Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders (10 page)

Corbett held his hand up for silence. They crossed the nave and entered a gloomy chantry chapel. A small altar stood to the left at the top of some steps; before this were two prie-dieux with a bench behind them. The narrow window in the far wall was glazed, yet the light was poor. Ranulf stared round at the wall paintings depicting Lazarus being raised from his tomb, Christ healing lepers, Namaan the Syrian bathing in the waters of the Jordan on the instruction of Elijah.

‘Griskin?’ Corbett pulled forward his sword and sat down on the bench. ‘I knew him in the halls and schools of Oxford. We called him “little pig” because of his love of pork, and to be honest,’ Corbett grinned, ‘because of his looks.’ He glanced up at Ranulf. ‘You may remember him? You met him once at the Exchequer of Receipt in Westminster.’

Ranulf nodded, though for the life of him he couldn’t recall Griskin.

‘Anyway,’ Corbett continued, ‘Griskin was no scholar of the quadrivium and trivium. More importantly,’ his smile faded, ‘his parents became lepers. He left the halls and schools to look after them. He never finished his studies. A good man, Ranulf, with a fine voice, slightly higher than mine, but when we sang the Christus Vincit . . .’ Corbett shook his head and Ranulf suppressed a groan. He could never understand his master’s love of singing. ‘Anyway, Griskin’s parents died in a Bethlehem hospital outside London, and Griskin applied to the Chancery for a post. He became a nuncius, a messenger. Griskin enjoys one great talent: he is an excellent searcher-out.’ Corbett tapped his foot on the hard paving stones and stared at the cross on the small altar. ‘If anyone can find anyone, it’s Griskin. Now when we returned from the West Country and His Grace the King,’ Corbett tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, ‘wanted me to go to Canterbury, he gave me some of the facts about what had happened here, about Blackstock and his half-brother Hubert. Before I left Westminster, I dispatched a letter to Griskin telling him what I knew and asking him to search the countryside north of Orwell, as well as here in Canterbury, for any trace of Hubert the Monk. To cut a long story short, Ranulf, I said I would meet him here on this day, between the hours of eleven and twelve, in the Chapel of St Lazarus at St Augustine’s. Griskin would like that. He has a special devotion to that saint because of his parents’ condition.’

‘And it is now between the hours of eleven and twelve,’ Ranulf declared, ‘and he has not yet appeared. Perhaps he has been delayed because of the snow?’

‘No.’ Corbett shook his head. ‘I received confirmation from Griskin that he’d be here. He always keeps his word. He’d have told me if he couldn’t.’ Corbett was about to get to his feet when he gasped and pointed at the altar. ‘Ranulf!’

At first Ranulf couldn’t see what he was indicating. Then he saw it, on the white lace-edged altar cloth: a small golden cross on a silver chain.

‘
Jesu miserere!
’ Corbett breathed, getting to his feet. He pushed between the prie-dieux, strode up the steps and grasped the chained cross, turning it so it glittered in the poor light.

‘What is it, master?’

‘This cross! Griskin’s mother gave it to him when he left his village in Norfolk for Oxford. He regarded it as his greatest treasure. He was always fingering it, never took it off, not even when he washed, shaved or changed his clothes.’

‘Perhaps he left it as a token, master?’

‘No.’ Corbett opened his wallet and placed the chain within. ‘It can only mean one thing, Ranulf: Griskin will not be . . .’ His voice trailed off. Corbett returned to the bench, sat down and put his face in his hands to quell his own fears. For just a brief moment he recalled Griskin and himself staggering along Turl Street in Oxford singing their heads off. They’d both joined the choir of St Mary’s Church to carol lustily. Other memories flooded back: Griskin, with his wit and ready laugh, his love of a cup of claret and a slice of pork roasted to crispness. Corbett felt the tears well in his eyes. In his heart he knew Griskin would never, ever give up that chain. Only if he’d been ambushed . . .

‘Who killed him?’ Ranulf asked harshly.

Corbett kept his hands to his face, waiting until the tears dried, then he glanced up. ‘
Facile dictum
, easy to say, Ranulf. If Griskin was searching for Hubert the Monk, sooner or later his quarry found out. Somewhere, either here in Canterbury or in Suffolk, Griskin was murdered. He would have had his wallet on him, and in that, letters from me containing details of our meeting here. His killer – and I suspect it was Hubert the Monk – left this chain as a mocking message.’ Corbett tried to control his trembling. Abruptly he felt very cold. He was deep in the dark of this matter. Often he felt there was a gap between him and his quarry, those criminals, wolfsheads and outlaws he pursued on behalf of the Crown, but this was different.

‘Why?’ Ranulf asked, as if suspecting what Corbett was thinking. ‘Why kill Griskin?’

‘Why?’ Corbett stared up at the crucifix on the wall. ‘Adam Blackstock was killed by Paulents and Castledene, but they were supported by His Grace the King. He loaned them a company of Welsh archers, longbowmen, and allowed them the use of charts, and harbour facilities at London, Dover and the Cinque Ports. Hubert is waging a war of vengeance; this is not only about lost treasure, but revenge! Revenge against Paulents, which has already been carried out. Against Castledene . . .’

‘And against the Crown?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes, Ranulf.’ Corbett turned. ‘Against the King. I warned Castledene to be careful, yet it would seem we are as vulnerable as he.’

Corbett stared round the chantry chapel, then rose and left. For a while he stood in the nave, staring up at the rood screen, lips moving as he mouthed a silent prayer. Griskin’s fate was his own nightmare: of being involved in secret, murky business until one day a knife or an arrow came whipping out of the darkness. He fought to control his own fears. Behind him Ranulf stood watching his master carefully.

‘If he is hunting us, let us hunt him,’ he whispered.

Corbett nodded, crossed himself, genuflected towards the high altar and left the church.

A short while later they had saddled their horses and were about to leave the slush-strewn stable yard when the guest master came hurrying up.

‘Sir Hugh,’ he gasped, ‘there’s a company here called Les Hommes Joyeuses . . .’

Corbett leaned down and pressed his gauntleted hand against the guest master’s shoulder.

‘It’s Brother Wolfstan, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugh.’

‘Where are Les Hommes Joyeuses?’

‘They are camped out in the cemetery near the Langport Road . . .’

‘They’ve come for shelter,’ Corbett declared. ‘Please, Brother . . .’

‘They cannot stay here,’ Brother Wolfstan murmured, bitten fingers to thin lips, his pale, bony face twitching; then his watery eyes smiled. ‘Ah, there is the old priest’s house near St Pancras’ Church. I am sure they could settle there. My Lord Abbot will surely agree. It lies to the south-east of here. I’ll see what I can do, and Sir Hugh,’ he gabbled on, ‘there’s someone else.’

Corbett suppressed a groan.

‘A leper,’ the guest master exclaimed, his hot breath hanging in the icy air. ‘He calls himself the Merchant of Souls and the Keeper of Christ’s Treasury. He left this message with the doorkeeper of the Aefleg Gate: tell Sir Hugh that he will pass our house on the trackway to Queningate; tell him I have a message.’ Brother Wolfstan opened his eyes and screwed up his face. ‘Ah yes, that’s it, say to him I have a message from Griskin.’

Corbett needed no second bidding. He thanked the guest master and left by the Theodore Gate, skirting the high curtain wall on to the main thoroughfare leading down to Queningate, the great eastern entrance into Canterbury. The broad trackway was still ice-bound, and iron-studded carts slowly creaked their way down to the city markets. It was just past midday and the bells of the city were tolling out through the murky air, marking the hour for all workers to rest, to recite one Paternoster and five Aves then break their fast. Ranulf remembered this as he stroked his rumbling stomach. However, Old Master Long Face was intent on business, so business it would be before they ate and drank again. They passed the crossroads. Beneath the broad-beamed gallows, a friar of the sack perched on a wheelbarrow. Either side of him a shivering boy held a glowing lantern horn. The friar, peaked face hidden deep in his cowl, recited the office of the dead, an act of mercy for those who’d died on that scaffold during the previous month. His words rolled awesome and heart-chilling:

Corbett recalled poor Griskin, and as he passed, quietly finished the verse of that psalm.

He pulled the folds of his cloak up over his mouth and nose and glanced warily to his right and left, where snow-filled fields stretched to frost-covered trees.

A short while later, muttering at the cold, Corbett took directions from a tinker shuffling towards the city. They turned off the thoroughfare, following a lane down to the leper hospice. Ranulf was full of objections. Corbett pulled down the folds of his robe, leaned across and patted his companion on the shoulder.

‘Don’t worry, Ranulf, your death is not waiting for you here; the contagion is spread only by touch and close familiarity, so we will be safe.’

The grey ragstone wall of the hospice came into view. The lychgate was closed and barred though the narrow path leading up to it had been cleared of snow. Corbett dismounted and pounded on the gate. Immediately a bell tolled within and Ranulf heard the fearful clicking of the leper clappers. The gate rattled as bolts were drawn back. Corbett returned and mounted his horse. Three dark-garbed figures slid through the half-opened postern door as both Ranulf and Corbett fought to control their horses. All three were dressed in motley rags, mantles about their shoulders, hands and faces swathed in bands with only slits for their eyes and mouths; their fingers were similarly covered whilst their feet were protected by heavy wooden galoshes.

‘What say ye?’ The figure in the middle walked forward.

‘I am Sir Hugh Corbett, king’s emissary to Canterbury . . .’

‘Well, Sir Hugh, king’s emissary to Canterbury,’ the man declared, his voice soft and mellow, ‘I am the Merchant of Souls and I hold,’ he stretched out a hand, ‘the key to Christ’s Treasury, namely His poor.’

Corbett opened the leather bag fastened to his saddle horn and drew out a small purse of clinking coins. He edged his horse forward, dropped the pouch into the man’s outstretched hand and stared down at eyes full of laughter.

‘Why do you call yourself the Merchant of Souls?’

‘Because, Sir Hugh, I promise those who care for us, as any good merchant vouches, that I will sell their souls to God.’ He held up the purse. ‘I thank you for this. These,’ he gestured to his companions standing slightly behind him, ‘are Christ’s poor. Fill their bellies, Sir Hugh, and you fill Christ’s treasury. For if you give a cup of water to one of these, then you have given it to Him.’

‘And Griskin?’ Corbett asked. ‘You said you had a message for me.’

‘I knew Griskin,’ the Merchant of Souls replied. ‘I met him.’

‘You met him.’ Corbett closed his eyes and smiled. ‘Of course,’ he whispered.

‘Griskin’s parents were lepers,’ the Merchant of Souls continued. ‘He looked after them and suffered no ill effects, no contagion. He was not frightened of us.’

Corbett nodded. He had forgotten about his former comrade’s complete lack of fear of other lepers.

‘That is how he travelled the countryside,’ the Merchant of Souls went on. ‘Who would approach a leper? We stand outside city gates, we beg for alms. Our ears may be rotting, but we hear about this person or that. I can tell you all about Canterbury, Sir Hugh. How Lady Adelicia Decontet is held in the dungeons in the Guildhall accused of murdering her husband, as well as that other great abomination perpetrated at Maubisson Manor. You see, Sir Hugh, all things come to us. People think we do not exist. We are like the trees, something they pass and ignore, yet we stand and listen. Master Griskin travelled the countryside. He visited our brothers in Suffolk, its towns and villages, and then he came back to Canterbury. At times he played the boisterous clerk, but when he wanted to, he assumed the garb of the leper.’ The Merchant of Souls tapped the yellow star sewn on his left shoulder. ‘Then he would come here. He was a good man, Sir Hugh.’ The Merchant of Souls grasped the reins of Corbett’s horse.

‘And what did he say?’ Corbett asked.

‘He believed he had found the truth about some matter from a hermitage near Orwell.’ The leper looked down at the trackway. ‘Ah yes, he said he was going to meet his good friend, though he never gave your name, Sir Hugh. I learnt that later. He said the secret was bound up with the hermitage and its chapel, St Simon of the Rocks, and that’s all he would say.’

‘And then what happened?’ Corbett asked.

‘He left us. He said he was going back to Suffolk. Why, Sir Hugh? Will he return?’

‘No,’ Corbett replied. ‘Brother Griskin is dead.’

The Merchant of Souls hastily crossed himself. ‘Then God assoil him,’ he whispered. ‘How, Sir Hugh, an accident?’

‘Murder!’ Corbett replied. ‘But I am God’s vengeance.’ He leaned down and patted the leper on the shoulder. ‘I promise you that, Merchant of Souls. Remember me in your prayers, and here.’ He opened the leather bag again and pressed another small purse into the man’s hand. ‘Give that to Christ’s Treasury.’

He was about to turn his horse when the leper spoke.

‘Sir Hugh, have you forgotten something?’ Corbett soothed his horse. ‘What, sir? What have I forgotten?’

‘Brother Griskin was searching for a man called Hubert the Monk, a man who hunted down outlaws, half-brother to the pirate Blackstock.’