Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders (30 page)

Corbett went down into the yard, summoned a lay brother and gave him a message to take to Les Hommes Joyeuses, camped out near St Pancras. He made the young man repeat it time and again before thrusting a small purse into his hand.

‘Make sure the mummer who calls himself the Pilgrim gets that, Brother, won’t you?’

The lay brother smiled and held up his hand as if taking an oath.

‘And this is for your pains.’ Corbett pressed a silver coin into his hand. ‘Brother, I beg you, tell the Pilgrim to be gone.’ He peered up at the sky. ‘Before darkness falls.’

Corbett was about to turn away when two cowled figures came through the gateway. They shuffled through the slush carrying a makeshift bier; from the sacking thrown on top a clawed white hand trailed. A shock of black hair peeped out from the top. Corbett walked across. The two brothers paused.

‘A beggar.’ One of them spoke before the clerk could ask. ‘Poor man, found frozen to death in the apple orchard. He’s for the mortuary chapel.’

Corbett whispered the Requiem, crossed himself and retired to his own chamber. He prepared his writing desk, laying out sheets of vellum, quills and ink horns. Chanson returned carrying a leather bag of documents. Corbett laid these out on the table and studied them carefully: the tax returns for Canterbury and the surrounding area between 1258 and 1272. He built up the braziers, wheeled them closer to the table, settled himself down and scrutinised the documents. About two hours later Ranulf and Chanson, lounging in their own chamber, heard Corbett shout with joy. Both hurried into his room. The clerk waved them away.

‘I apologise, gentlemen,’ he said, half turning in his chair, ‘but now and again when you go searching in the most unlikely places you always find a treasure, as the parable in the Gospels tell us about the woman searching for the lost coin.’ Corbett paused. ‘Nazareth, Nazareth,’ he repeated. ‘Ranulf, seek out the guest master. Ask if I can borrow a missal which contains the readings for last week, the Epistle and the Gospel. Tell him I want to keep it for a while. I’ve recalled something Berengaria told me, how carefully she listened to Scripture.’

A short while later Ranulf returned with a leather bag containing the missal, which the guest master had described as ‘one of the Abbey’s most precious possessions’, so Corbett had to be careful. Sir Hugh nodded, opened the missal, pulling away the ribbon markers, and carefully sifted through the readings. At last he found the passage which described Jesus going back to his native town of Nazareth, and how the Saviour failed to perform any miracles there because of the inhabitants’ lack of faith.

‘Lack of faith,’ Corbett whispered. ‘Sweet Jesu Miserere – Lord, I believe, help my unbelief. I’ve found it!’ Now he knew why Berengaria had scrawled that word on the wall of her bedchamber in Parson Warfeld’s house. She had heard something from the Gospel, read in Latin but translated by Parson Warfeld in his short homily afterwards; this had been seized on by the sharp-witted Berengaria. She was going to use it, or perhaps she already had.

Corbett closed the missal, gave it back to Ranulf and sat back in his chair, plotting how he was to trap his killer. He idly wondered about Wendover. Perhaps they should have warned him, but what could be done? The Hours of Divine Office were rung; Corbett ignored them, fully intent on constructing his hypothesis before developing it, searching for proof. Only once did he pause in his study, putting on his boots and cloak to go down into the freezing night to join the good brothers in singing Compline. By then Ranulf and Chanson were fast asleep. Corbett returned and continued working through the night. Afterwards he sat warming his hands over the brazier, eyes heavy with sleep but still determined on forcing this problem to a solution, its logical conclusion? Sometimes he acted as a judge confronting an assassin, presenting him or her with the evidence. This was different; it was all so tenuous. He’d built this house on shifting sands. Would it withstand a storm of protests and counteraccusation? Yet if he failed, perhaps he would never get a second opportunity.

Corbett pushed the chair back and, taking his cloak, wrapped it about him and lay down on the bed, staring at the wall, wondering what to do. He recalled the corpse of that beggar man being brought in, then a verse from a psalm he’d sung at Compline, about God inviting all men, saint and sinner alike, to a banquet. Perhaps he should do that? He muttered a short prayer and, thinking of Maeve, fell into a deep sleep.

Wendover, captain of the city guard of Canterbury, was fully determined to put as much distance between himself and his native city as possible. He was a very frightened man. He recognised that his liaison with Lady Adelicia would eventually cost him his post, once that prying clerk had finished his business. Sir Walter Castledene had made that very clear. Wendover would be asked certain questions, and if his replies were not acceptable, he would be summarily dismissed, his indenture with the city council torn up. He would become another landless man wandering the streets and alleyways of Canterbury, desperate for employment, and if he fell, what a fall! Wendover, with his bullying ways, had made many enemies in the city. Once his disgrace became public, all hands would turn against him, and he could expect little mercy or compassion. Lady Adelicia would have nothing to do with him. She had used him and that was the end of it, so where else could he turn? Moreover, he realised that Lady Adelicia suspected he was a thief, filching this item or that, the occasional coin from her purse as she slept after their lovemaking here in The Chequer of Hope. Might he be arrested and interrogated? Wendover was truly terrified by a further nameless fear, a deep sense of dread which made him drink more than usual. Every time he left The Chequer of Hope he would look over his shoulder, certain someone was watching him. He had decided to flee. The previous evening he’d packed his saddle bags with every possession, taking his pouches of paltry coins from their hiding place. As soon as day broke and the city gates were opened, he collected his horse from its stable and made his way towards Westgate. He’d go to London; he had relatives there who might shelter him whilst he secured fresh employment.

Once on the Whitstable Road, Wendover grew more relaxed. He joined other people who, despite the weather, were determined on their own journeys. The travellers crossed the Stour, making their way towards St Dunstan’s church. Here Wendover decided to leave the main thoroughfare, following country lanes through the trees which would eventually take him on to the London road and safety. He was surprised at how quickly and easily he’d managed to escape, and his confidence grew; he had sword and dagger strapped to his war belt, a purse of coins hidden away, his saddle bags bulging. He comforted himself that he would soon find fresh employment. He let his horse make its way carefully along the woodland path, since the wine and ale he’d drunk the night before had made him mawmsy. Abruptly his horse paused and whinnied, hooves scrabbling on the ice. Wendover looked up in alarm, but it was too late. The stark, black-garbed figure standing in the middle of the trackway, arbalest raised, had already taken aim, and the barbed quarrel whirred through the air, hitting Wendover in the shoulder. He screamed at the hideous pain, his horse kicking under him, and then he fainted, crashing from the saddle.

When Wendover regained consciousness, he believed he was already in hell rather than on the road to it. The pain in his left shoulder was excruciating. He stared down in horror at the red-black wound, the feathers of the quarrel still sticking out. He felt faint and tasted the iron tang of blood at the back of his throat. He was also freezing. He’d been stripped of every item of clothing and now sat astride his horse, hands tied behind his back, feet fastened under the animal’s withers. Someone was holding the reins. Wendover blinked and strained against the thick, coarse noose around his neck. The figure turned. Wendover moaned in disbelief at the black hood, the mask, the slits for eyes, nose and mouth. He cursed his own stupidity; he must have been followed from Canterbury. He smelt a faint perfume. Biting his lip against the waves of pain which swept through him, Wendover stared round. His saddle bags had been emptied, his clothes cut to shreds.

‘Mercy!’ he whispered.

The figure remained impassive, patting the horse gently along its neck.

‘Mercy, Master Wendover, mercy for you? You were there when my brother was hanged. I have no mercy. You may buy your life for a price. I’ll cut the ropes and let you go if you give me the Cloister Map stolen from Sir Rauf.’

‘I haven’t got it!’ Wendover pleaded. He winced as the horse moved; the pain in his left shoulder was unbearable. He was now fully aware of the cutting cold, the snow falling from the branches above him, the winter wind nipping at his flesh.

‘The Cloister Map?’ the voice insisted.

Wendover swallowed on the blood at the back of his throat. ‘I haven’t got it, God is my witness I haven’t, but I could—’

‘No you couldn’t,’ the voice interrupted. ‘You’re a coward, Wendover. Ah well.’ The figure stepped back. Wendover was sure he recognised that voice. ‘I must go on my way and so must you.’ The nightmare figure passed Wendover, smacked the horse on the rump and stood for a while, watching Wendover kick and struggle until the naked figure hung still, twirling slightly on the end of that coarse hempen rope. Only then did Hubert Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze, slip silently away, leaving the horror hanging behind him.

Corbett sat in the guesthouse refectory. He’d risen early, washed, dressed and attended Lauds, followed by the Jesus Mass. Afterwards he’d strolled round the abbey as if studying the different styles of architecture. In truth he was calming his own mind, reaffirming the conclusions he’d reached the previous evening. He returned to the refectory to break his fast, and Chanson and Ranulf joined him. They were just about to leave when Sir Walter Castledene arrived with a retinue of city guards. The mayor bustled into the refectory, taking off his gloves and throwing his cloak back as he told Corbett the news. How a group of stick-gatherers had gone out to collect kindling and had found Wendover’s naked corpse hanging from an elm tree on a woodland path leading to the London road, his possessions strewn all around, saddle bags ripped open, clothes shredded, his horse foraging for grass.

Corbett gestured for Castledene to sit, but the mayor shook his head and beckoned Corbett away from the rest towards the door of the refectory.

‘Whoever it is,’ Castledene drew close, peering at Corbett whilst wiping the sweat from his face, ‘is also hunting us, Sir Hugh. What is to be done?’

‘What is to be done?’ Corbett put a hand on Sir Walter’s shoulder and led him into the cobbled yard, where the noise and chatter from the city guards, the cries of the lay brothers and the neigh of horses drowned their conversation. ‘Sir Walter, I came here looking for the truth and you didn’t tell me it.’

‘What do you mean, Sir Hugh?’

‘In 1272,’ Corbett replied, ‘the year of His Grace’s succession, the King’s peace was violated here in Canterbury and other shires. The small manor house of Hubert Fitzurse and his half-brother Adam at Maison Dieu was attacked and looted, everyone found there killed. I ask you, Sir Walter,’ Corbett pressed his face closer, ‘as you will account to God, if not the King, for your life, were you one of those who attacked that manor house?’

‘Sir Hugh, how dare you!’

Corbett gripped the man’s wrist. ‘Guards or not, Sir Walter, I’ll drag you into the abbey church and up the steps to its high altar. I’ll get one of our good brothers to bring down the pyx and bible. I’ll put your hand over them and make you swear that you are innocent of any such crime.’

Castledene’s face paled. He chewed the corner of his lip, eyes darting, deeply regretting coming here to meet this sharp-tongued clerk.

‘I’ll tell you something,’ Corbett continued in a hoarse whisper. ‘It was not only you, Sir Walter; Rauf Decontet was also involved. It’s the truth, isn’t it?’

Castledene opened his mouth to reply. Corbett pressed his fingers against the man’s mouth. This time Castledene didn’t flinch.

‘Don’t lie, Sir Walter. About you I have much to say and much to condemn. You have crimes to answer for and answer for them you will! Now tell me, do I speak the truth?’

Castledene swayed on his feet. Face pale, he looked older, haggard. Corbett realised this secret sin must have haunted the merchant down the years.

‘I was there.’ He turned sideways as if unable to meet Corbett’s full gaze. ‘Rauf Decontet and I, we were two young men. There was a breakdown in law and order. Gangs of rifflers roamed the countryside. Decontet and I were so desperate to make our way in the world, we joined such a band. Most of them are now dead. We rode out to Fitzurse’s manor. We went to plunder, drive off some livestock, that was all. However, on the way our coven, God save us, stopped at a tavern, and we all drank deep. It was dark when we reached the manor house. I thought we would go in, hooded and visored, to take what we wanted, but the ale fired our blood. Fitzurse’s second wife was very pretty. I swear this, Sir Hugh, and on this I will take an oath, I tried to intervene but they wouldn’t listen. I collected my horse and rode away. I sheltered amongst the trees and watched what happened, the screams, the flames. I thought everyone had been killed. I never rejoined that gang of rifflers, and as God is my witness, I never, ever talked to Decontet again.’ He shrugged. ‘At least not as a comrade.’

‘Did Decontet remind you of your dreadful secret when he petitioned the King for Lady Adelicia’s hand in marriage? Ask for a favour, as you did when you sent the sottish Lechlade into his service? Two men who could put each other under duress?’

Castledene stared bleakly back.

‘How many people died that night?’ Corbett asked.

‘Sir Hugh, I do not know. Some of the bodies were consumed in the flames. Fitzurse and his wife were found, and buried in St Mildred’s. I knew they had boys. I was relieved when I heard that one was still at St Augustine’s Abbey school, whilst the other had hidden away.’ Castledene shook his head. ‘I have made reparation. I have had Masses said. I have journeyed to St James’ shrine at Compostela and the tomb of the Three Kings at Cologne. I would do anything to purge my guilt, to clean their blood from my hands.’