‘Surely,’ Adelicia declared, ‘if we, or one of us, murdered Evesham, are we not therefore responsible for the other dreadful deaths? Engleat, the two riffler leaders executed in a London tavern, the disgusting murders of Mistress Clarice and her steward Richard Fink? Oh yes, clerk, we’ve heard the rumours! The good brothers of the abbey are full of the chatter from the city. They may live the lives of monks, but they take a deep interest in the affairs of the world.’
‘To be blunt, mistress,’ Corbett smiled, ‘I watched you come into this room. You are not old, you’re strong, it’s possible you could have committed those murders or assisted someone else to do them. I will ask both of you again: is there anything you can tell me, on oath, that would help my investigation?’
They replied that there was not.
‘And you, Mistress Adelicia. This midnight conversation with a stranger claiming to be your brother, Boniface. He questioned you about a certain Beatrice; do you know who she was?’
‘No.’
‘Did your brother ever mention a woman called Beatrice?’
‘Never.’
Corbett sat back in his chair. ‘In which case, I thank you. You may return to the abbey, where, if I need to, I will visit you again. One final question.’ He picked up a piece of parchment. ‘Boniface Ippegrave wrote a riddle at the back of the Book of the Gospels in St Botulph’s: “I stand in the centre guiltless and point to the four corners”; you gave that to Mistress Adelicia?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do either of you know what he meant?’
Both chorused: ‘No.’
Too swift, too glib, Corbett thought, but he lifted his hand. ‘You may go. I wish you a safe journey.’
8
Ribaudaille
: camp-followers, the dispossessed
‘How did you . . .’? asked Ranulf as the door closed behind them.
‘Logic, Ranulf.’ Corbett chewed the corner of his lip. ‘It’s the only feasible answer. If two people really love each other and live in such close proximity, they will meet, and only death will stop that. I suspect they see each other quite regularly - oh, nothing wrong, like two children sitting whispering in the dark.’ He paused. ‘They’ve not told me the full truth. Oh no, Brother Cuthbert is far too curt. He watches me intently. He dreads a certain question, but for the life of me I don’t know what. Well,’ he called, ‘Chanson, bring in Parson John and Master Fleschner.’
The two men entered the room, swore the oath and took their seats. Parson John had shaved his face, though the bruises and marks still looked angry and there were dark rings around his eyes. Both men looked calmer, more composed than the day before, though the priest remained agitated, moving on the seat, playing with the folds of his robe. Master Fleschner on the other hand seemed half asleep. Corbett wondered if he had taken a deep-bowled goblet of wine to help him through the questioning.
‘I thank you for coming here,’ Corbett began. ‘Both of you have sworn the oath. You must realise how important this is and what penalties perjury carries. I know that you witnessed yesterday heinous and gruesome sins, but with your help I can solve these mysteries and bring the malefactor to justice. Now, Master Fleschner, I understand you are parish clerk at St Botulph’s and have been—’
‘For at least twenty-five years. I was also coroner in the ward, though I gave that up about ten years ago. I became tired of viewing corpses, gashed and garrotted, their heads caved in, limbs missing, dragged from the river or some rubbish heap covered in slime. There is more to life than death.’
‘Did you know Boniface Ippegrave?’
‘No, I didn’t. I had nothing to do with the affray of twenty years ago. I was busy elsewhere.’
‘But you knew the parish priest, now Brother Cuthbert, a recluse in Syon Abbey?’
‘Of course.’
‘And his friendship with Mistress Adelicia?’
‘I heard rumours, but that was tavern gossip, market chatter. I cannot help you with anything on that.’
Corbett stared hard at this peevish-faced man with his wispy moustache and beard. He was undoubtedly timid, yet he was too quick for one so nervous.
‘And the affray at St Botulph’s when the malefactors broke out of Newgate?’
‘Again, Sir Hugh, I know nothing of that. You summoned me to take down the proceedings of their trial in the church; what I know, you know.’
‘Tell me, Master Fleschner.’ Ranulf spoke up, putting down his pen. ‘Are you aware of any secret entrance to or from St Botulph’s church? After all, you are the parish clerk.’
‘No. If there is one it is very secret and very well concealed. I was born and raised in Cripplegate. I know of no secret passageway.’
‘And the attack on Parson John?’
‘I’ve told you what happened. Parson John asked me to meet him around the third hour after the sext bell. He told me he would leave the corpse door off the latch. I approached St Botulph’s. I heard a sound and went in. I saw a shadow come darting into the sanctuary, then it disappeared back into the sacristy. I heard a groan. I went across, entered the sacristy and found Parson John bound, though he’d broken free of the gag. I helped free him.’
‘On the same night Lord Evesham was murdered,’ Corbett continued, ‘Ignacio Engleat his clerk was barbarously slain at Queenshithe. Where were you, Master Fleschner?’
‘At home with my lady wife like any good citizen should be.’ Fleschner tugged at his robe. ‘Why, Sir Hugh, do you think I’m an assassin, a man like me?’
‘And where were you,’ Corbett insisted, ‘yesterday around midday, when Giles Waldene and Hubert the Monk were executed in the Angel’s Salutation?’
Fleschner closed his eyes and leaned back slightly. ‘I was busy on my own affairs. I was in Cheapside looking at the stalls.’
‘Do you have witnesses to that?’ Ranulf barked. ‘Witnesses who could swear to it?’
‘Of course not, of course not,’ Fleschner flustered.
‘Perhaps earlier in the day?’ Ranulf insisted. ‘When Mistress Clarice and Richard Fink were so cruelly slain at their house in Clothiers Lane.’
‘This is preposterous, ridiculous! I’m no assassin. I could no more wield an axe—’
‘Who said it was an axe?’
‘It must have been.’ Fleschner threw his hands out. ‘It must have been an axe to sever their heads.’
Corbett noticed how flushed the clerk’s face had become. He decided to leave him and turn to Parson John, who now sat like a man half asleep, just staring at the wall above Corbett’s head as if fascinated by the tapestry depicting Christ in judgement on the Last Day.
‘Parson John, tell me about yourself.’
‘You know who I am, Sir Hugh. I am the not so illustrious son of the very illustrious Lord Walter Evesham, once Chief Justice in the Court of King’s Bench. My mother died when I was three or four years of age, an accident in the street, I don’t know.’ He continued without a pause. ‘You are going to ask me about my father. The honest truth is, Sir Hugh,’ he stared hard at the clerk, ‘I didn’t know my father. He was always busy with this or that. I knew nothing about his affairs. I was a disappointment to him. He wanted me to become a knight banneret at the King’s court. I was sent to school at St Paul’s. I studied logic and theology in the halls of Cambridge and then I was sent to be a squire in the Bigod household in Norfolk. The old earl blithely informed my father that I could no more hold a sword than a frog could fly. I told my father, when he confronted me, that I did not wish to be a liveried killer. I wanted to be a priest. Of course, my father, with all his influence, secured that. I finished my studies, this time in the schools at Oxford, and was ordained by the Bishop of London. I served as a curate in parishes south of the river, and then my father, because he was a great lord and a figure of authority in Cripplegate, obtained my appointment as Parson of St Botulph’s. Again, I must make it very clear: I did not know my father.’
‘Did you know his second wife, Clarice?’
‘She was a kind, pretty, flirtatious woman. I was never close to her nor she to me. As I said, I spent most of my life away from the family home. Father didn’t object and neither did I. Sir Hugh, I know nothing of the affray involving Boniface Ippegrave that took place twenty years ago. I was not in Cripplegate but in Norfolk, and as for the rioters who broke out of Newgate, you saw what happened. They attacked my church, they killed my parishioners. They turned God’s house into a slaughter shed.’ He paused.
Corbett sat back in his chair. He’d fought in Wales and Scotland and he recognised that Parson John appeared fey-witted with shock. He sat slightly twisted, reciting his words as if by rote.
‘As for where I was and what I was doing,’ the priest blurted out, ‘when all these horrid murders took place, I was in the priest’s house preparing for the next day.’
‘And yesterday?’
‘The same. Master Fleschner here will bear witness. I planned to meet him in the afternoon to draw up inventories of our church goods. Sir Hugh, God knows I would love to assist, but I cannot.’
‘And now?’ Ranulf asked. ‘I mean, St Botulph’s lies under interdict. The Mass cannot be offered there, prayers cannot be said, and the church is closed.’
‘Why, clerk, I will follow Brother Cuthbert and petition Abbot Serlo to allow me to shelter at Syon. Not to become a recluse, just to think, pray and wait until this storm blows over and peace and harmony have returned.’ He got to his feet. ‘Sir Hugh, if you have more questions I’ll answer them, but the afternoon is drawing on and the evening will soon be here. I have things to do. I do not wish to stay in the priest’s house for much longer. Is Master Fleschner free to return with me? You know where I will be.’
Corbett nodded. ‘Very good, Father, for the time being we have finished.’
He watched both men leave. Chanson closed the door behind them, then looked expectantly at his master.
‘Sir Hugh, will there be any more?’ Chanson, although his great love was for horses, liked nothing better than to sit and watch his master twist and turn after his quarry; as he’d remarked to Ranulf, it was better than watching a hawk on the wing.
Corbett pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. He waited until Ranulf finished writing, then walked to one of the small windows, pulled back the shutters and stared out. The light was fading; bells and horns were sounding.
‘What do we do now, Sir Hugh? Who else is there to question? ’
Corbett gazed into the gathering darkness. ‘Who else is there?’ He spoke as if to himself. ‘Waldene and Hubert the Monk are dead. Mistress Clarice and her lover Richard Fink lie next to them in the corpse house. Evesham’s papers are either hidden in the King’s secret coffers or have been destroyed by fire. Tell me, Ranulf, of all the people named in this hideous tale, whom have we overlooked?’
‘The merchant Chauntoys,’ Ranulf replied. ‘The one whom Boniface met at the Liber Albus in Southwark.’
‘You heard the King: Chauntoys has long gone to God.’
‘But he may have married again.’
Corbett turned and smiled. ‘Very good, Ranulf. Seek out any family. Discover if there is anyone who could perhaps add a little more to this twisted tale. And now . . .’ He returned to his chair and picked up his cloak. ‘I’ll try to meditate on what I have listened to and what I have learnt. Perhaps I’ll walk across to the abbey and join the good brothers for vespers. Afterwards we’ll meet back here, take our supper and weave together all the different strands we’ve plucked.’
‘Stomach worms gnaw at me,’ Chanson wailed. ‘I’m hungry!’
‘We could go to one of the taverns,’ Ranulf offered. ‘There’s the Catch a Penny, or the Gate Hangs Well. Or I could,’ he joked, ‘get bachelor’s fare.’
‘Which is?’ Corbett asked.
‘Bread, cheese and kippers from a slattern.’
Corbett pulled a face. ‘No, the palace kitchens will serve a good platter. The King is returning from Sheen, where he’s been hunting, so the cooks will be well prepared.’ He clasped Chanson’s shoulder. ‘Calm the wolf in your belly, we’ll feed it soon enough.’
‘And you, master?’ Ranulf asked.
‘As I said, I will join the good brothers at their vespers. You’ll come?’
Chanson pulled a face and nursed his stomach. Ranulf gestured at the parchment still strewn across the table.
‘In which case . . .’ Corbett smiled and left them.
The antechamber was cold, the brazier full of spent ash. Servants had snuffed the candles, and only one cresset flame danced in the chilly breeze. Corbett went along the ancient wood-lined gallery to his own chancery office, where he sifted amongst documents received: sealed pouches and parcels containing reports, letters, memoranda and billae from spies, merchants, wandering scholars, friars, envoys at foreign courts, agents in Paris, Rome and Bruges, all forwarding the chatter of the various courts. Pulling the candelabra closer, he went swiftly through them. When he had finished, he snuffed the candle. There was nothing of note, nothing that could not wait. He rose, left the chamber and went down into a small garden enclosure. The light was fading fast but a wheeled brazier crackled beside a turf seat near a reed-ringed pond all calm under its skin of ice. Corbett sat down and pulled his cloak about him. The incense strewn over the charcoal fragranced the air. He relaxed, loosened his sword-belt and stared up at the sky. The stars were so clear and glittering. Words, images and memories from the recent questioning seethed through his mind; the various faces, gestures and mannerisms. What had he missed? What could he pursue? He was still perplexed. Certain mysteries, such as how Evesham had been so cunningly murdered, had been resolved, but that created other problems. Was Cuthbert the killer? Was Adelicia his accomplice? They certainly had good reason to cut the former chief justice’s throat.
Corbett got to his feet, tightened his sword-belt and re-entered the palace. Lost in his own thoughts, he wandered the galleries, passing through a vestibule where he noticed a group of the knight bannerets from the royal household in their resplendent livery. They clustered around one of the King’s jesters, a dwarf who was entertaining them with a droll story about a maiden, a knight and a certain chastity belt. The dwarf, a born mimic, played the various roles, provoking guffaws of laughter from these royal bully-boys, ‘knighted rifflers’ as Corbett secretly called them, killers who loved nothing better than the clash of battle and the song of the sword. He left the palace grounds and crossed the great waste area that separated the royal house from the abbey, its towers, buttresses and cornices soaring up like a majestic hymn in stone against the evening sky. Bells sounded, their clanging trailing away, an early warning to the brothers that vespers would soon begin.