair. At first I thought he was glaring at me as he did in life. I went across. Lord, sir, the blood, dark like some witch’s potion splattering his mouth and nose! Hands gripping the sides of the chair, those eyes glaring. He must have been visited by some demon.’ Pennywort recollected where he was and, fingers to his mouth, stared at the floor, shaking his head and whispering to himself.
‘Pennywort,’ Corbett said gently, ‘you saw Lord Scrope and then what?’
‘I hastened to the door.’
‘Tell me precisely what you saw,’ Corbett intervened.
‘Sir, the bolts at the top and bottom were pulled firm across. The key was turned. I had to pull back both bolts and unlock the door to allow Dame Marguerite and Father Thomas in.’
‘And the other shutters?�
� Ranulf asked.
‘All clasped shut,’ Pennywort replied.
‘That’s true.’ Dame Marguerite spoke up. ‘Sir Hugh, I was shocked when I saw my brother. I couldn’t believe it. Father Thomas went and whispered the words of absolution in his ear. I ordered Pennywort to stand guard outside. I searched round; perhaps the assassin might still be there, or, if the windows were all shuttered, the door locked … I mean …’ Her voice faltered.
‘We checked all the shutters.’ Father Thomas spoke. ‘Sir Hugh, I have been to the reclusorium before; there are no secret entrances or tunnels. The lake is wide and deep, every entrance was locked and bolted, except for the shutter Pennywort broke.’
Corbett thanked them. He asked Father Thomas to bless the corpse then help Pennywort and Physician Ormesby remove it to the manor.
‘There is a death house there, isn’t there?’
Ormesby nodded. ‘A small room in the cellars. I’d best dress the corpse there. I’ll tell you faithfully what I observe, Sir Hugh.’
Corbett rose and crossed to inspect the corpse. He studied it most closely, asking Ormesby and Ranulf to lift it up so as to scrutinise the seat of the chair.
‘In my perception,’ he murmured, ‘Lord Scrope was in bed but moved to sit here when the assassin struck. He drove that dagger into Scrope’s heart; Scrope’s right hand went up to grasp the blade and was splashed with blood; he leaned forward, hence more blood on the floor, then fell back.’
Physician Ormesby agreed.
‘Very good, very good,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Sirs, Dame Marguerite, please excuse me.’ He beckoned Ranulf to join him, and once again they searched that chamber, the shutters, the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the door, but Corbett could find nothing amiss. He sat on the bed and watched Ormesby, assisted by Pennywort and Father Thomas, lift the corpse up and carry it out to the waiting boat. Dame Marguerite came over, eyes brimming with tears.
‘Sir Hugh, his soul?’
‘Gone to God now, Dame Marguerite. I suggest that you also return to the manor. You must have pressing business at your convent, but Lady Hawisa will need some comfort.’
The abbess nodded in agreement and went outside.
Corbett followed her and stood at the top of the steps watching them place the corpse in one boat whilst Ormesby, the priest and Dame Marguerite clambered into the other now brought across.
‘Tell Lady Hawisa,’ Corbett called, ‘I am going to seal the reclusorium. No one is to be allowed in.’ He returned inside. He and Ranulf did their best with the broken shutter and stretched a rug across the gap. Ranulf fetched the chancery bag and Corbett sealed the edge of the rug fixed against the wall. He then scrutinised the chamber once more and left, locking the door and placing the key in his belt. He impressed his seal along the rim of the door then went around the outside of the reclusorium and did the same on every shutter.
‘I doubt,’ he declared, stamping his feet against the cold and blowing on his fingers, ‘whether anyone will come across here. I’ll give strict instructions to Pennywort that no one except you or I is to visit this place. Ranulf, I feel ice in my veins. I must thaw my blood and reflect on what we’ve seen.’
When they reached the jetty, Pennywort, full of the highest estimation for this generous royal clerk, was already waiting for them. He brimmed with news. The manor was in complete disarray. Brother Gratian and Dame Marguerite were already issuing instructions about doors being locked and sealed against any possible thefts; Master Claypole was also busy on this. Corbett nodded as Pennywort leaned over the oars and pulled away, still chattering about the effect of Lord Scrope’s death and wondering what would happen. Once on the other side he gave the boatman strict instructions and immediately adjourned to an eerily silent manor house, its servants slipping like shadows along the galleries and passageways. He found his chamber already prepared by Chanson, who’d built up the fire, lit candles and ordered some dried meats, bread, cheese and butter from the buttery along with tankards of ale. Corbett thanked him. He and Ranulf sat in front of the fire, hands out to thaw their frozen figures.
‘I’m so cold,’ Corbett murmured. ‘I’ll be glad when winter’s past and spring comes.’
‘Last night’s mayhem?’
‘Well, Ranulf, certain facts are established. First, Lord Scrope went across to the Island of Swan by himself. No one was waiting for him, Pennywort confirmed that. The boatman left. Lord Scrope locked and bolted himself inside his reclusorium: a small fortified house on an island surrounded by an icy lake. Second, that lake can only be crossed by boat; according to the evidence, there was no sign of that happening once Lord Scrope locked himself in. Third, however, during that night someone did cross the lake, entered that locked and secured hermitage and stabbed Lord Scrope to the heart. Fourth, Lord Scrope was a warrior, he was a killer, yet the evidence indicates that he offered not the slightest resistance. He was sitting in that chair when the assassin plunged the blade into his heart. Fifth, the dagger belongs to the King. Now there’s a riddle! Lord Scrope must have had that precious item locked in his treasure chest. He must have opened it and actually given his murderer the weapon that was later used against him. Strange, Ranulf.’ Corbett stretched his feet towards the flames. ‘Those chests and coffers were not prised or broken open. Scrope must have opened them for his would-be murderer then put the key-chain back round his own neck. Why? Someone he truly trusted? A person who could kill him in the twinkling of an eye? As the psalmist says, death was sprung like a trap! How could a devious, suspicious man like Scrope be so easily trapped? Ah well …’
Corbett grasped his tankard. ‘Sixth, at no time did Lord Scrope show any anxiety or try to raise the alarm outside, nothing at all. Seventh, once Scrope was dead, the assassin plundered the treasury and escaped unscathed and unnoticed, going through locked shutters, brick walls or a fortified door, not to mention crossing a freezing lake without any assistance, no boat, raft or any other wherry. Guards were sitting close by, yet they saw nothing untoward. Eighth, according to Pennywort, no one crossed that lake until Dame Marguerite and Father Thomas approached him early this morning. They only gained access by breaking in. Now, it is possible that all three are accomplices in a conspiracy to murder, but I consider that’s nigh impossible; not a shred of evidence exists to indicate it. Moreover, Lord Scrope appears to have been slain in the early hours, long before his guests arrived. Ninth, that cup of poison? What does that mean? If someone went across to murder Lord Scrope, why take poison with them? However,’ Corbett put his tankard down and, taking a pair of iron tongs, moved one of the crackling logs so that it burst, giving off more flames and heat, ‘we do know the murderer.’
‘Master?’
‘The Sagittarius, it must be,’ Corbett declared. ‘That’s why the mastiffs were killed, as well as Robert de Scott. They weren’t just acts of revenge; the assassin was preparing for last night’s bloody work. Imagine, Ranulf, the freezing cold darkness; the guards would stay close to the fire. Now and again they’d glance towards the reclusorium or the lake. Dogs are different: they wander, they pick up scent, and they notice things we humans don’t. They had to go, and so they did. The same with Robert de Scott, a man close to his master’s dark doings. The Sagittarius learnt that Robert was roistering in that tavern. He took up position and killed him. Robert de Scott was Lord Scrope’s man body and soul. He wasn’t there last night; the usual vigilance of bodyguard and dog was removed. The important thing about assassination, Ranulf, is that to murder the likes of Lord Scrope, you must first remove the guards. The Sagittarius did that. However,’ Corbett placed the iron tongs down, ‘who the Sagittarius is and how he actually killed Scrope – I don’t know.’
‘How will you resolve this, master?’ Chanson brought across a platter of bread, cheese and dried meat and served out portions on to the pewter plates Ranulf held. The Clerk of the Stables was fascinated by what had happened. He wondered how Sir Hugh would deal with it. He loved to observe Corbett question peopl
e; it was better than watching lurchers chase a hare!
‘How shall we resolve it, Chanson?’ Corbett cut himself a piece of meat and tore off some bread. ‘We’ll leave it for the time being; let evil have its day. I want to move and move quickly. The King will be displeased that Scrope is murdered; he’ll be even more furious that his dagger was used and the Sanguis Christi and other items stolen. We have so many questions to ask so many people. Accordingly, tomorrow morning we’ll establish a court of oyer and terminer: myself and Ranulf, with Physician Ormesby sworn in as the third justice. We will hold it in the manor hall and summon them all on oath. That will be best. For the time being I have to reflect.’
In the days following, Corbett decided against convoking his court of oyer and terminer so soon. He deemed it best just to observe and listen carefully for a while. Moreover, the manor was in mourning and Lady Hawisa still in shock, yet obliged to deal with all the funeral preparations. Lord Scrope’s corpse was hastily prepared for burial. Father Thomas, Master Benedict and Brother Gratian solemnly promised to sing chantry masses every day up to the final interment for the repose of his soul. The Dominican in particular became very busy. He held one copy of the tripartite indenture that laid out Lord Scrope’s will, the other two copies being held by Father Thomas in his parish chest and Scrope’s attorney in Mistleham. Corbett was sure that the manor lord must have kept his own master copy. This might well have been in one of the caskets or coffers held secure in the bed chest, yet no such manuscript was found. Corbett, recalling Father Thomas’ words about the blood registers, wondered if any manuscripts had been stolen from the reclusorium. According to rumour, Brother Gratian often mentioned the will, as if eager for the funeral preparations to be completed, loudly announcing that now Lord Scrope was dead, he must return to Blackfriars in London. Ranulf, very solicitous for Lady Hawisa, made his own careful inquiries about the will. Its clauses still had to be read, published and approved by the Court of Chancery, though it seemed that the bulk of Scrope’s estates would go to his wife, with the most generous bequests to Master Claypole, Father Thomas, Dame Marguerite, Brother Gratian and Physician Ormesby.
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