Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders (27 page)

‘Why?’ Ranulf asked.

‘To distract us,’ Corbett declared. ‘To make us think, at least for a while, that Servinus might even be the assassin, Hubert the Monk in disguise. Now here is an interesting question, Ranulf.’ Corbett got to his feet. ‘If the other four were mysteriously murdered by hanging, why did our assassin use a crossbow bolt against Servinus?’ He paused as the door opened and Chanson returned wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

‘Sorry, master.’

Wendover followed.

‘I told you to wait outside!’ Corbett snapped.

Wendover gasped in horror at the gruesome corpse sprawled on the hall floor, clothes soaked in ale, the ghastly face, the awful wounds to the chest and stomach.

‘Sir Hugh.’ The captain’s hand went to his mouth. ‘A messenger has arrived for you. He went first to St Augustine’s Abbey. He is from Sir Walter Castledene, who asks you to come to St Alphege’s. There has been a murder, Berengaria. What shall we . . . ?’ Wendover looked once more at the corpse, then turned, hand to his mouth, and ran outside.

‘Master Ranulf, come with me,’ Corbett ordered. ‘Chanson, stay here, examine that corpse. Go back to the vat; was there anything else put in there with him? Tell Wendover I want this house searched one more time, then he is to join me at St Alphege’s. Tell him to fetch a cart and bring the corpse over. Parson Warfeld has another Requiem to sing. Servinus can be buried in the poor man’s plot in Gods acre; the city will bear the expense.’

Once outside, Corbett repeated his orders to Wendover, who stood by a tree, still retching and clearing his mouth. The captain nodded quickly.

‘I’ll do what I can,’ he gasped.

‘You’ll do what I order!’ Corbett declared, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Come, Master Ranulf.’

Chapter 12

Conserva requiem mitis ab hoste mem
.
Guard my sleep against the enemy.

Arator

They left Maubisson, taking one of the city guards with them to show them the swiftest route around the city walls and in through the lychgate of St Alphege’s. Castledene and members of his comitatus were already there. They’d dismounted, and their horses were being hobbled. Corbett called Castledene’s name and the mayor hurried over. Corbett dismounted and quickly told him what he had discovered at Maubisson, ignoring the mayor’s gasps, exclamations and litany of questions.

‘No, no, Sir Walter.’ Corbett shook his head. ‘This is the heart of the problem. Four people were murdered by hanging in that dreadful manor; Servinus was killed by a crossbow bolt. Why?’

Sir Walter rubbed his hands and pointed back towards the church door. ‘Sir Hugh, there’s other business.’

‘Yes, there is other business, but I must ask you to concentrate on this. Is there anything you knew about Servinus which might be useful? Why he was murdered in one way, the others differently? Please?’ Corbett patted Sir Walter on the shoulder and hurried up the steps into the church.

Desroches was leaning against a pillar, staring down at Parson Warfeld, who was busy anointing the corpse with holy oil. Berengeria had lost all her prettiness, the noose fast around her throat, eyes glaring, face mottled, tongue protruding. She sprawled haphazardly. Corbett, listening to the priest’s murmured prayers, knelt down and, using his dagger, cut the cord, loosened it and handed it to Ranulf. The body jerked strangely in death. Corbett straightened the legs and arms even as Parson Warfeld raised his hand in the final blessing and absolution. The priest looked haggard, eyes red-rimmed.

‘She’s gone!’ he murmured. ‘Such a sweet girl. May the Lord Christ forgive her many sins and mine.’

Corbett felt tempted to ask Warfeld to explain, but decided it would wait. He rose to his feet, beckoning the others to join him further up the nave near the rood screen before the sanctuary.

‘Well?’ he asked, turning abruptly. ‘What happened here?’

Parson Warfeld explained how Berengaria had felt comfortable in the lodgings he had provided. This morning he had come down and celebrated his morning Mass and they were planning to break their fast in a city cookshop when Physician Desroches had arrived and demanded to see him. He had told Berengaria to wait in the church and taken Desroches into the priest’s house. When they’d finished, they walked back into the church thinking that Berengaria would be still waiting there.

‘What you’ve seen, Sir Hugh,’ the priest added mournfully, ‘is what we discovered.’

Corbett glanced at Desroches.

‘The flesh is slightly warm,’ Desroches said. ‘She was hale and hearty when we left. The assassin must have slipped into the church and killed her. God knows why a poor maid should be murdered.’

‘I don’t think she was as poor as you think,’ Corbett declared. ‘Berengaria had keener eyes and sharper wits than perhaps many of us presumed. I do wonder why she was murdered.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Master Desroches?’

The Physician glanced up. ‘Sir Hugh?’

‘We have found the corpse of Servinus, Paulents’ bodyguard. He was killed by a crossbow bolt to his chest, his belly slit open, and hidden in an ale vat deep in the cellar. I asked Sir Walter a question. I also ask it of you. Four people were murdered in that hall, killed by hanging, very similar to poor Berengaria’s death. Why should Servinus die differently?’

Desroches pulled a face. ‘Sir Hugh, I hardly knew the man. We exchanged a few words of greeting and that is all.’

‘And why did you come here this morning?’ Ranulf asked.

‘To see Parson Warfeld. Sir Hugh. I have told you, and Parson Warfeld will agree. I was not born in Canterbury, but my parents are buried here in God’s acre. If you check the
Liber Mortuorum
–
The Book of the Dead
– you will find their names listed there. They both died sometime before Christmas, so this is their anniversary. I came to ask Parson Warfeld to sing the Requiem Mass for their souls.’

‘That is true,’ Parson Warfeld bleated. ‘Sir Hugh, we were not gone for long. The church is cold. Berengaria said she would warm her hands over the candle flames.’ He pointed at the transept, where candles glowed in the darkness beneath the shrouded statue of the saint. ‘I didn’t think anything; I . . .’ He faltered and walked away, shoulders shaking.

Corbett followed him. ‘Parson Warfeld,’ he whispered. The priest turned. ‘What was Berengaria to you?’

‘Sir Hugh, I’m in God’s house.’ He walked on, beckoning Corbett to join him. ‘Sir Hugh . . .’ He paused, then whispered, ‘I must have my sins shriven; on this I’ll tell the truth. Berengaria was skilled in the ways of men. I gave her good housing; she gave me some comfort.’ He glanced away. ‘You know what I mean?’

‘Did she tell you she rendered the same for Sir Rauf?’

Warfeld stared down at the paved stone floor.

‘Was there anything she said,’ Corbett insisted, ‘which could explain her own brutal death?’

‘Sir Hugh,’ Warfeld whispered, ‘you described Berengaria accurately. She had sharp wits. You know she kept her own secret counsel.’

Corbett nodded. ‘May I visit her room?’

‘Certainly. Gentlemen,’ Parson Warfeld called out, ‘I beg you to stay here for a while. I have business with Sir Hugh.’

He led Corbett out through a side door, and crossed the frozen ground to his comfortable two-storey house. They climbed the wooden stairs built on the outside; these led into a stairwell in the recess of which stood a narrow door. Warfeld pressed the latch and opened it. Corbett stepped into the room. It was neatly kept. In the corner was a comfortable truckle bed shrouded by drapes; warming pans and chafing dishes stood on a table, and next to this were a stool and a high-backed chair. There were shelves and pegs on the wall for clothes and robes.

‘A tidy girl,’ Corbett observed.

He opened a coffer on the small table beside the bed; it was full of trinkets, gee-gaws, rings, bracelets, and a piece of brocade. Next to the bed lay a pair of soft buskined slippers. On the wall pegs hung a cloak, shifts and petticoats, linen underwear and a dress. Beneath these was a small box containing face paints and a phial of cheap perfume. Corbett pulled back the curtains of the bed, ignoring Warfeld’s protests about ‘the possessions of a poor wench recently murdered’. There was nothing. The bed had been neatly made, the faded gold coverlet pulled up over the bolsters. He was about to turn away when he glimpsed blurred marks on the whitewashed wall beneath the narrow window and leaned over. The scrawl had been done with a piece of charcoal. Corbett made out the word ‘Nazareth’.

‘Nazareth?’ He turned to Warfeld, pointing to the scrawl. ‘That is fresh, is it not?’

Warfeld came across. ‘It was certainly not there before.’ He leaned over and brushed the wall, then took his finger away and stared at the charcoal dust on the tip. ‘Berengaria must have written it. That’s right, yesterday evening when we returned, she asked for the name of the town where Jesus had been born. I said Bethlehem. She laughed and shook her head and said, “No, the other place”, so I wrote “Nazareth” out on a piece of parchment; she must have copied it from there. She said she knew her horn book, that she could read and write most letters.’

‘Why?’ Corbett asked. ‘Why did she want to know that? More importantly, why did she write it?’

‘Sir Hugh, as God is my witness, I don’t know. I found Berengaria engaging; she was, as you say, sharp-witted. I am sorry she has gone.’

Corbett finished his search but found nothing except a few more tawdry possessions. He followed the priest down the stairs and back across into the church. Castledene had ordered in some of the guards. Berengaria’s corpse, already shrouded in a cloak, was being lifted on to a makeshift bier to be taken to the mortuary house in God’s acre. Corbett stared across at the candle flames, wishing that statue could speak. Who had crept into this church and killed that hapless maid? Parson Warfeld and the physician Desroches were closeted together . . .

‘Sir Hugh,’ Castledene came over and plucked at his sleeve, ‘I must have words with you.’

They walked towards the door of the church.

‘Servinus,’ Castledene whispered. ‘One thing I did learn, he never drank wine or ale. I remember him saying that. We were talking about how Paulents and his family felt. Servinus was also queasy, but declared that it could not be the ale or wine because he had taken an oath on some pilgrimage or other that he would never touch strong drink. Sir Hugh, that is all I know.’

Corbett thanked him, then went across and informed Parson Warfeld about Servinus’ corpse being brought to the church, and requested that Requiem Masses be sung for both his soul and that of Berengaria. Then he pointed towards the high altar.

‘Lay them out there tonight,’ he said. ‘Ring their corpses with purple wax candles, sing the Masses tomorrow and have them buried before dark.’

Warfeld hastily agreed. He was now embarrassed, eager to be rid of this prying clerk. Corbett and Ranulf left the church, collected their horses and led them down under the lychgate. Corbett turned and stared back. Castledene, Desroches and Parson Warfeld were huddled together on the steps, discussing some matter or other.

‘We will never find the truth from them,’ Corbett declared.

‘What truth, master?’

‘Precisely, Ranulf, what truth?’ He gathered the reins of his horse and moved away from the lychgate. ‘In this matter, Ranulf, it is time rather than evidence which is important. Think of myself and our adversary as two lurchers, two coursers, running either side of a fence. If my adversary runs faster he’ll escape; if I run faster I’ll catch him! Our killer wants to be swift. He wishes to wreak his revenge, discover the true whereabouts of the treasure and escape.’ Corbett gazed up; the sky was cloud free. ‘The weather is breaking,’ he declared. ‘It is freezing cold but I don’t think there’ll be more snow.’ He pointed across the wasteland. ‘We must visit the Lady Adelicia to enquire about her safety and security, and above all,’ he winked at Ranulf, ‘to discover whether she left the house this morning.’

They made their way across the frost-encrusted common, the breeze biting at their faces, nipping their noses, cheeks and ears. Corbett pulled his cloak up. When they reached Sweetmead, the guards lounging around in the porches and recesses rose to greet them. They assured Corbett that no one had left the manor, though he was not too certain about how strict their watch had become. Lady Adelicia certainly looked as if she had not left the house. A furred nightrobe around her shoulders, bare feet pushed into buskins, her hair undressed, she met them in the small parlour and rose to greet them coldly. She apologised for the weak fire and complained bitterly about Berengaria, how she was supposed to be here to tend to her.

‘Madam,’ Corbett caught her sleeve, ‘I bring you sad news.’ He told her exactly what had happened at St Alphege’s, how Berengaria had been garrotted. Lady Adelicia heard him out coldly, nodding now and again, lifting her hand, fluttering her fingers, the only sign of any emotion.