Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders (22 page)

The relief in the young woman’s eyes was obvious. Her lower lip quivered, tears brimmed, and she bowed her head, shoulders shaking slightly.

‘I am innocent, Sir Hugh. I hated my husband but so do many wives. I did not kill him, I swear to that.’

Lechlade came next. He was so drunk he could hardly repeat the words Parson Warfeld uttered and kept slipping off the stool. Ranulf found it amusing, and his shoulders began to shake until Corbett glared at him. Chanson came over and forced the man to sit properly. Lechlade leaned against the table, spittle drooling down his unshaven chin, and glared blearily at Corbett.

‘What do you want with poor Lechlade?’ he slurred. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong! I wasn’t always a servant, you know. I was a clerk myself once; I had prospects, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I worked for a while for Sir Walter Castledene. I was dismissed for being drunk and Sir Rauf hired me. He paid me little, gave me a garret to sleep in and sent me here and there. Sir Hugh, I spend most of my days staring at the bottom of a tankard wishing it was full again.’

‘Do you know anything about
The Waxman
, Hubert the Monk or his half-brother Adam?’

Lechlade licked his lips and looked longingly over his shoulder at the door as if expecting Chanson to produce a tankard of frothing ale.

‘Master Lechlade, I asked you a question.’

Lechlade leaned across the table, his breath reeking of the herbs and veal Ranulf had cooked. ‘Sir Hugh,’ he slurred, eyes heavy, ‘of course I’ve heard of Blackstock and Hubert, but they really mean nothing to me, just chatter in the market square, feathers on a breeze, here today, gone tomorrow.’

‘But your master, Sir Rauf Decontet, did he not subsidise
The Waxman
?’

‘Perhaps he did, perhaps he didn’t, I don’t know. He never discussed his business dealings with me.’

‘And the people who came at the dark of night, slipping across the wasteland, knocking furtively at the door?’

‘Sir Hugh, again I was Sir Rauf’s manservant. I cleaned the tables, I swept the floor, but once my hours were finished—’

‘I know!’ Corbett broke in angrily. ‘It was another tankard of ale. So you know nothing about that skeleton buried in the garden?’

‘Nothing, Sir Hugh. It was as much a surprise to me as to anybody else.’

‘And your mistress’s doings with Wendover?’

‘Lady Adelicia does not like me, Sir Hugh, though I’ve tried to help her when I can. Where possible she kept away from me, so I kept my distance from her! Where she went, what she did meant nothing to me. True, there was bad blood between the master and her, anyone could see that, even a drunk like myself. I know my wits may be sottish, my brain dulled, but they sat at table and hardly conversed. She kept to her chamber, he kept to his. She was more interested in her powders and dresses, or chattering to that insolent maid of hers, than anything else.’

‘And on the afternoon Sir Rauf was killed?’

‘Oh, I remember that. Lady Adelicia and Berengaria left, mounted on their palfreys. I watched them go. I’ll be honest, Sir Hugh, I’d heard the rumours, but,’ he shrugged, ‘I have nowhere else to go. I kept my lips closed. I did not wish to be dismissed from Decontet’s service. Well, I always seize opportunities to drown my sorrows. You see, when Lady Adelicia was out of the house, Sir Rauf would lock himself up in his chancery chamber. Only the good Lord knows,’ he slurred, ‘what he did.’

‘Did he keep monies in the house?’

‘Very little, Sir Hugh. Most of it went to the goldsmiths, both here and in London.’

‘And that particular afternoon?’

‘As I’ve said, I bought a jug of ale, went up to my garret, drank and slept. I only knew something was wrong when I heard that pounding on the door and Desroches shouting!’

‘What do you think of Desroches?’

‘Well, he’s been in Canterbury for over three years, I believe, and, like all physicians, loves gold and silver. He is skilled enough. He brought himself to the attention of the council, and purchased a house in Ottemele Lane. It’s no great mansion house but he lives within his means. Sir Rauf tolerated him.’

‘Did he treat Sir Rauf?’

‘For a number of minor ailments. Sir Rauf was as strong as an ox. Anyway, on that day I went down and opened the door for Desroches, and the rest you know.’

‘Did you ever discover,’ Corbett asked, ‘that Berengaria sometimes returned to be closeted with Sir Rauf?’

Surprise flared in Lechlade’s eyes.

‘Impossible!’ he slurred.

‘No, it’s true.’

Lechlade wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and suppressed a belch. ‘Before Sir Rauf married he would sometimes go out at night. He visited the mopsies and the doxies of the city, or so I suspect. Berengaria has a pert eye. She is the sort of girl who would catch Sir Rauf’s attention. If there was no bed-twisting with Lady Adelicia, Berengaria, I suppose, in return for money and favour, might be more obliging.’ Lechlade was now mumbling his words, eyes drooping in sleepiness.

‘You’re mawmsy,’ Ranulf barked. ‘For the love of God sleep, clear your wits, empty your head of ale fumes.’

Lechlade shuffled to his feet. He gestured at Ranulf, bowed mockingly at Corbett and slouched towards the door.

Desroches came as a welcome relief, clear and precise, gaze moving from Ranulf back to Corbett. He answered the clerk’s questions bluntly, declaring that he’d been a physician in Canterbury for over three years. He’d been brought to the attention of Sir Walter Castledene and Sir Rauf and openly admitted that the prospect of profit was one of the attractions of being in Sir Rauf’s service. He also confirmed that the dead miser had had an iron-hard constitution and suffered very few ailments. Desroches had certainly heard about
The Waxman
, Hubert Fitzurse and his half-brother Adam, but nothing tangible or significant. He freely admitted that Sir Rauf, on at least one occasion, had talked about his impotence with the Lady Adelicia, though he conceded that Sir Rauf was not a gelding.

‘You see, Sir Hugh, with such conditions it may not be the man’s fault.’

‘You mean the Lady Adelicia?’

‘In a word, yes, Sir Hugh. I believe Sir Rauf, despite the fact that he held the purse strings and held them very fast, was rather frightened of Lady Adelicia, her beauty, her comeliness. To other men this would be a spur, but to Decontet it was a rein. I suspect he found satisfaction elsewhere, but how and with whom,’ he shook his head, ‘I do not know. The Lady Adelicia acts very cold and distant. I’ll be blunt. I’d also heard the rumours about her. Canterbury may be a city, but it’s no different from a village: people watch, people listen; sooner or later Sir Rauf would have discovered the truth.’

‘And the afternoon he was murdered?’

‘Sir Rauf had asked me to visit him. He’d sent me a letter the previous Sunday. I had not replied. Anyway, on that particular day I walked over to his house about mid-afternoon. You already know the rest.’

‘Tell me again,’ Corbett asked.

‘I knocked and knocked. At last Lechlade came down. We then tried to rouse Sir Rauf, but there was no answer. You know,’ he waggled his shoulders, ‘I had an ominous feeling something was very wrong. I decided not to do anything, not with just Lechlade present. So, as I’ve said, I went out and found a farmer’s boy and sent a message asking Parson Warfeld to join us. We then broke the door down. Sir Rauf lay face down; the blood had gushed out of the back of his head. Apparently he’d been dead for some time. Parson Warfeld tended to him. I sent another messenger to Castledene and waited for him. Lady Adelicia returned; she was questioned, the blood was seen on her cloak and her room was searched.’

‘Do you think she killed her husband?’ Corbett asked.

‘No, I don’t,’ Desroches retorted.

‘Why do you think that?’

‘She certainly hated Sir Rauf; that was well known. She had little to do with him, but,’ he spread his hands, ‘she is not the killing sort. She is too much a lady, too delicate, and of course there’s that great mystery: how could anyone get into that chamber, commit murder, then escape through a locked door?’

‘The windows?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Impossible.’ Desroches moved in his chair. ‘You’ve seen them, Sir Hugh: too small. The casement door is narrow whilst the shutters were clasped and barred. Lechlade and Warfeld will tell you that.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s impossible,’ he repeated. ‘A true mystery.’

‘Very much like Maubisson,’ Corbett observed. ‘And what happened there?’

‘Sir Hugh, again from what I gather, Paulents landed at Dover, he and his family fell ill and sent a message to Castledene. Castledene met them at Maubisson on the Dover Road. He asked me to join him.’

‘Why?’ Corbett asked. ‘Why you?’

‘I’m indentured to the city council, Sir Hugh. Castledene was about to receive important visitors. I was part of his care for them.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps I’m a little more amenable than other physicians.’

‘And Castledene’s guests?’

‘I didn’t think they were suffering from any contagion; only from seasickness. They certainly felt better when I met them. I know little, Sir Hugh, about the secrets and mysteries which existed between Paulents and Castledene. What I do know is that the visitors were in good health. I also learnt that Sir Walter and his guest had been threatened, but little else. Paulents’ wife asked me to stay with them at Maubisson but I refused. I had to return to Canterbury.’

‘You gave them some physic?’

‘I mixed a little camomile in a jug of wine when we met.’ Desroches smiled. ‘Both Castledene and I drank cups from the same jug.’

‘And the bodyguard Servinus?’ Corbett continued.

Desroches lifted his hands. ‘What can I tell you, Sir Hugh? He was dressed in black leather, slightly fastidious, a professional soldier, harsh-faced with a balding head. Very much like Wendover; a man who gloried in the camp and the clash of armour. Paulents’ wife seemed rather sweet on him. He certainly acted the part of the valorous warrior.’

‘So you think he was a fighter?’ Corbett asked.

‘He would certainly have given a good account of himself in any attack.’

‘Do you think he could be guilty of murder?’

‘Sir Hugh, I cannot answer that. I mean—’ Desroches was about to continue when suddenly a raucous shouting broke out. The door was flung open and Castledene burst into the chamber.

‘Sir Hugh, you must come! A man has been killed!’

Chapter 10

Inferno tristi tibi quis fatetur
.
Sad in your hell, who will confess to you?

Sedulius Scottus

Corbett ordered Ranulf to stay while he and Chanson, followed by Desroches, went out into the icy passageway. Castledene led them through the back of the house and outside. It was bitingly cold and a ring of torches glowed at the far end of the garden. Wendover came hurrying up.

‘Sir Hugh, one of our city guards has been killed.’

Desroches hastened ahead. Corbett followed and reached the group of men gathered round the corpse sprawled face down in the snow. Desroches glanced up, shaking his head.

‘Dead!’ He pointed to the heavy crossbow quarrel embedded deep between the man’s shoulder blades. ‘A fatal wound.’ He turned the corpse over.

As Corbett stared down at the victim – a young man, sandy-haired, his eyes staring unseeingly, his face slightly unshaven and pockmarked – he noticed something amiss: the guard wasn’t wearing the ordinary liveried cloak, but a light blue one usually worn by Wendover.

‘What happened?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oseric, that’s his name.’ One of the men spoke up. ‘He’d been with us only a few months.’

‘What happened?’ Corbett insisted.

‘He went out to relieve himself,’ the man replied. ‘He was in a hurry so he took Wendover’s cloak. He was gone for some time. We were all in the buttery, drinking and chatting. I became concerned.’

Corbett snapped his fingers, ordering the torch-bearers to move closer to the speaker. The man, small and squat, glared angrily at him.

‘Why should someone kill one of us?’ he asked.

Corbett shook his head and stared round the snow-covered garden, the bushes and trees, the high curtain wall. Once again the Angel of Death had swept in, soft and silent, invisible yet menacing, like some formidable hawk floating over the fields of this world, keen to grasp a living soul in its greedy claws. But why now? How? Who had guided it in, selected its prey? He walked back towards the rear door and noticed the shuttered windows on either side; he tried both of these but they held fast.

‘Sir Hugh, what is happening here?’ Castledene came hurrying up.

Corbett turned. ‘Sir Walter, I do not know. What I suspect is that the assassin thought he was killing Wendover; instead poor Oseric met his death, but how?’ He gestured at the back of the house. ‘I can’t say.’

‘Is it true?’

Corbett turned. Wendover stood dancing from foot to foot, his blue cloak now draped over one arm.