Corbett held his hands up. ‘Again this is conjecture. Boniface must have been truly desperate. The evidence against him could appear truly damning.’ He emphasised each point on his fingers. ‘He could provide no acceptable explanation for his presence with Chauntoys in the Liber Albus. He had escaped and sought sanctuary. Eventually he would have to leave the protection of Holy Mother Church and face the hideous risk of capture or being killed. I suspect that once again he was offered the chance to flee. There was a risk, but it was one that I, and I suspect all of you, would have taken. He had done all he could by voicing his suspicions on the page of that Book of the Gospels.’ ‘But his suspicions were about Evesham,’ Ranulf insisted. ‘Why should Boniface trust him?’
‘Perhaps Evesham assured him that all he wanted was for Boniface to flee, disappear. Or,’ Corbett paused, ‘did Evesham use Engleat? Whatever, Evesham, or maybe just Engleat by himself, revealed a plan for Boniface to escape by night. Now imagine it. Darkness falls. Engleat enters the church, bringing with him Evesham’s cloak, and tells Boniface a farrago of lies about wanting to help. The solution is so simple. They will walk out through a different door from the one Engleat entered by. Let us say Engleat entered by the north door. He collects Ippegrave, gives him Evesham’s cloak and they leave by the corpse door. Who cares? It is dark. All the guards would see is Engleat, and someone they think is Evesham, all cloaked and cowled, leaving the church. Why should they challenge them? Master Evesham had been hot in his detention of Boniface, the last thing those guards expected would be for the very men who’d organised Ippegrave’s arrest and then so stringently blockaded the church to be helping their prisoner to escape. Such duplicity, surely, Master Constable, would be beyond your guards’ comprehension?’
‘True, true,’ Sandewic agreed, ‘and like this morning we simply had to watch for a fugitive dressed in a Lincoln-green cloak trying to escape. Two men, muffled and cowled, leaving in the dead of night would pass unnoticed. Moreover, the guards were accustomed to seeing Evesham and Engleat together, as we were you and Master Ranulf. We would never dream that such duplicity was being played out.’ The constable shook his head. ‘So simple,’ he murmured, ‘so very, very simple, yet so clever.’ He cradled his blackjack of ale and whistled under his breath. ‘Of course,’ he half smiled, ‘the guards would be tired, sprawling by their fire. Darkness had fallen. The door opens, unlocked by Engleat, and two men walk out. Engleat assures the guards that all is well and the two figures stride into the night.’ Sandewic snapped his fingers. ‘All over in a few heartbeats, no longer than it would take to gabble an Ave.’ He pointed at Corbett. ‘You did the same with Chanson this morning, didn’t you? We were all looking for a man dressed in a Lincoln-green cloak.’
‘Of course,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Ranulf and I entered St Botulph’s. Ranulf gave Chanson a black cloak to cover his own. Chanson and I left by one door, Ranulf by another. Who’d notice? Who really cared if Ranulf was no longer wearing a cloak? The guards recognised him as my faithful lieutenant, so why challenge him? Such a ploy would be even easier in the dead of night, with cloaks pulled tight, deep cowls shrouding heads and faces.’ He paused. ‘I know Boniface must have been suspicious, but he was already trapped. Why shouldn’t he seize an opportunity to escape? I don’t really understand how it actually happened. Perhaps Engleat depicted himself as an angel of light. Chanson here left for a warm tavern, but Boniface was hurried to his death. You can imagine Engleat and Boniface passing quietly and quickly through that cemetery. The assassins, probably Waldene and Hubert, springing up from the ground, knives glittering. It would be over so quickly. St Botulph’s cemetery is a sprawling place. Boniface is knocked to the ground by a blow to the back of his head, then his throat is cut. Remember, it was summer. Cuthbert has told us how graves had been dug before the sun baked the ground too hard. Boniface’s corpse was tumbled into one of these, then dirt was thrown over it. One corpse amongst many. Who would even think? Somewhere in God’s acre, poor Boniface’s remains have turned to dust. Our Lady be my witness, I wouldn’t even know where to begin my search for them.’
‘Yet if Evesham was still alive,’ Sandewic declared, ‘what you allege would not be enough to convict him before King’s Bench.’
‘True,’ Corbett conceded, ‘it’s all conjecture, surmise, but it’s the only logical conclusion I can reach. Evesham of course was a sinner to the bone, a killer to his very heart. He never changed. He let the dust settle after Ippegrave’s disappearance. After all, he was now very wealthy. He’d won the personal attention of the King and was promoted. A great future lay before him. Naturally the Mysterium couldn’t return, but Evesham did, like a dog to its vomit. He was caught in the toils of sin. He liked to live the noble judge in the light of day and the thief, the rogue, the outlaw once darkness fell.’
‘But if you are correct,’ Ranulf interviewed, ‘and Boniface Ippegrave was murdered at St Botulph’s, then who visited his sister? The ring he produced? How do you explain that, Sir Hugh? How do you account for the murders of Evesham’s wife Clarice, Richard Fink, Waldene, Hubert the Monk and Fleschner the coroner?’
‘I don’t know,’ Corbett sighed, ‘not yet. Waldene and Hubert were killed possibly because of their involvement in Lady Emma’s murder, and the same is true of Fleschner. He was coroner at the time she was slain.’ He chewed his lip. ‘All I can say is that the killer seems absolutely determined to annihilate Evesham and all his coven. I believe Engleat, Waldene, the Monk and Fleschner were all caught up in Evesham’s web of wickedness. I still can’t understand why Clarice and Richard Fink were so barbarously murdered and their heads left in the baptismal bowl at St Botulph’s.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t think I will ever secure hard evidence. We are going to have to trap this killer another way. Now look,’ he turned to Chanson, ‘you are to take writs, sworn out by Ranulf and sealed with green wax, to Brother Cuthbert, Adelicia and Parson John at Syon Abbey. They are to present themselves at the third hour, early tomorrow morning, in St Botulph’s church. Once you have delivered the summons, the same applies to Staunton and Blandeford. They too must be brought in. Sir Ralph,’ he pointed at the constable, ‘in the early hours you are to visit the clerk Lapwing. You are to take both him and his mother from their house in Mitre Street and bring them to St Botulph’s under close guard. Ranulf, once you have the writs sworn out, I want that church cleaned, a judgment table and chairs set up, benches, stools and wheeled braziers. Bring some warmth to that benighted place, for tomorrow I shall hold court there.’
‘At St Botulph’s?’ Ranulf exclaimed.
‘Why not?’ Corbett declared. ‘Is it not customary for judges to sit where the actual crime has been committed? Why go to Westminster? Now,’ he gestured to a tap boy, ‘your presence this morning saved me. I just regret it didn’t save poor Griffyths. So before we part, one further blackjack of ale to warm our stomachs and gladden our hearts. Gentlemen,’ he raised his almost empty tankard, ‘to tomorrow’s hunt . . .’
Later on, Corbett lay on the bed in the chamber he had hired at the Golden Thistle. A comfortable room, warmed by the kitchen and scullery below, it was sparse but clean and tidy. Corbett, having removed his boots, sword-belt and cloak, sprawled staring up at the brightly covered tester. He was still puzzled and confused.
‘Some of this mystery,’ he murmured, ‘yes some of it is understandable, but the rest . . .’ He still faced the vexed question he had not voiced to his companions when they’d met below. Whoever had committed these hideous murders knew everything that had happened twenty years ago. Corbett was sure of that, but who could it be? He had his suspicions but no evidence; that would have to wait until tomorrow.
13
Ingenium
: a poacher’s trap
At the third hour the following day, Corbett’s court of oyer and terminer opened at the foot of the sanctuary steps beneath the great rood screen of St Botulph’s. Corbett openly wondered where Ranulf had spent the previous day, the Clerk of the Green Wax being absent until very late. Only as they broke their fast after attending the dawn Mass did he admit that he had spent a considerable amount of time establishing where those summoned had actually been when Corbett had been attacked.
‘I went to Syon to investigate our three recluses. Brother Cuthbert and Adelicia claimed they were in their separate cells, though God knows if that’s the truth. Parson John, however, was not in his. He’d felt unwell and was admitted to the infirmary. Its keeper stoutly maintained that he remained there until yesterday evening. As for Staunton and Blandeford, well,’ Ranulf pulled a face, ‘very difficult to establish where they were, so busy were they about their duties, visiting friends, doing business at the Guildhall and elsewhere.’
‘And Master Lapwing?’
‘He claims he was at home with his sickly mother, who as you will discover is not so poorly.’
Corbett stared down the church, to where those summoned sat on benches around the roaring braziers.
‘They have every luxury,’ Ranulf murmured. ‘The church is now warm.’ He pointed to a side table bearing jugs of mulled wine, platters of bread and dried meat. ‘They can eat and drink to their hearts’ content.’
‘Did they object?’
‘Staunton and Blandeford were their usual arrogant selves. They’d heard about the attack on you and were curious. Well, is everything ready, master, the way you want it?’
‘Yes,’ Corbett replied. ‘Yes it is, thank you.’
Ranulf had borrowed the great table from a nearby tavern. It was cleaned and washed, and on it was stretched Corbett’s commission with its blood-red seals next to a Book of the Gospels. Close to this stood ink pots, a tray of quills, pumice stones and fresh sheets of the finest vellum. Corbett stared at these. He’d been through the records, and sensed there was a way forward. He’d have to gamble, as he had before, on his secret adversary’s malicious arrogance. If he could exploit that, perhaps his opponent would make a mistake. He closed his eyes, whispered a prayer then rose and walked down the nave to meet those summoned.
Staunton and Blandeford looked as sleek and proud as ever, glistening faces framed by vair-lined hoods, the gold and silver clasps of their cloaks glittering in the light of the torches and the host of candles Ranulf had lit.
‘Good morning, Sir Hugh. We heard rumours of an assault on you, the King’s own clerk!’ Staunton shook his head in disbelief, while Blandeford tutted under his breath. Corbett held their gaze. They were not one whit concerned, but nursed their smugness as they did their goblets of hot posset. ‘You’ll not keep us long, Sir Hugh?’ Staunton jibed. ‘We too have business.’
‘Not long,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Not long!’
‘God save you, Sir Hugh,’ declared Parson John, pushing back his hood.
Corbett smiled at the anxious-faced priest. Despite what he’d suffered, Parson John certainly looked better, clear-eyed, face shaved, more composed. On either side of him sat Brother Cuthbert, bleary-eyed and half asleep, and Adelicia, pale-faced and tense. Corbett nodded at them and wondered if they had spent the night together discussing what was happening. Parson John must have told them about the bloody mayhem in and around St Botulph’s.
‘Sir Hugh, may I introduce . . .’
Corbett turned to greet Lapwing, all strident and alert in his tawny cote-hardie and black leggings, a heavy mantle of costly sarcanet about his shoulders.
‘Master Escolier.’ Corbett clasped his hand and glanced at the lady seated behind Lapwing. She didn’t rise, but proffered a slender snow-white hand. Corbett bowed, kissed her fingertips then grasped her hand, the skin warm, smooth, soft as silk. He caught the look of slight alarm in her cold blue eyes and noticed the wisps of faded blonde hair beneath the tight wimple framing her lovely face: skin like alabaster, smiling full lips, high cheekbones unadorned by any paints or paste. She was truly beautiful, even though she was dressed in sombre grey like some nun from the Convent of Minoresses.
‘Sir Hugh, my mother.’
‘Mistress?’ Corbett asked.
‘Mistress Isabella.’ Her voice was cultivated, her Norman French precise. ‘Sir Hugh, I am Isabella Escolier.’
‘Are you really, my lady?’ Corbett gripped her hand tighter, again he glimpsed her alarm. ‘If that is so,’ he whispered, ‘I am honoured to greet you. I assure you, I will not keep you long.’ He let go of her hand, bowed and walked back up the nave to the judgement table.
Sandewic, who’d also been sworn in as a justice, entered the church, huffing and puffing, clapping his hands against the cold. Ranulf called everyone to order, and those summoned lined up and swore the oath. Corbett took his seat and the proceedings began. Staunton and Blandeford were invited forward. Corbett treated them curtly.
‘I only have a few questions for you, sirs. I would like your measured replies.’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh?’
‘Who first suggested that the Mysterium might be a chancery clerk?’
Staunton made to reply, but Corbett held up his hand.
‘Think,’ he insisted. ‘Was it Evesham or someone else?’
Staunton opened his mouth, then sighed noisily. ‘Sir Hugh, to be honest I thought it was Evesham, but Blandeford and I have discussed this. Perhaps it was Boniface Ippegrave.’
‘And Ippegrave, what was his attitude to Evesham?’
Again silence. Blandeford made to reply, but Staunton grasped his arm and answered instead.
‘Ippegrave became very curious about Evesham. He began to ask questions, you know, observations, remarks . . .’
‘Why?’ Corbett insisted. ‘The truth!’
‘Now that you ask,’ Staunton had lost his arrogance, ‘Ippegrave appeared to know a great deal about Evesham. He asked questions as if to clarify certain matters.’
‘Such as?’
‘Oh, his service in Wales, his work in the chancery, who had died, how Evesham was progressing, general questions. In truth I became intrigued. Ippegrave asked me in confidence . . .’