Nightshade

by P. C. Doherty

  ‘And did Lord Scrope inform you that you were his legitimate son?’

  ‘He never did, but I heard the rumours. I used to question him, challenge him; he said I would have to wait. I decided to institute my own searches, but by then it was too late. The blood registers in the parish chest had disappeared. I remonstrated with Lord Scrope, who said there was nothing he could do for the time being. Father Thomas claimed those documents were not there when he took up his appointment after our return from Acre; that is all I can say on the matter.’

  ‘So,’ Corbett declared, ‘your legitimacy is a matter still to be proved? Lord Scrope never confirmed it?’

  ‘What does it matter?’ Claypole jibed. ‘As yet I have no proof. One day I shall find it. In the meantime I will issue a challenge in the Court of Chancery against Lady Hawisa’s claims. Sir Hugh, it was only after I went to Acre, when my master and I were fighting shoulder to shoulder, when we expected death at any moment, that Scrope confirmed the rumours and said I was his son. It was my legitimacy he refused to confirm. I think he loved my mother. She married again and died in childbirth; that’s all he would tell me.’

  ‘So you served with him in Acre. What happened there?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Acre became besieged by the Saracens and their allies. It was a huge port, sprawling, ill prepared for a siege. The Saracens began to fillet us like a butcher would a piece of meat, taking one section of the city at a time. We retreated into the Temple stronghold overlooking the sea. The Saracens made an all-out assault, the story is well known. Lord Scrope and I decided to fight our way out. The battlements were stormed and taken. Lord Scrope and I retreated down the corridors. We first visited the infirmary where Gaston his cousin had been taken with terrible wounds. Lord Scrope went in. Gaston was dead in his bed; ill attended, with no medicines and very little to drink, he had died of his wounds. Lord Scrope decided he would seek compensation for all his troubles. The Templar treasury was near the infirmary. We found the door open; one of the Templar serjeants was already helping himself. We simply went in and did likewise, taking whatever treasures we could seize, including the Sanguis Christi. The fury increased. Shouts and screams rang out. We knew the Templar stronghold had fallen and so we fled. Lord Scrope was a skilled fighter, a true warrior. People here will tell you his faults. I saw his courage that day. We reached the shore, found a boat and rowed out to the waiting ships, and took passage home.’

  Corbett nodded understandingly. ‘So you returned to Mistleham?’

  ‘Yes. Lord Scrope was welcomed as a victorious warrior of Christ.’ Claypole couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. ‘He was favoured by king, court and Church, granted extensive estates, given Lady Hawisa in marriage. Her family not only owned land but reaped the rich profits of the wine trade with Gascony. Lord Scrope used his wife’s money, as well as the treasures he brought from Outremer, to enrich his demesne, renovate this manor hall and build the reclusorium on the Island of Swans. True, his experiences in Acre did change him, but he never cared a whit about what people thought.’

  ‘And the warnings?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Oh, they began about a year ago,’ Claypole replied heartily. ‘Lord Scrope was not concerned about them. The Templars tried to negotiate the return of the Sanguis Christi, but Lord Oliver would not do business with them, hence the warning about the Mills of the Temple. As regards the warnings about the Mills of God, they began around Easter last year. Again Lord Scrope ignored them. He was used to such menace; it did not concern him.’

  ‘And Master Le Riche?’

  ‘Le Riche appeared in Mistleham trying to sell that dagger. He approached a goldsmith.’

  ‘Which goldsmith?’

  ‘I forget now, but he directed Le Riche to the guildhall and me. As soon as I recognised the dagger, I recalled the warnings the King had issued about the theft at Westminster.’

  ‘But surely,’ Ranulf asked, ‘an outlaw like Le Riche would be very wary of approaching the guildhall?’

  ‘He was desperate,’ Claypole replied. ‘He came in. I met him and arrested him for what he was, an outlaw. I sent a message to Lord Scrope, who was visiting Mistleham at the time; the rest you know. Le Riche was put on trial and hanged. We held the dagger and were prepared to give it back to the King. As regards Le Riche’s corpse – God knows what happened to that.’

  ‘And the Free Brethren of the Holy Spirit?’

  ‘Sir Hugh, they came into Mistleham. Lord Scrope was most generous in permitting them to shelter at the deserted village at Mordern. They were allowed to barter their labour for food and drink. Time passed. Allegations were levelled against them of theft, poaching, lechery and heresy. After careful investigation, Lord Scrope decided they were a group of outlaws. He summoned his men and instructed me to do the same in the town. The rest has been told. Lord Scrope was correct; they were outlaws. We found weapons. They were planning villainy, perhaps an attack on this manor house, though God knows the reason why, apart from plunder and whatever other wickedness they could perpetrate.’

  ‘And the Sagittarius?’ Corbett asked.

  Claypole just shrugged. ‘A killer, Sir Hugh. I know nothing of him.’

  ‘And the night Lord Scrope died?’

  ‘Question my neighbours, my wife. I was home in bed. Why, what are you accusing me of?’ He leaned forward. ‘Creeping from my bed, entering this manor, crossing the snowy wastes, swimming the icy lake, passing guards unnoticed, securing entry into the reclusorium? I don’t think so. Why should I kill Lord Scrope? When I returned from Acre it was he who provided me with the wealth, the means to set up my own shop as a goldsmith and enter the guild. I owed everything to him. I am his legitimate son. Sir Hugh,’ Claypole half rose, ‘if you have no further questions for me, I should be gone. Like you I am a busy man.’

  Corbett waited for the door to close behind Claypole, then straightened up in his chair. ‘Now there,’ he remarked, ‘goes a liar! A man who has perjured himself. I doubt if he has told us the truth about anything.’

  ‘What proof do you have of that?’ Ormesby asked.

  ‘Too glib,’ Corbett replied. ‘Words tripping off his tongue as if he was reciting lines from a mummer’s play. He knew what we’d ask. He’d prepared himself well. A man who has a great deal to hide, is Master Claypole.’

  Brother Gratian then entered the chamber and took the oath. He immediately declared how he was Lord Scrope’s confessor so he could tell Corbett nothing. He then sharply reminded the royal clerk how the seal of confession was strictly covered by canon law; even attempting to infringe it could incur the most damning excommunication. Corbett hid his own anger at this arrogant priest. He entertained the deepest suspicions about the Dominican, who seemed to care for no one yet distributed Mary loaves to the local poor three times a week.

  I’ll let you float in your own smugness, Corbett quietly decided, and trap you in my own good time. So he nodded understandingly and airily asked where the Dominican was the night Lord Scrope was murdered.

  ‘In my chamber, Sir Hugh,’ Gratian replied smugly. ‘Ask the servants; they brought me food and drink. I recited my office and went to sleep. I may do many things,’ Gratian’s bony white face creased into an arrogant smile, ‘but walking across icy water unseen by anyone, then passing through stone and wood is not one of them.’

  Corbett nodded as if satisfied and courteously dismissed the Dominican.

  ‘Proud priest!’ Ormesby muttered.

  ‘Pride blind!’ Corbett quibbled. ‘Father Thomas will be different.’

  The parish priest was. He took the oath, made the usual reference to his clerical status then promised to answer all questions as honestly as his conscience would allow. He made no attempt to hide his deep dislike of Lord Scrope, his disapproval at the slaughter of the Free Brethren and his condemnation of the manor lord’s harshness. Corbett murmured understandingly and kept his important questions to last, glancing at Ranulf as if he was more interested in his scribe’s copyi
ng than anything else.

  ‘Father,’ Corbett smiled, ‘why did you really come to Mistleham?’

  ‘I’ve told you, I wanted to be a poor priest and serve Christ and his people.’

  ‘You also come from these parts?’

  ‘Yes, that did influence Lord Scrope to support me for the benefice of St Alphege’s. I am a local man, a former royal chaplain. I am also, after a fashion, scholarly and erudite, whilst my letters of recommendation were excellent.’

  ‘Your brother Reginald, did he play a part in your coming here?’

  ‘My brother is dead.’

  ‘Killed at Acre, I understand?’ Corbett glimpsed the flicker, the change in the priest’s light blue eyes: grief, anger, resentment? ‘Father Thomas, the truth.’

  ‘I loved Reginald.’ The priest fought back his grief. ‘Always happy, Sir Hugh, a truly merry soul. I loved him deeply. He left for Acre before I could stop him. He died there.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I always wanted to find out how and why.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No. The only survivors were Scrope and his creature Claypole. They could tell me little.’

  ‘But you were suspicious?’

  ‘Reginald was my beloved brother. I wanted to know about his final days but I learnt nothing.’

  ‘Despite your best efforts?’

  ‘I heard things.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Small scraps about the fall of the Templar donjon, the last fortification in Acre to be stormed by the Saracens, about the defenders breaking, scattering, every man fighting for himself. There were also stories of panic and selfishness, but nothing substantial, Sir Hugh, nothing at all.’

  ‘Why do you think your mysterious visitor called himself Nightshade?’ Corbett asked. ‘Why do you think he took that name; why come to you?’

  ‘I truly don’t know, Sir Hugh. Nightshade has a malevolent aura about it. I suspect he wanted to frighten Lord Scrope.’

  ‘And the painting the Free Brethren did in your church: Lord Scrope liked it?’

  ‘I’ve told you that. He said it had its qualities. Scrope rarely praised anyone or anything under God’s blue heaven.’

  ‘Have you studied the painting?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘Look again,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Is it really about the fall of Babylon or somewhere else?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Corbett smiled, ‘but it’s not an accurate reflection of the Book of Revelation.’

  ‘I hear what you say, Sir Hugh.’

  ‘And the blood registers that Master Claypole so desperately seeks?’

  Father Thomas laughed out loud. ‘Oh, I am sure,’ he declared, ‘Master Claypole would love to have those, but even if they were here, I doubt if they would prove anything. He is illegitimate, Scrope’s bastard. I do not have them, despite what Claypole thinks.’

  ‘Then where are they?’

  ‘Where do you think, Sir Hugh? I suspect Scrope, for his own secret, malign purposes, had them removed.’

  ‘And the night Lord Scrope was murdered? Where were you?’

  ‘Praying over the corpses of those killed in Mistleham. I did not like Lord Scrope but I did not murder him. I also know about your questions to the others, about the warnings to Scrope, the thief Le Riche, the slaughter of the Free Brethren. Sir Hugh, I have spoken to you already about such matters. I have nothing to add.’

  11

  Warrant for the arrest of John Le Riche … of bad reputation with a history of felony in Bedfordshire.

  Calendar of Patent Rolls, 1291 – 1302

  After Father Thomas left, Dame Marguerite and Master Benedict were ushered in. Corbett believed it was best to question them together, ignoring Ranulf’s whisper to Chanson about how they were both ‘cheeks of the same arse’, a remark that would certainly have shaken both the abbess and her chaplain had they heard it. They swore the oath and took their seats. Dame Marguerite quietly dispensed with their ecclesiastical status and privileges, thanking Corbett profusely for questioning them together as Master Benedict was not well. Corbett certainly agreed with that. The chaplain was clean-shaven and tidy, but his long, youthful face had a strange colour and his eyes were round and dark. He looked as if he’d slept badly and clutched his stomach as if he’d eaten something bad. He was also distracted and kept glancing away as if fearful of some malignant spectre hiding in the shadowy corners of the dais.

  ‘Sir Hugh,’ Dame Marguerite’s pretty face was slightly flushed, ‘what more can we tell you?’

  ‘I wish to be away from here, royal clerk.’ Master Benedict’s words came as a rasp. He glanced directly at Corbett. ‘This is truly a place of murder.’ He quoted from the Gospels. ‘Haceldama. The Field of Blood. I would be grateful if you would give me letters of commendation to Lord Drokensford and the King.’

  ‘Please, Sir Hugh,’ Dame Marguerite pleaded.

  ‘When this business is over, my lady.’

  ‘We know little,’ Master Benedict interrupted. ‘The night Lord Scrope was murdered, I was racked with a fever. Ask Dame Marguerite and the servants, I had a fever …’ His voice trailed off. ‘So many killings, Sir Hugh! Who will be next to be struck down?’

  Corbett ignored the question and pointed at the lady abbess.

  ‘Do you know anything about these murderous doings?’

  ‘No, sir. My brother was a law unto himself.’

  ‘Even about Acre,’ Corbett intervened, ‘after so many years?’

  ‘Even about that, Sir Hugh. He never talked about it, at least not with me. I am sure he did with Claypole, as he would about the Free Brethren, the Sagittarius or Le Riche. Sir Hugh, I know as much as you do. To be sure, they were all dreadful events, but remember, though I am lodged here now, I am abbess of a busy convent. The affairs of Mistleham Manor do not really concern me. I regret my brother’s death but I am more vigilant about Master Claypole than anything else, and, of course, advancement for Master Benedict. I have been as honest and truthful as I can.’ She paused. ‘I only wish Jackanapes had survived. He may have told you more. The thief Le Riche does not concern me. The leaders of the Free Brethren, Adam and Eve, together with others of their coven, often came to our convent, to beg, to pray in our chapel, but they did nothing wrong, they were harmless innocents.’

  ‘And the Island of Swans? Dame Marguerite, as a child you played on the manor estates. Was the lake only crossed by boat or bridge?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘The water is very deep, clogged with weeds, which makes it highly dangerous. My brother had the old bridge destroyed; it was where the jetties now stand. Some of his retainers were trained to row him across. The lake is dangerous, Sir Hugh. I cannot imagine how anyone could have crossed it without using one of those boats.’

  ‘So how do you think the killer did cross?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘I have reflected about that carefully.’ The abbess chewed on her lip. ‘I suspect he,’ she smiled prettily, ‘or she, swam across during the day.’

  ‘They would have frozen to death,’ Corbett declared.

  ‘Not necessarily, Sir Hugh. Someone who took a change of clothing, a small skin of wine. I could swim it.’ She smiled. ‘Despite the dangers, I sometimes did.’

  ‘But how would they gain access to the reclusorium?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘Perhaps the assassin inveighed my brother into admitting him. But,’ Dame Marguerite shrugged, ‘I know such an explanation poses as many problems as it solves.’ She rose to her feet, Master Benedict with her. ‘I can tell you no more, truly, Sir Hugh.’

  Corbett thanked the abbess and her chaplain. They both withdrew, Chanson closing the door behind them. Corbett straightened in his chair and turned to Ormesby.

  ‘Well, Master Physician, what do you think?’

  ‘I have served as a coroner, Sir Hugh, and my immediate conclusion, well, it’s threefold. First,’ he held up a stubby finger, ‘of course you have not
been told the truth here; that’s hardly surprising: no one here is going to make a full confession. Everybody has something to hide. What binds them all together is a deep dislike, even hatred, for Lord Scrope.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Second, Corbett, this is like a disease, a malignancy. The root, in my view, is the past. You keep asking about Acre; that seems to be the radix, the root of it all. Something mysterious undoubtedly happened there. Men from Mistleham went to Acre; only Scrope and Claypole returned. Old soldiers like to talk about their wars and battles, their wounds, the glories, the triumphs. Scrope and Claypole did not – why? We know they escaped. We also know they plundered the Templar treasury, but they haven’t really given the people of Mistleham, the likes of Father Thomas, a true and faithful account of how their colleagues died. Third, if Acre is the root, the flowering is what has happened here. We must, or you must, discover how a killer crossed that icy lake in the dead of night, without being seen or disturbed, and gained entry into a small but fortified house. The assassin then murdered Lord Scrope, who offered no resistance, plundered his treasures and escaped unscathed and unseen. I suggest, Sir Hugh,’ Ormesby got to his feet, ‘you begin there. If you can solve that, then I believe everything else will fall into place.’

  ‘I would disagree.’ Ranulf spoke up. ‘Master Ormesby, what you say is perceptive and truthful; nevertheless, there are lies we can still pick at. Master Claypole, for example. I don’t believe the story of Le Riche being captured and hanged out of hand; something’s wrong there. The same is true of Brother Gratian. He is so glib. He is hiding behind his status and his privileges. If we could only discover a path in.’

  ‘True, true,’ the physician murmured, ‘but gentlemen, unless you need me, I must be gone. I will visit Lady Hawisa.’ He stretched his hand out and clasped Corbett’s then Ranulf’s. ‘Please call on me again if I can be of further assistance but, as for the truth behind this? I cannot explain,’ he shook his head, ‘perhaps not even ever.’ And grumbling and muttering under his breath, the physician left the hall.