by Paul Doherty
'You often sat there?'
'Yes, I did,' Eveden replied. 'I spied on de Montfort, if that is what you are saying. I hated the man.'
'Do you know the relationship between de Montfort and his strange woman visitor?' Corbett asked.
'No, I do not. I suspect she was his mistress.'
'But, Sir Philip Plumpton…' Corbett said slowly, 'he insinuated that de Montfort was a sodomite and attempted to corrupt the young priest, Blaskett.'
De Eveden snorted with laughter.
'It wouldn't take much to corrupt Blaskett!'
'What does that mean?'
'Ask him yourself, Clerk. I am not here to answer questions about him.'
'Yes, that's right,' Corbett continued. 'You are here to answer questions about de Montfort. Tell me, in the days before de Montfort's death, did you have any argument with your dean?'
'No, I tried to avoid him.'
'On the day he died during the mass, you drank from the chalice and passed it back? Is that correct?'
'No,' de Eveden replied quickly. 'I did not. Remember, I was standing immediately on de Montfort's right. After me, Ettrick drank from the chalice before handing it to de Montfort who gave it to the other three. They touched and drank from it after I did.'
'Ah, yes,' Corbett said, 'when the chalice finally returned you were standing next to it, as you said, immediately on de Montfort's right.'
De Eveden smiled. 'You forget one thing, Clerk – de Montfort had already taken the' chalice and drunk from it. He did not do so again.'
'How do you know that?'
The man seemed lost for words. 'That was the rite.'
'But you didn't actually see him not drink from it?'
'I didn't see him drink from it again,' de Eveden emphasized. 'Anyway, what are you saying? Do you think de Montfort would have just stood there and let me put some powder into the chalice and tell him to drink again? Wouldn't you think that was suspicious?'
'Yes, I would,' Corbett said. 'Thank you, Sir Priest.'
De Eveden glared at him, gave the sketchiest of bows, rose and stalked out.
Plumpton was next. He waddled in, his face wreathed in smiles. Corbett asked him the same questions and received the same answers. Yes, he hated de Montfort. Why? Because he believed de Montfort was the wrong man for such high office. He made the same insinuations against de Montfort's private life but offered no substantial evidence. Corbett nodded understandingly as he talked. Plumpton seemed satisfied with his answers and Corbett allowed him to run on until, just before the priest thought he was going to be dismissed, Corbett leaned forward and touched the man gently on his hand.
'Two problems concern me,' he said. 'You were standing to the left of de Montfort at the altar?'
'Yes, I was.'
'The chalice was passed back by you after the other celebrants had drunk from it?' 'That is correct.'
'It would have been easy, Sir Priest, to put some potion in?'
Plumpton shrugged. 'It would have been easy,' he agreed, 'except for two things. First, de Montfort did not trust me. He was sharp-eyed, and would have seen me put anything into the chalice. The mass would have stopped as dramatically as it did, only for a different reason. The second thing, Master Clerk, is that, as I am sure Sir John de Eveden has told you, de Montfort had already supped from the chalice. There was no reason for him to raise it to his lips again.'
Corbett sat and thought about what Plumpton had said. Had anyone seen Sir Walter raise the chalice again after it had been passed back? Yet, he must have drunk from it a second time just after the poison had been put in. For, if it had been there when he first drank from it, the other celebrants would also have died. So what did happen? He dismissed Plumpton courteously, but suddenly called him back.
'Sir Philip, I am sorry, there is one more question.'
The man turned, his hand on the latch of the door. 'What is it, Clerk?'
Corbett looked at him; he realized the priest's earlier friendship was a disguise; this man was dangerous, ambitious, ruthless. He took a slight insult as a serious threat, being a man who had probably risen, like himself, from common stock and believed every breath he drew should be fought for.
'Sir Philip,' Corbett said placatingly, 'I said there were two questions. The other one is this. You were very quick to point out that the wine sent by the king was poisoned. How did you know that?' Corbett watched the smile disappear from the man's face.
'I…' he stammered.
'Yes, Sir Priest?'
'There is a small vestry off the sacristy. You may have noticed it. After we had brought the body in, I went in. The wineskin was lying there, the stopper on, the cup beside it. I uncorked it. It smelt strange. After you had examined de Montfort's corpse, so did I. I smelt the poison from de Montfort's rotten dead mouth, the same odour from the wine pannikin. I therefore concluded that someone had sent poisoned wine to de Montfort before the service began.'
'Did you put the wineskin there?'
'No, I did not.'
'What made you think that a priest who knew Canon Law would break his fast by drinking such wine?'
Plumpton shrugged. 'De Montfort broke many rules.'
'I have asked you that before. Which ones?'
'I don't know,' Plumpton cried. 'He was a very secretive man, very, very secretive. I am only the sacristan. Perhaps others can help you.'
'What made you think,' Corbett persisted, 'that it was de Montfort who drank from that bottle?'
'I didn't,' Plumpton retorted. 'I simply saw the wine pannikin, a cup beside it. I watched you examine de Montfort's body and sniff at his mouth. I followed suit, then went back and examined the pannikin. That was when I knew it was poison.'
'But you did not put it there?'
'No, I did not.'
'Then who did?'
'I don't know.'
'Thank you, Sir Priest.'
Once Plumpton had gone, Corbett turned to his two companions. Hervey, crouched over the parchment, was busy filling the white sheet with neat, blue-green letters. Ranulf just sat there, an astonished look on his face; for him the interrogation of such powerful priests was better than any miracle play or pageant seen in a London street. Corbett leaned over and with his fingers gently closed his servant's gaping mouth.
'Ranulf, I have never seen you so quiet.'
'Master,' Ranulf replied quickly, asserting himself, 'in the city, in the streets, we hear of these plump, rich priests. We see them walk like lords wherever they wish. They have their own courts, their own treasures. They live their own lives, have special rights and privileges.' He beamed at Corbett. 'I have never seen anyone interrogate them the way you have.'
Corbett smiled. 'Well, I am glad I have given someone pleasure.' He looked at Hervey but Hervey was lost to the world, fully immersed in what he was writing.
'Master William,' Corbett called. The little clerk looked up. 'You are making a faithful copy?' The man nodded vigorously. 'Good. Ranulf, tell Master Ettrick we await him.'
Ranulf scrambled to his feet and disappeared out of the door. He returned immediately, the Scottish canon behind him, an aggressive look on his face. Even the way he walked seemed more suited to an army camp than to the precincts of a cathedral.
'Sit down, Master Ettrick.'
'Thank you.'
'You are Scots?'
'So I have said.'
'You have always been a priest?'
'No, I have not. I have often served the king in campaigns.'
'In whose retinue?' 'The Earl of Surrey's.' 'You are related to him?'
'No, I am not related to him!' Ettrick snapped back. 'But in King Edward's early wars in Scotland, I made myself useful to the king and, more particularly, to the earl.'
Corbett nodded. He knew what 'useful' meant; he had met such priests before in Scotland and Wales, men who had gone over to the side of the invader, supplying them with information, secret missives and rumours. A treacherous man? Corbett wondered. He would find out.
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'And you received the prebend here?'
'I owe a great deal to the Earl of Surrey.'
'I am sure the earl trusts you as a faithful retainer?'
'He does.'
'But for the earl to obtain such a wealthy prebend,' Corbett continued, 'would also need the backing and support of the Bishop of London.'
'Not in this case,' the Scotsman replied. Corbett noticed how his accent became more pronounced as he fought to keep control of his temper.
Then who?'
'I have only been a canon here for two years. I owe a debt of gratitude to his Lordship, Robert Winchelsea, the Archbishop of Canterbury.'
'Ah!' Corbett let out a sigh and stared up at the rafters.
'Is there anything wrong?' Ettrick asked bitingly. 'Is there anything wrong with my Lord Archbishop's recommendation?'
'No, Sir Priest, there is nothing wrong. Did you like de Montfort?'
Ettrick shrugged. 'As I have said, I have not been here very long, two years.'
'You have risen fast to the post of almoner. You are responsible for dispensing the cathedral's charity?'
"That is correct.'
'Therefore you must have had many dealings with the dean?'
'No, mainly with de Luce. I mean, Sir Robert de Luce.' Corbett noticed the change in the man's voice.
'He is the treasurer and I referred all matters to him.' 'Did you know anything about de Montfort?' 'Nothing. I very rarely talked to the man.' 'Why not?'
'I have no cause or grievance against him, I simply did not like him. I found him forbidding.' 'But you heard rumours?'
The Scotsman shrugged. 'In any community, the leader is disliked. Rumours, charges are levelled.'
'And what was said about de Montfort?' Corbett persisted with his questions.
The Scotsman gave a deep sigh. 'Nothing much. Nothing substantial. They just disliked the man, resented his leadership, his arrogance, his pride.'
'Did you find your new prebend suitable?'
'What do you mean?'
Corbett grimaced. 'For a Scotsman. England and Scotland are now at war.'
Ettrick bit back the reply. 'I have already told you,' he said patiently, 'many Scotsmen's allegiance is to King Edward, not to some faction lord or robber baron, or that peasant Wallace.'
Corbett studied the man carefully. Now he saw real hatred in his eyes. This man was different; he did not hate de Montfort. This man detested his native country. There was a secret here somewhere. Corbett thought the matter would wait.
'Thank you, Master Ettrick.' As the man was about to leave, Corbett, using the same trick as with Plumpton, called him back.
'Master Ettrick, one matter. Did you know anything about the gift of wine to Sir Walter?'
'No, I did not.'
'Thank you. I may ask you to return.'
The priest turned his back and shrugged. 'Then you had better hurry up, Clerk, for the Earl of Surrey intends that I join his retinue and go back north to Scotland.'
'Do not worry,' Corbett jibed in return, 'I am sure this matter will soon be resolved.'
De Luce was next, different from the rest: cold, ascetic, a man fully in control of himself. He had a quick brain and was a born administrator, a shrewd assessor of character. Corbett reckoned de Luce to be about his own age, in his mid-thirties while the rest of the canons he had questioned, with the exception of Blaskett, were well past their fiftieth summer. Corbett asked the usual questions about the wine pannikin and the mass, but learned nothing new. De Luce could remember nothing unusual so Corbett turned to de Montfort's elusive private life.
'You are the cathedral treasurer?'
De Luce nodded.
'There were rumours about de Montfort's private life?' 'That is correct.'
'Was he associated with any squandering of money or funds?'
'No. The accounts were kept in good order. In fact,' de
Luce scratched his chin as if irritated by the question, 'de Montfort prided himself on not interfering with one penny of the cathedral's revenue. All money matters were left to me. He trusted me implicitly.'
'Was de Montfort a rich man?'
'Yes, very rich.'
'The source of his wealth?'
De Luce shrugged. 'He had a manor in Cathall, near the village of Leighton in Essex, but I never saw his accounts. He kept those himself.'
'A house?'
'Yes, he had a large house near Holborn but, as I have said, he kept his accounts to himself. They were distinct from those of the cathedral.'
'Did you know any of de Montfort's friends? A woman?'
De Luce's eyes narrowed. 'There were rumours, stories of scandal. I know what the others may have told you. I saw the same. A blowsy, rather overdressed woman who used to often meet him in the cathedral, but there is nothing scandalous in that. Is there, Clerk?'
'No, there isn't,' Corbett tardy replied. 'Fine, Sir Priest. I believe there is only Master Blaskett left.'
The young secretarius, when he entered, was nervous, his smooth, plump, olive-skinned face creased with concern, and he had his hands hidden in the sleeves of his robe. Corbett suspected this was to prevent him from seeing them tremble. He waved Blaskett to a seat.
'You were the dean's secretarius?'
The man nodded.
'Responsible for all letters sent out?'
'Yes, that is correct. I despatched and looked after all documents, memoranda, bills and indentures connected with the cathedral.'
'And how long have you held the post?'
'A year.'
'What was your relationship with your dean?'
The young man bowed his head and studied the table.
Corbett watched him.
'I asked you, sir, what was your relationship with your dean? Sir Philip Plumpton insinuated that the dean did not act as he should have done, either as a man or as a priest.'
Blaskett's eyes flickered up. Corbett noticed how long the lashes were, how girlish the eyes, now brimming with tears. Was this man strong enough to plan and carry out a blasphemous murder?
'The dean,' the secretarius began slowly, 'was a strange man, with strange desires, very secretive. I have held this benefice a year and never once did I see a document or write anything for him which could be held against him. Yet there was a…' Blaskett paused. 'I do not mean to speak ill of the dead, but there was a smell of corruption about him. He was very friendly and sometimes when I was sitting writing he would stroke my hair. I objected. Plumpton, a man who loves listening to other people's conversations, heard the ensuing altercation.'
'And after that? I mean,' Corbett said, 'your relations with the dean?'
'Cold and formal. I think if he had lived,' Blaskett paused. 'I think if he had lived, perhaps I would have been dismissed from my post. Not from my prebend, but as a secretarius.'
'Do you know, Sir Stephen, anything which might solve this mystery of why de Montfort died? Who killed him? When and how?'
'No, I do not.'
Corbett looked at the scrap of parchment which bore the plan of where the celebrants stood at that fateful mass.
'Sir Stephen, may I remind you, that you were the last person to drink from the chalice before it was passed back to the dean.' Corbett stared at the young man. 'Some people might say because you held the chalice last, it gave you the opportunity to poison the wine.'
Blaskett almost sniggered. 'For a man who is a chief clerk in the king's chancery,' he said spitefully, 'you are peculiarly dull-witted. You have asked that question of all my colleagues and yet you consistendy ignore one fact.' 'Which is?' Corbett snapped.
'After the mass was stopped and de Montfort's body was carried to the sacristy, I understand you examined the chalice and other sacred vessels on the altar?'
'That is correct.'
'I also saw the chalice later. Did you detect any sign of poison in the consecrated wine?' 'No, I did not.'
'Then how could I put poison in a cup from which de Montfort drank but whic
h you later found to be free of poison? There is a conundrum there, Master Clerk. I think you should resolve that before you start implying, however much I may have disliked de Montfort, that I slipped poison into a sacred chalice during mass.'
Corbett stared at Blaskett. The young man's rather effeminate, childish approach was just a mask. In fact, he was probably the sharpest of all those he had interviewed and the riddle he posed could not be resolved. If the chalice was poisoned, why had he failed to detect poison in it when he examined the sacred vessels? Corbett mused on this puzzle for a few moments before continuing his interrogation.
'Sir Stephen,' Corbett said, 'it could well be that in the confusion and chaos following de Montfort's sudden death, somebody came back to the altar with another chalice.'
The young priest laughed.
'What are you saying? That there were two identical chalices? But that was de Montfort's. There are no two chalices in our inventory, or amongst the church plate, which are so similar. You are saying that someone, while people are rushing around the sanctuary examining de Monfort's body and taking it to the sacristy, someone came up with a similar cup, placed it on the altar and took the poisoned one away? And no one noticed? And that this person had such a chalice ready? I find that incredible.'
Corbett looked away and stared up at the rafters. It was incredible but there was something, something Blaskett had touched on which stirred a memory. The thought eluded him. Something he had seen on that altar which was wrong, which should not have happened.
He glanced back at Blaskett. 'I thank you for poindng out the conundrum, Sir Stephen. I have finished with my questions. I would be most grateful if you could ask your colleagues to return.'
A few minutes later, the canons, all of them openly resentful at being summoned hither and thither by a man like Corbett, filed into the chamber and regrouped themselves around the table. Corbett asked a few desultory questions, particularly about de Montfort's wealth, before turning to Hervey.
'Master William, I would be grateful, once this is finished, if you would draw up a letter in the king's name and take it back to Westminster to seal, ordering the sheriffs and bailiffs of Essex to examine Cathall Manor and send to the Chancery immediately any reports they may have about Sir Walter de Montfort or his properties in Essex.'
