‘We are not questioning you. Rather asking what you know, if anything, about the circumstances leading to Fitzalan’s murder.’
‘I am the hermit. I live out at Dragon’s Mouth cave. I spend my life in prayer and penance. For your sins and mine.’
‘Thank you,’ Corbett said. He spread his hands on the table. ‘I know my sins, Master Odo. What are yours?’
The hermit stared back in surprise.
‘You are not a man of the church,’ Corbett continued. ‘You are not protected by its laws. I can ask for your assistance and you must give it. You, by your own confession, live in the forest of Ashdown. You must see, hear things that may be of interest.’
‘I was at prayer when Lord Henry was killed. I rarely leave my cave.’ He held up his bandaged hands. ‘I was born with a rottenness of the skin. I cannot use my hands for work so I pray for God’s faithful.’
‘And how do you eat?’ Corbett asked curiously.
‘The goodness and generosity of the forest people is well known.’
‘They bring you food and drink?’
‘I would like to say that, like the prophet Elijah, I am fed by the ravens. But men like Verlian and Brother Cosmas,’ he looked quickly at the Franciscan, ‘are kind and generous.’
‘Do you know anyone called the Owlman?’ Corbett asked.
‘I do not. I have neither seen nor heard anything which could be of help, master clerk. I beg you to let me go. I will remember you in my prayers.’
‘Not so. Not so.’ Corbett beat on the table-top. ‘Shall I tell you what you are, sir? You are a liar. You are no more a hermit than I am.’
‘How can you say that?’ Brother Cosmas broke in. ‘Odo has been . . .’
‘Yes, when did you arrive in Ashdown?’ Corbett asked.
‘Early spring of this year.’ The hermit was now agitated.
‘It may cross your mind to get up and flee. I would advise against that. If you have done nothing wrong you have nothing to fear.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Here you are,’ Corbett pointed out. ‘A self-confessed hermit. A stranger in these parts. Why come to Ashdown? It’s not a place of sanctity or holiness. St Hawisia’s Priory is not the sort which attracts men dedicated to the service of God.’
‘I have nothing to do with that place.’
‘No, no, you haven’t. But I wager you have a great deal to do with Brother Cosmas.’
‘This is nonsense!’ The Franciscan sprang to his feet. ‘Sir Hugh, this is God’s house and my church!’ He went and patted the hermit gently on the shoulder.
‘Would you mind taking the bandages off Odo’s hands?’ asked Corbett.
Brother Cosmas looked as if he was about to refuse so Ranulf went and stood over the hermit with his dagger drawn. He was surprised as anyone at what his master had said, but if the King’s commissioner wished these bandages to be removed, then Ranulf would see it was done.
Odo sighed. He undid the bandages and dropped them slowly on the floor. Ranulf re-sheathed his dagger and took the man’s hands in his.
‘The skin is white and soft, isn’t it?’ Corbett asked.
‘Unmarked, cleaner than the bandages themselves.’ Ranulf gripped both hands and squeezed tightly. The hermit winced in pain.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
‘He is the Owlman,’ Corbett declared. ‘Release him, Ranulf.’
Ranulf returned to his writing. The hermit now had his hands in his lap, head down. Brother Cosmas was staring at a point above Corbett’s head, lips moving quietly.
‘Don’t be so nervous, Odo. It’s no crime to wear bloodstained bandages on your hand. And, apart from a few arrows and cryptic messages despatched to me, Lord Henry and, last night, through a window at Ashdown Manor, you’ve committed no real crime. Well, the evidence so far shows. Shall I tell you how I know?’ He paused.
Alicia Verlian had come up beside them, engrossed as the drama unfolded.
‘The great Aquinas, echoing the words of Abelard, said a logical conclusion can be reached by two methods.’ Corbett paused. ‘The first is by evidence, and I have some of that already; the second is by logic. Let me explain.
‘First, the Owlman is a recent arrival in Ashdown Forest, as you are. Secondly, the Owlman must be someone who can move around with impunity. Ergo, he must be someone who lives in the forest and is acquainted with its paths. More importantly, he must be able to travel around undetected, not only because he’s disguised, but also because of the help and succour another provides. You are that person, while your friend and helper is Brother Cosmas of the Church of St Oswald’s-in-the-Trees. Thirdly, the Owlman is not a common outlaw, or even a poacher. He has the opportunity to slay Lord Henry, or at least wreak considerable damage, but he does not. He simply tells him to remember the “Rose of Rye”. Fourthly, the chain linking Lord Henry to the Owlman is centred on that tavern. As far as I know, such a connection cannot be placed at the door of anyone I have met in Ashdown. There was one exception, Mistress Jocasta, but she has purged herself. Her relationship with Lord Henry was honestly explained.’
Corbett spread his hands. ‘By simply eliminating what is possible from what is probable,’ he pointed at Odo, ‘you bore the brunt of my suspicions. You pretend to be a hermit, living out at Dragon’s Mouth cave. You would find that easy. What are you really, master hermit? A Franciscan priest, a lay brother? Your role as a hermit would not conflict with this. You can hide behind such a charade. No one would suspect a devout man of God whose hands are so injured he can hardly lift a spade, never mind draw a bow. You leave your hermitage and go to a secret place where you keep a cloak, a mask, a bow, a quiver of arrows, quill, parchment and ink. Like all Franciscans, you are not an unlettered man.’
Corbett paused. The hermit kept his head down. Brother Cosmas had moved a little closer as if to offer reassurance and support.
‘You had a grievance against Lord Henry,’ Corbett continued. ‘But you are not a killer at heart. You were acting like a priest. You didn’t want to punish Lord Henry for his sin but to stir his soul, make him remember, perhaps excite his remorse and contrition. You did that by sending messages, which does not concern me. What I want to know is, did your patience snap? Did you become tired of playing a game and, instead of reminding Lord Henry of God’s justice, decide to take God’s vengeance? Are you a murderer, Odo? Are you guilty of Lord Henry’s death?’
‘You have no proof.’ The hermit glanced up. ‘True, I bandage my hands but that can be to excite compassion. If the truth be known, Sir Hugh, there are many in Ashdown with a grievance against Lord Henry.’
‘I mean you no harm,’ Corbett replied. ‘Who you are or where you come from is not a matter of concern to me. But I can order your arrest, have you chained and taken into London. You can be lodged at Newgate, the Fleet or the Tower while the King’s clerks do a careful scrutiny, close questioning of your superiors in London. Brother Cosmas here will have to join you and, in the end, the truth will come out.’
Brother Cosmas was about to protest but the hermit tapped him gently on the back of the hand.
‘I saw you ride through the forest.’ He half-smiled. ‘The King’s clerk and his assistant come to do justice because the great Lord Henry Fitzalan has been killed. I was angry. When a great lord of the soil is murdered the King makes his power felt. However, when a young woman hangs herself, and her husband out of grief follows, it causes as little stir as a sparrow falling from the sky. I shot those arrows out of anger as well as to divert your suspicions.’ He waved a hand. ‘No, no, that’s not the full truth, God forgive me. When Lord Henry was killed, I almost believed that I was responsible. In a way, I would scarcely object if the guilt was laid at the Owlman’s door.’
‘But that’s not true!’ Brother Cosmas broke in harshly.
The hermit gazed at him in surprise.
‘It’s not true,’ the Franciscan repeated softly. ‘Odo, you could not kill anyone. I shall tell you the truth.’ The Franciscan hurried on as if anxious to divert Corbett’s attention. ‘You know about the story of the Red Rose of Rye? A tavern on the outskirts of the town and the fate of its owners, Alwayn and Katherine Rothmere?’
Corbett nodded.
‘Odo was their young son. After his parents’ death, he was sent to kinsfolk in Essex. He was raised by people very similar to those who live in Ashdown. He became a royal forester, later a soldier. Only as a young man did he learn the full truth behind the tragic death of his parents.’
‘At first I swore vengeance.’ The self-styled hermit took up the story. ‘But my kinsfolk were kindly people. They raised me to fear God and the King. Since my youth I had a vocation to become a Franciscan. I entered the House of Studies at Canterbury where I met Brother Cosmas. We became firm friends: true brothers in every sense of the word. He told me about his soldiering days. I recounted my past. How I’d love to take vengeance on the Fitzalan family. Brother Cosmas was like some potion you take to ease the pain of an old wound. I became a Franciscan priest.’ He fought to keep his voice steady. ‘I worked for God’s poor, travelling from parish to parish, preaching the crucified Christ. You see, Sir Hugh, I felt a deep sadness at the way my parents had died. The Church’s teaching on suicide is very bleak. And my mother . . .’ His eyes filled with tears. ‘Let’s be honest, clerk, my mother committed adultery, which brought about her death and that of my father. I thought by living a life of penance, I might atone for their sins. That Christ would purge them, lead them into Paradise. But, sometimes, at night, or when I saw a powerful lord ride through the town, banners and pennants flying, trumpets shrilling, I’d think of Lord Henry Fitzalan, the true cause of their sin. I heard how he waxed fat and rich, favoured by both King and Church. I travelled back to our house in Canterbury. It must have been a year last Easter. Cosmas was also there. He told me how he was working in Ashdown Forest.’
‘We had a friendship,’ Brother Cosmas broke in. ‘Now bonded by a hatred of Lord Henry Fitzalan and all he stood for. Believe me, clerk, he was a wicked man.’ Cosmas glanced at Alicia. ‘He was cold and selfish. When you talked to him you felt his soul, behind the mask, was mocking you.’
‘I persuaded my superiors that I go preaching in the shires south of London,’ Odo continued. ‘God forgive me, I came here to kill Lord Henry. I pretended to be the hermit. I was trained in archery and venery. Brother Cosmas showed me the paths and trackways of Ashdown Forest. He gave me food and sustenance.’ Odo breathed in noisily. ‘He also begged me not to exact the vengeance I wanted. I tell you this, Sir Hugh. Time and again I had Fitzalan in my sights. Time and again I could have put a shaft through his heart.’
‘And did you?’ Corbett asked. ‘That morning in Savernake Dell? Did your lust for vengeance overcome your call to grace?’
‘I was nowhere near Savernake Dell,’ came the sharp reply. The hermit’s eyes glowed. ‘But I shall confess to you, royal clerk, and may Christ have mercy on me, I danced when I heard he had been killed.’
‘And the arrow last night?’ Ranulf asked. ‘The one which shattered the window at Ashdown Manor?’
The hermit chuckled. ‘Believe it or not, clerk, it was my farewell. I would have stayed a week, ten more days and taken my leave. Sir William is of the same rotten stock but I do not hold him guilty of any sin against me.’ He sighed. ‘I am sorry for loosing the arrows at you.’
Corbett scrutinised both the hermit and Brother Cosmas. On the one hand he felt the hermit was telling the truth but, on the other, he felt a slight unease. What if Brother Cosmas was the killer, using his friend as a pretext, a catspaw? Like many friars, both were practical men. Strong, vigorous, with a passion for justice, could this have clouded their priestly training?
‘What now?’ Brother Cosmas asked.
Corbett glanced at Ranulf but he seemed distracted. He was drawing something on the side of the piece of parchment, which Corbett recognised as the capital ‘A’. Corbett got to his feet. He was aware of Alicia standing behind him while Verlian, sitting deeper in the sanctuary, must have also heard everything.
‘I’ll be honest,’ Corbett began. He pressed his fingers on Ranulf’s shoulder, warning him to keep silent. ‘All four of you are suspects.’
‘But I’ve told the truth,’ the hermit gasped.
‘I’ve said before,’ Corbett reminded him, ‘evidence or logic, or both, prove a hypothesis, verify a conclusion. I know you are the Owlman, that you were helped by Brother Cosmas. Logic and evidence also provoke suspicion against the Verlians, both father and daughter. So, if I empanelled a jury, it would note that each person in this church has a case to answer.’
‘We are clerics,’ Brother Cosmas protested.
‘You could still be murderers,’ Corbett replied softly. ‘One of you, two of you.’ He felt the nape of his neck grow cold. ‘Indeed, all four of you could have been involved. Let me explain.’ He sat down on the bench. His eye caught the gargoyle on top of one of the pillars: a grinning demon, cowled like a monk, its forked tongue slipping out between thick lips: the long-dead carpenter must have been ridiculing some priest. Corbett wondered if the two clerics in front of him were mocking him.
‘Three people have been murdered in Ashdown Forest,’ he continued hurriedly. ‘Lord Henry and an Italian physician, Pancius Cantrone. Then we have this young woman, killed by an arrow, her body stripped and buried in a shallow grave but, for some strange reason,’ he watched the hermit intently, ‘her corpse was dug up and placed at the postern gate of St Hawisia’s priory. Now, Odo, you expressed a deep desire to put an arrow deep into Lord Henry’s heart, and that happened. The other two were killed by an arrow to the throat.’
‘What are you saying?’ Odo became agitated. ‘I – I – simply used a turn of phrase.’
‘A jury might think it significant. It might wonder if we have two killers: one who slew Lord Henry, and a second who killed the other two victims.’ Corbett paused. ‘Tell me, Brother Cosmas and you, Odo, have you ever seen anything untoward in the forest? If you wish I can put you both on oath. Let me help you. A young woman was killed by an arrow to the throat. The assassin stripped her, for God knows what reason, and buried the corpse in a shallow grave. It was meant to stay there. Now, if anyone else had discovered that corpse, let’s say a wolfs-head, he’d probably leave it where he found it. If Brother Cosmas had found the corpse he would have carried it to St Oswald’s for honourable burial. One of the forest people would have raised the hue and cry while Master Verlian, or one of his verderers, would have taken it to Ashdown Manor.’