‘Certainly.’
‘Very few survive,’ Mouseman continued. ‘You’re usually dead of gaol fever within a week, a month at the very most. Now, on the morning before the riot took place, rumours swept the gaol that Waldene was going to be pardoned and that it would be extended to his followers on condition they turned King’s Approver.’
‘You mean they would all turn King’s Approver?’
‘Yes, lord. They’d go in front of the justices, take an oath, and where possible convict Hubert the Monk and his followers. We would all have ended up dancing from the gibbet outside Westminster or at the Elms. Feelings began to run high. I don’t know how, but weapons were found, knives and clubs. We were marshalled in just before the noonday bell to receive our food, the usual slops and platter of dirt, and that’s when the riot began. We found doors unlocked and burst through into the great yard. A postern gate was prised open. We fled into the city, but,’ Mouseman held his hand up, ‘there was also a whisper, a rumour, that we should all assemble at St Botulph’s Cripplegate.’
‘Why that church?’
‘We were told it had a secret passageway that would take us out of the city and away from the sheriff’s men. They said—’
‘Who’s they?’
‘The people who passed the rumours. They claimed it would give us at least a day’s start ahead of the bailiffs.’
‘Why didn’t you go there?’
‘Lord, I may be an outlaw but I’m no fool. My companions were bloodthirsty men. I knew it would end violently.’
‘There was something else, wasn’t there?’
‘Yes, my lord. The escape seemed so well planned. I’d been a member of the Monk’s coven for at least a year. I’d heard of riots at Newgate, prisoners escaping, but that one? So many were involved, and the way clubs and knives appeared, the ease whereby doors and gates were forced . . . I suspected a trap. Moreover, once we broke free, Waldene and Hubert’s men began to attack citizens, fresh crimes that would certainly not go unpunished. I decided it was best to slip away. I fled to Sanctuary here at Westminster, and since then no one has troubled me.’
Corbett leaned back against the stone and stared up at a gargoyle’s face, a monkey with devil’s horns; next to it was a jester, bauble and stick in one hand, eyes protuberant, lips parted in a carved stone grin. Mouseman’s news confirmed his own suspicions. Waldene and Hubert the Monk had been moved to the pits to die and then their followers had been deliberately agitated. Somehow or other they were given weapons and easy passage out, as well as false information that a secret passageway from St Botulph’s would take them to freedom. Or was it false?
‘Well, my lord, what have I earned?’
‘Mouseman, you are well named. There’s many a door you can enter, and you’ve just entered by the most narrow one.’ Corbett patted the man on the shoulder. ‘Welcome to the light.’ He opened his purse, and took out a silver coin and a wax cast of his seal. ‘For your comfort,’ he advised. ‘Tomorrow, around the bell for sext, present yourself at the Chancery Chamber of the Green Wax, give your full name, show them the seal and ask for Ranulf-atte-Newgate. ’
‘I’ve heard of him.’
‘He will prepare the necessary letters. Then, Edmund Arrowsmith, also known as Mouseman, I suggest you visit a barber. Have your head and face shaved, buy some new clothes and, once your pardon is sealed, go back to St Albans and live in peace.’ He patted the outlaw on the shoulder and, with his thanks ringing in his ears, escorted him out of the palace back down the path to the Sanctuary. Mouseman was about to step out of the light when he turned abruptly.
‘Evesham?’ he called out. ‘The judge who proved to be a bigger sinner than all of us?’
‘What about him?’
‘We heard of his death. According to rumour, Waldene and Hubert the Monk were deeply troubled.’
‘Why is that?’ Corbett followed him into the night air.
‘Apparently they had been comrades of Evesham for many a year and a day. People said it was time all three of them fell, that’s all,’ and Mouseman disappeared into the darkness.
9
Lyam hound
: a bloodhound
Corbett hurried back up the stairs and along the gallery to the oyer and terminer chamber, where Chanson was sitting just within the door gnawing a piece of bread filched from the kitchens. He chewed the crust like some angry dog. Ranulf was laughing at him while sorting out the manuscripts on the table. He immediately told Corbett about the King’s visit. Corbett stood chewing the corner of his lip, studying Ranulf intently. His comrade nourished burning ambitions, which Edward was always eager to exploit.
‘Is that all, Ranulf?’ he asked.
‘Why yes, Sir Hugh. The King seemed in good humour,’ Ranulf replied evasively. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘And there was never anyone more given to double-dealing than he,’ Corbett murmured.
‘Master?’
‘Oh, just a line from Scripture about one of Israel’s kings. Now, the Mouseman . . .’ Corbett swiftly told them what he’d learnt, impressing upon Ranulf that when the Mouseman appeared at the Chancery of the Green Wax the following day, he was to be given every help and assistance. Ranulf assured him that he would be. Corbett then sent Chanson down to the kitchen with his seal, asking the cooks to provide them with what he called ‘a feast for the King’s good servants’. A short while later Chanson returned with two servants trailing behind him bearing trays carrying pots of hot quail covered in a spicy sauce, dishes of vegetables, small white rolls in napkins to keep them warm, pots of butter and a flagon of the best claret with three goblets. Ranulf had cleared the chancery table, pulling back the leather cover, and Corbett ushered Chanson to his seat, saying that it was time they feasted like princes. They ate and drank in silence. Now and again Ranulf would ask a question about what the Mouseman had said, but Corbett just shrugged and said that they would have to wait and see if his information fitted with the rest. Corbett ate and drank slowly. The more he’d reflected during his time in the abbey, the more he believed the roots of this mystery lay with Evesham and the events of twenty years ago. Yet where should he begin to dig? How could he delve deep and unmask an evil that had lain dormant for decades until abruptly manifesting itself in horrid murder?
Once they’d finished their supper, Chanson offered to take the platters and goblets down to the kitchen. Knowing that the groom wanted to sit and gossip with the other clerks of the kitchen and stable, Corbett let him go. Then he and Ranulf washed their hands at the lavarium and prepared the chancery table. Ranulf sat in Corbett’s chair, whilst Sir Hugh walked up and down trying to marshal his thoughts.
‘The beginning . . .’ He paused. ‘What do we have here, Ranulf? The
Mysterium Rei
– the Mystery of the Thing. It’s well named. Over twenty years ago a murderer prowled London, a professional assassin who carried out crimes on behalf of the rich and powerful. The Mysterium would remove undesirables, individuals the Great Ones wanted dead: a business rival, or a wife who’d served her purpose. He seemed to enjoy his work. He didn’t just kill silently, he left his own message. Why such revelling in heinous sin?’
Ranulf paused in his writing and lifted his head. ‘You’re saying he could have worked more secretly?’
‘Instead he had to boast, to proclaim. I detect a relish, a deep pleasure in what he did, a pride in his bloody handiwork. Most murderers kill stealthily; the Mysterium was arrogant, openly baiting judges, sheriffs and the Crown itself. According to what we know, Burnell the old chancellor hired an ambitious clerk, Walter Evesham, with his faithful lieutenant Ignacio Engleat, to trap the Mysterium. Evesham dedicated all his energies to the task. He must have studied the killer very closely. We now know how the Mysterium worked, but at the time, Evesham didn’t. What he did was watch and wait, sitting like some spider in the chancery listening for news from the city. One day he was fortunate. A merchant’s wife was murdered. The Mysterium left his taunting message, and although merchant Chauntoys might be suspected, he could go on oath that when his wife was killed he was elsewhere. Evesham’s logic was brilliantly simple. He waited for that merchant to return to London and brought him under close scrutiny. For a while Chauntoys acted the role of the grieving widower, but one day, like a fox hidden in the brambles, he decided to break cover. He went to the Liber Albus in Southwark, Evesham followed and lo and behold, in the same tavern, he found the clerk Boniface Ippegrave.’
‘Why was Evesham,’ Ranulf interrupted ‘and therefore Chancellor Burnell, so trusting in his belief that the Mysterium was a chancery clerk?’
‘You heard the King, Ranulf; the chancery receives all kinds of gossip: who hates whom, rivalries, animosities, husband and wife at each other’s throats.’
‘True, master, but so does the Guildhall and its clerks. Why was Evesham so insistent that the Mysterium must be a chancery clerk?’
Corbett paused in his pacing. ‘You are right,’ he conceded. ‘Clerks in the Guildhall also hear the gossip of the city, but that will have to wait. To return to what actually happened. Evesham arrests both Boniface and Chauntoys. The merchant acts guilty; he cannot really explain why he is there. More importantly, he is carrying a heavy purse of gold, an amount he would not take to a Southwark tavern unless he truly had to. Above all he holds a scrap of parchment informing him where to leave that gold. Chauntoys blusters but his guilt is obvious. Boniface, however, carries only a message that could have been scrawled by anyone, saying how his presence in that particular tavern at that hour would be for the greater profit of both himself and the King.
‘Evesham believes he has been successful. He has taken a comitatus with him. Some bailiffs return by barge across the river, others escort Chauntoys and Boniface over London Bridge and up towards Newgate. Now we don’t know exactly what happened. Boniface is simply under arrest; he has not been indicted, and also because he is a clerk, he is not chained or bound. He escapes and flees to St Botulph’s, where he claims sanctuary.’
‘Is St Botulph’s the nearest church?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I don’t think so, but Boniface knew the church and its parson; perhaps he thought he’d be safer there. You heard Sandewic: St Botulph’s is a secure place. Anyway, Evesham is beside himself with rage. He surrounds that church, allows no one to enter except himself, Engleat and the priest. Others visit, Staunton and Blandeford, but they are turned away. Adelicia also approaches. Evesham demands some token of recognition. Adelicia hands over her mother’s ring, which, according to Cuthbert, Evesham definitely gave to Boniface, because he saw him studying it. Sandewic at the Tower has been alerted, and St Botulph’s, its four doors in particular, is circled in a ring of steel. Nonetheless, on the third morning, when Evesham and Parson Tunstall enter, Boniface has vanished and hasn’t been seen since, either alive or dead.’
‘Could Mouseman be correct about a secret passageway?’ Ranulf asked, pausing as Chanson came back through the door. The clerk of the stables slumped down on a stool, crossed his arms and promptly fell asleep. Ranulf grinned and winked at his master.
‘Such a rumour would certainly solve the problem,’ Corbett conceded, ‘but according to what we know, I doubt if there is any such passageway. What we do know is that Evesham was furious. He berated Parson Cuthbert and Adelicia, but they could not help. Brother Cuthbert, a broken man, retires as a recluse to Syon Abbey. A short while later, Adelicia, distraught by what has happened, takes the veil as an anchorite to pray for justice.’
‘And Boniface?’
‘He protests his innocence from the moment of capture to that enigmatic message he left in the Book of the Gospels at St Botulph’s: “I stand in the centre guiltless and point to the four corners.” Nevertheless,’ Corbett continued, ‘whatever his excuse, he was found in that Southwark tavern. Now he may well have escaped; he may have returned. He allegedly visited his sister Adelicia and gave her their mother’s ring. However, if he has truly returned, he has now changed his plea to guilty.‘
‘Do you think he was?’ Ranulf glanced up.
‘Well,’ Corbett sighed, ‘there was the gold, and those scraps of evidence found in his chancery chamber. The old clerk Rastall, who was no one’s fool, detected nothing left there to incriminate him. The great hoarding at St Paul’s? How did Boniface learn about that? Evesham only discovered the method the Mysterium used when Chauntoys confessed in return for his life, so that is most damning. Then there’s the crude map of London showing where some of the murders took place.’
‘That still does not make him the Mysterium,’ Ranulf declared.
‘True,’ Corbett admitted, ‘but there are those other lists of names, Staunton and Blandeford, and that final scrap of parchment with the name of a woman, Emma, followed by Odo Furnival, Stephen Bassetlawe, William Rescales. Who were those? I also wonder what the enigmatic “B” and “M” means, or that square containing the first nine letters of the alphabet. Scraps,’ he murmured, ‘from twenty years ago.’ He sat down on a stool. ‘Let’s go back to Adelicia’s mysterious midnight visitor. Was it Boniface? And why the interest in the woman Beatrice; her name has never appeared before.’ He shook his head. ‘The mysteries of twenty years ago, like those of the present, are impenetrable. I am anxious, Ranulf. Is this one mystery we may just have to leave?’
Ranulf smiled. ‘We have not yet finished. Let’s continue.’
‘True,’ Corbett agreed. ‘So, item – Evesham: why was he in unholy alliance with Waldene and Hubert? For God’s sake, a chief justice of King’s Bench. And who betrayed him? Who was this writer from the Land of Cockaigne?’
‘The clerk Lapwing?’
‘Lapwing was definitely Staunton’s spy, but he openly admits he had no knowledge of Cockaigne. We will return to Lapwing later; let’s concentrate on Evesham. He is disgraced and resigns from his offices. The King allows him to destroy all his records – a great tragedy; those manuscripts might have helped us. Our noble judge then leaves his house, his pretty wife, faithless though she was, his status and wealth, to hide in Syon Abbey as a hermit. He chooses a place close to two people whose lives he has destroyed, Cuthbert and Adelicia.’ Corbett paused.