by Paul Doherty
'Why not ask the king?' Corbett said. 'You will have the opportunity if you refuse.' Plumpton sighed, and spun on his heel and stomped out.
Corbett stood looking round the sacristy, at the cupboards, the huge leather iron-bound chests, all padlocked, some of them with three, even four clasps; the barrels full of candles of various hues denoting their purity; boxes of sanctuary lights, tapers, casks of incense, nothing of real interest. He walked to where Plumpton had left a huge cupboard unlocked and pulled the door open. Inside were all the vestments the priests used in their services, each arranged in colours denoting the different liturgical seasons of the year. On the far left he saw the chasubles which had been used at that fatal mass and, going deeper into the cupboard, examined each of them minutely. One of them caught his attention and he studied the stain on it. Then, breathing quickly with excitement, Corbett closed the door as he heard footsteps in the passageway outside. Plumpton, accompanied by the other canons, stormed into the room. They were all angry at being called away from their different duties to dance attendance yet again on a common clerk. He could read their minds and knew the rancour they must feel for him. Only Blaskett and de Luce seemed calm.
Corbett waited for a while before speaking.
'Sir Philip, if you would, please.' He stepped aside and Plumpton brushed past him, the others following up the sanctuary steps, until they all stood before the altar. Corbett, who had picked up a plain pewter cup he had seen lying in the sacristy, asked the canons to arrange themselves as they were at the fateful mass, whilst he took the place of de Montfort. Once they had done so, Corbett made them go through the rite of communion. The cup was passed down, first to those on his right, de Eveden and Ettrick, the latter sent it back across the altar to Blaskett, who passed it to de Luce, Plumpton and so back to Corbett. One thing the clerk did notice, Ranulf was right: shielded by the rest, either de Eveden or Plumpton could have administered poison without the others noticing, though there was still the risk of alerting de Montfort. Moreover, if Plumpton or de Eveden was the poisoner, each would have noticed the other. Did the two conspire together? Corbett dismissed the thought as too fanciful, for the two men disliked each other intensely. There was no comradeship there, no feeling of conspiracy. Corbett was about to thank and dismiss them when suddenly a voice called out behind him.
'And the Angel of the Lord came down into the sanctuary and cleansed it with his sword!' Corbett turned and looked towards the anchor house. There in the slit he could see the bright eyes of the hermit glaring out at him. Corbett went down the stairs.
'What is it you want, man of God? Who is God's angel?'
'Why,' the anchorite's voice rang out clear as a bell, 'it is you, God's emissary sent to bring justice, and if not God's at least the king's.'
'Then, if you can see things so clearly,' Corbett said wryly, on the point of spinning on his heel and walking back to join the rest, 'could you not see who actually killed de Montfort?'
'I can see what you have been doing,' the voice replied. 'I have been working on the conundrum facing you.' 'And what is the solution?'
'Quite simple. You are wondering how the others could drink from the chalice after de Montfort, yet they live but he died. Am I not correct?'
Corbett nodded, watching the eyes intently.
'But they have not told you. Ask them.'
'Ask them what?'
'Ask them how many times de Montfort drank from the cup. Remind them of their Canon Law. Before a chalice is given as a symbol of peace, the celebrant always drinks a second time. The first time he drinks at the communion, the second time as the symbol of the kiss of peace. Why not ask them?'
Corbett twisted round and looked up at the canons. They had no need to answer, it was written in all of their faces.
'Sir priests,' he called out. 'It would be best if you waited for me. Perhaps in the sacristy.'
This time they went as dutifully and meekly as lambs.
Corbett moved closer to the anchorite's gap.
'Tell me, man of God, what did you see? Is there anything else I should know? What happened when de Montfort collapsed?'
All he received in reply was a quiet chuckle.
'Tell me,' Corbett insisted.
'I saw nothing,' the anchorite replied slowly. 'When de Montfort fell, so did I, on my knees here in my cell, to pray God would have mercy on his sinful soul. That is all the help I can give. Except one thing. Take care, Master Clerk. These canons wish you dead.'
11
Corbett, feeling angry and secretly alarmed, mumbled his thanks to the anchorite and strode back into the sacristy. The canons stood there like boys caught in some mischief. None of them would meet his eye.
'So,' Corbett began, 'we have a little mystery here.' He felt beneath his cloak, drew out his sword and held it up by the cross-hilt. 'I swear,' he said, 'unless you tell me the truth, now, about what you saw, felt or heard on that altar when de Montfort died, I swear by Christ's cross, I will see you all in the Tower by sunset!' He glared at each of them, sheathed his sword and leant against the corner of the table, arms folded. Plumpton came forward, licking his lips nervously.
'The anchorite spoke the truth,' he began. 'He must have seen it. One thing an anchorite always demands is a clear view of the altar, in order to see the cross as well as reverence the elevated host and chalice. De Montfort did drink twice from the chalice. You will find that in Canon Law he must.' He looked towards Ettrick. 'De Montfort in fact forgot. It was Sir David here who came across and reminded him.'
'Is that right, Ettrick?' Corbett snapped. The Scotsman nodded.
'I saw the chalice come back. De Montfort was about to turn to take it down the sanctuary steps. I went across and whispered in his ear. To an onlooker it would appear I was helping him in the rite. He raised the chalice, drank from it, the rest you know.'
'Do I?' Corbett said sharply. 'Is there anything else I should know?' No one answered. 'Is there anything else I should know?' he repeated. There was silence.
Corbett looked at Plumpton.
'Well, Sir Philip, there are a few more questions I would like to ask but, before I do that, I would like to remind you, Sir John,' he turned to the librarian, 'that you were the last person to hold the chalice before de Montfort drank from it.'
Sir John's face was a mask of tragedy. 'But that is not fair,' he spluttered. 'That is not fair. Your words are barbs.'
'Once I have solved the mystery,' Corbett replied, 'then these questions will stop. But, Sir Philip, you said de Montfort, like you all, kept the precious plate with which he used to celebrate mass here in the sacristy.'
Plumpton nodded.
'I would like to see it.'
Sir Philip took a bunch of keys from his belt and went to a chest in the far corner. It was made of leather and wood, bound by strips of iron and secured by four locks. Each needed a separate key. Once all the locks had been unclasped, Plumpton pulled back the lid and Corbett had to stifle his cry of astonishment at the gorgeous plate stored there, a treasure hoard even the king would have envied. Jewelled monstrances, golden patens, silver dishes, at least a dozen precious cups. Some were in pouches of red Spanish leather, others in boxes, but most just lay where they had been carelessly tossed. The inside of the trunk was lined with thick samite.
Sir Philip moved the cups around carefully before pulling one out. Corbett recognized the chalice he had held the morning de Montfort had died. Plumpton brought it across to Corbett. A beautiful piece of craftmanship, Corbett thought it must be at least a hundred years old. The cup was of pure gold, the stem and base of thick silver encrusted with gold and precious gems. He turned it over and saw the goldmaker's hallmark displayed on the base. The inside of the cup was beaten gold, pure, bright, so it caught the light of the candles. Corbett held it up to his nose and sniffed; there was a faint smell of polish and sweetened wine but nothing else. He moved it from one hand to the other, feeling its worth.
'There is no other cup like this?'
he asked, returning it to Plumpton. A chorus of denials greeted him.
'The cup,' de Eveden said hastily, trying to be of help, 'is unique. Only a master craftsman could have made it. It would be recognized anywhere as de Montfort's cup.'
Corbett nodded.
'There is one other matter. When de Montfort died, he must have left some papers?'
'Yes,' Plumpton said. 'We have them stored down in the treasure room. We have to draw up an inventory for the city sheriff and other officials.'
'Why was I not shown these?' Corbett asked. 'You showed me his chamber readily enough.' He looked around the sacristy. 'This place will do as good as any. I want those papers brought here. Now!'
Plumpton was about to protest but, after one look at Corbett, he changed his mind. He indicated a chair and table and hurried off. Corbett dismissed the rest, gratified to see they left the sacristy a little less arrogandy than when they had entered. At last Plumpton, followed by three servants huffing and blowing under the weight of a large leather-bound chest, returned. Corbett pointed to the table, on which the servants placed the chest and left the room. Corbett opened the lid.
'These are all de Montfort's documents?'
'All his moveables,' Plumpton replied, using the legal term. 'This is everything that de Montfort had, apart from his clothing, which you have seen. A number of books are here, all his papers and precious objects.'
'Fine. If you would, Sir Philip, continue your kindness by lighting more candles and having a brazier placed here, perhaps a little wine? I will go through the contents of this trunk and then you may have it back.' And, not waiting for an answer from the priest, Corbett began to unpack the large chest.
After three hours' searching Corbett concluded it contained little of importance. Apart from a large account-book there was nothing: pieces of parchment filled with notes, sets of prayer beads, a broken crucifix. The remaining documents were bills and memoranda but nothing to excite any interest. Corbett sent for Plumpton, whom he informed that he had finished, though he would take the ledger-book home for personal study. Sir Philip protested loudly but Corbett reminded him that his commission was from the king and, if he had any protests or objections, it was useless making them to the king's messenger but to go direct to His Grace at Westminster. Plumpton, looking very subdued, shouted for the servants to refill the trunk and swept out of the room. Corbett was also about to leave when he heard a faint knock on the door.
'Come in.' The door opened and John de Eveden, the librarian, entered like some contrite boy coming to apologize. He sat down on a stool just inside the door, his hands folded in his lap. Corbett stood, wrapping his cloak around him, toying with the clasp.
'Sir John, you wish to speak to me.'
The canon nodded.
'What is the matter, man?' Corbett asked. 'You come in here like a maid who has a confession to make.'
'I am no maid,' de Eveden said wryly. 'But I do have a confession.'
'Then give it.'
'I did not drink the wine.'
'What do you mean?'
'When the chalice was passed back, I did not drink the wine.'
Corbett went over and looked down at de Eveden. 'Why not?'
The priest shrugged. 'You laypeople do not know what it is like to be a priest,' he replied. 'You pass judgement on us. Hold us up as perfect specimens yet attack us when we are not. I am no different. My weakness, Master Clerk, or my weakness was, the grape, the wine. I used to spend days, long nights, drinking cup after cup – it was my only vice. I took an oath one night after I had drunk too much and found myself in circumstances I cannot describe. I crawled like a child into the sanctuary and took an oath. I would not drink wine ever again be it consecrated or not. That's all you should know.' He shrugged. 'I did not drink the wine de Montfort drank.'
Corbett stared down at him. Deep in his heart he felt the man might be telling the truth but he did wonder why, and why now.
'Tell me, Sir John,' he said, 'when de Montfort died and collapsed, what happened?'
'We stood around. I did not know what had happened, nor did my brethren.' De Eveden passed a hand over his eyes. 'All was confusion, chaos, I cannot remember. People rushing here and there.'
'Did you see anyone go to the altar?'
'No, I did not.'
'Nothing strange?'
'No, I did not,' de Eveden said firmly.
'The gossips amongst your brethren. Did they see anything strange?'
De Eveden looked sharply at Corbett. 'No, they did not. I swear that I have heard nothing, nothing extraordinary, nothing strange.'
'Tell me,' Corbett said, 'how were you dressed for mass? What did each of the celebrants wear?'
De Eveden spread his hands. 'The usual garments. We wore our robes and over them the long, white alb fastened by a gold cord, the amice, a strip of silk on our wrists, the stole about our necks. Over that the chasuble. Why?'
'Nothing,' Corbett replied. 'The chasubles? They are kept here?'
'Yes, they are.'
'And the albs, the white tunics worn under them?'
The librarian shrugged. 'As usual, they are passed to the laundress. She washes and presses them and that is the end of the matter. Why?'
'Nothing,' Corbett replied. 'You have told me all.'
Corbett left the librarian and strode out across the sanctuary and empty choir into the nave of the church. The business for the day was finishing; lawyers and parchment sellers were drifting off, and the twelve scribes, who sold their services to anyone who wished a letter written, were packing away their writing trays in small leather cases.
As Corbett was going out of the main west door, a hand caught his shoulder. He whirled, his hand going beneath his cloak for his dagger but, in the fading light, he recognized the fleshy, still beautiful face of the courtesan.
'What do you want, woman?' he demanded.
'You should not be so aggressive, Clerk,' she replied. 'I know you are probably asking questions about me so I thought I should come and introduce myself.'
'And your name?'
'Abigail. What do you want with me?' 'What did the Dean of St Paul's, Walter de Montfort, want with you?' The woman smiled. 'What any man does.' 'And what is that?'
'You are still too aggressive, Master Clerk. What is your name?'
'Hugh Corbett, senior clerk in the Chancery.' The woman mimicked his words. It was so accurate that, in spite of himself, Corbett smiled.
'I am sorry,' he said. 'I am cold. I don't like the task in which I am involved and I am tired. If you wish to play games then perhaps another time, but not now.'
'Tush, man.' The woman put an ermine-gloved hand on
Corbett's wrist. 'I only thought it was a matter of time before you came to see me so I thought I would do the courtesy of saving you a visit.'
'Fine,' Corbett said. 'But the question still stands. What was your relationship with Walter de Montfort?'
'Simple,' the woman said. 'I hold his house in Candlewick Street.'
'What do you mean, you hold it?'
'He rents it to me.'
'What is so special about that?'
'Oh, you have never been to my house, Master Clerk, but if you did, you would notice that there are many bedrooms, all of them luxuriously furnished.'
'You mean it's a brothel,' Corbett said, immediately regretting his brusqueness as the woman's eyes flinched with pain. Corbett looked steadily at her. Undoubtedly she had once been a most beautiful woman; her face was still heart-shaped, her eyes grey and well spaced; she had a perfectly formed nose and a mouth surely created for kissing. She was quick and intelligent, in a way reminding him of Maeve, with her tart replies and her ability to hold her own in any debate.
'And de Montfort,' Corbett said slowly, 'he knew you ran his house as a brothel?'
'Of course. He took half the profits.'
Corbett threw his head back and laughed. People leaving the cathedral stared at him, laughing so loudly in his dark-coloured clot
hes; it rang like a bell through the twilight. The woman smiled too.
'What is so amusing?' she asked.
Corbett wiped his mouth with his hand. 'In this world,' he said, 'nothing is ever what it seems to be. Look,' he said, 'tell me about de Montfort.'
She shrugged. 'As any man, he sunned himself like a barnyard cock strutting on his dunghill. He played his roles, acted out his parts. You see it all the time, Master Corbett. De Montfort in his robes up on the high altar – I have seen him in less, how can we say, celebrated positions. And yet,' she continued, 'he is no different from others. No different from the king, who pursues justice yet squeezes taxes from his people; or a knight who wears the red cross of the Crusaders and grabs a sword to hack down people for sweet Jesus's sake; or a priest who pretends that he is better than anyone else, yet who is far worse for not practising what he preaches.' She edged a little closer so Corbett could see the pale creaminess of her skin and catch the fragrance of her perfume. 'What are you, Master Clerk?' She gazed steadily into his eyes. 'No, you are not a barnyard cock,' she said. 'You are a hawk. You sit high up in the tree and survey everything with cold detachment; functional, you carry out your tasks.'
Corbett would have retorted angrily to anyone else, but the woman's wit and strength of character had left him virtually speechless.
'Well, Master Corbett. Now you know who I am and my relationship with de Montfort.'
'One question,' Corbett said. 'Are you glad he is dead?'
He saw the hate blaze like a fire in the woman's eyes.
'Yes, I am,' she replied fiercely. 'He was a cruel villain. He cheated me, persecuted me and, unless I followed instructions to the letter, threatened me with beadles, officials and a public whipping through the streets. He was always there with his hand out, ensuring I gave him half of what I earned. Yes, I am glad he is dead. Whoever killed him performed me a favour. If they hadn't done it, Master Clerk, believe me, in time I would have.' And, spinning on her heel, her skirts billowing around her, she clattered down the steps. Corbett called after her.
