Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders (32 page)

‘You dressed him in your clothes?’ Desroches declared, not turning round.

‘Of course. I begged the guest master. I knew the death house had the corpse of a beggar found frozen to death in the abbey grounds. The rest is as you see. Lechlade thought I was asleep, drunk, wits fuddled by wine, so he struck. And what brought
you
here, Master Physician?’

‘I watched Lechlade at your supper. He acted the drunk yet I always had my suspicions.’ Desroches flinched as the point of Corbett’s sword pricked deep into the back of his neck.

‘Turn round, Master Desroches, or, to be more precise, Hubert Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze. Turn round!’ Corbett ordered.

Desroches did so, his hand going towards the belt under his cloak.

‘Unbuckle it!’ Corbett stood back, sword still raised. ‘Let it fall to the ground and move over there.’

Desroches did so, sitting down on a stool. Corbett pulled another one across and picked up the primed arbalest, aiming it straight at Desroches’ chest.

‘Sir Hugh, you are making a mistake. I was watching Lechlade. I had had my suspicions for some time. I thought—’

‘No you didn’t,’ Corbett declared. ‘I too had my suspicions about Lechlade, but I also began to suspect that two killers were on the prowl, not one. Hubert Fitzurse, that is you, had an accomplice. What I believe, Master Hubert, is this. A gang of outlaws attacked your manor house many years ago and killed your parents. Decontet and Castledene were members of that coven. At Westminster you were visited by someone who told you that, a revelation which abruptly, very dramatically, changed your life. Your visitor was Lechlade. When I looked at the accounts for your parents’ manor, I came across a list of those old enough to pay tax: your father was one, your stepmother another; the rest were servants, except for one other individual, John Brocare. I believe Brocare and Lechlade are one and the same person. Somehow Brocare escaped, concealed himself and re-emerged as Lechlade. From what I understand, he was a relative of your father, perhaps a cousin? Anyway, he discovered what had actually happened that night and brought the news to you at Westminster. In a way it was like a messenger from God, wasn’t it? You learned that the very city which had helped you, men who were now its leading merchants and traders, had been involved in your parents’ death. You decided to forsake God, your king, your order and become a hunter of men. I would wager you hunted down surviving members of that murderous coven, and, apart from Castledene, they are now probably all dead. You also shared Lechlade’s startling revelation with your brother Adam, who, by then, had turned to a life of piracy. Little wonder that Adam Blackstock waged war on Castledene’s ships.

‘Then the Cloister Map emerged. Adam found it on one of Paulents’ ships. He seized that and sent a message to you. He had not only stolen the map; he may also have deciphered it correctly. You and he were to meet along the Orwell, near the ruined hermitage with its chapel dedicated to St Simon of the Rocks; that’s where you took your false name, isn’t it: Peter Desroches? Desroches is French for “of the rocks”, whilst you changed the name Simon to Peter, as happened in the Gospels, just in case anyone remarked on the coincidence that you bore the same name in French as the hermitage where Adam Blackstock used to meet Hubert the Monk. The rest of the story you know better than I do. Stonecrop betrayed your brother.
The Waxman
was intercepted, your brother killed and gibbeted. I can only imagine your rage, which cooled in to a deep desire for bloody revenge. You are a highly dangerous but very intelligent man, Master Hubert. It wouldn’t be hard for the likes of you, who has always hidden deep in the shadows, to change character, shape-shift as they say. You ceased being Hubert, the
venator hominum
, the former monk, and became Monsieur Peter Desroches of Gascony, who’d studied at this university and that. You had acquired enough wealth as Hubert to finance such a clever deception.’

Corbett paused and studied his adversary staring so coldly back at him, not a flicker of emotion in those hard eyes, no shift or twitch to his body; he sat perfectly composed, hands on his knees, scrutinising Corbett, searching for any weakness, any gap he might exploit.

‘You are skilled enough to forge letters of accreditation, official seals, to be a physician from this school or a scholar of the other. You could study and absorb medical treatises; as a
venator
you’d also become skilled in the treatment of wounds and ailments. You’d soon learn the knowledge, customs and mannerisms of a physician, be it the treatment of Chanson’s ulcers or the use of rats to test tainted food and drink. I suspect you’re a finer physician than many a genuine one. After all, as a boy you’d displayed a talent to mimic, to imitate. Anyway, you pretended to be the wealthy physician who had studied abroad.’ Corbett paused. ‘When I talked to you and Lechlade, both of you mentioned how you had been a physician in Canterbury for over three years, some time before
The Waxman
was intercepted, but of course that is not strictly true, is it? It is just over three years ago that
The Waxman
was captured. Only after that did you arrive in Canterbury with your wealth, knowledge, expertise and pleasant diplomatic ways. Castledene accepted you, and so did others.’

Corbett paused, shifting the arbalest for comfort’s sake.

‘Of course, you must ask why should they patronise you? Very easy.’ Corbett smiled. ‘Physicians are noted for their love of gold, their haughty ways, their insistence on protocol. You played your own lure like a hunter with his snare: the easy-going, charming, knowledgeable Desroches who, perhaps, charged less than the rest. Tactful, diplomatic, you wormed your way into people’s affections. You played the same affable physician for me, the man who didn’t like weapons, who found it difficult to mount a horse.’

Desroches snorted with laughter and flailed a hand, but his eyes remained watchful.

‘You acted the physician very well, both for our good mayor and for Sir Rauf Decontet,’ Corbett continued. ‘You were in Canterbury for two purposes: first to wreak revenge, and second to discover the whereabouts of the true Cloister Map. You bided your time. When Castledene told you about Paulents coming to Canterbury, you laid your plans. Your confidant and accomplice Lechlade played his part. He too had assumed a new identity, a new guise. He was the lumbering, lurching, foul-mouthed, drunken sot whom Sir Rauf tolerated because it cost him next to nothing. In fact Lechlade was as sharp-witted as you, and equally bent on revenge.’ Corbett paused. ‘I reflected: in the past Lechlade may have been a toper, but revenge sobered him up. He would keep you informed of what was going on, be it Lady Adelicia playing the two-backed beast with Wendover and, above all, the whereabouts of that map. I realised two killers must be involved. When Paulents landed at Dover, he was given a warning; at the same time Castledene was threatened in Canterbury. It is possible for one man to travel from Dover to Canterbury, but I concluded it more likely that two people were involved: you in Canterbury, Lechlade in Dover. Your accomplice would find it easy to slip away: his master was murdered, Lady Adelicia held fast in prison and Berengaria safely lodged with Parson Warfeld, so who would be bothered about that drunken oaf? I also suspect Lechlade interfered with the food and drink served to Paulents and his family at the Dover tavern. Nothing serious, just enough to agitate the belly, to worsen the symptoms of a rough sea crossing. Paulents left for Canterbury. Lechlade also swiftly returned to the city before the snows set in.’

‘And what was the purpose of all this?’ The question was taunting, yet brisk.

‘Well, if Paulents and his family were unwell, naturally, as a city physician, you would meet them.’

‘Castledene could have hired someone else.’

‘I doubt it,’ Corbett replied drily. ‘As I’ve said, you’d proved to be most accommodating. Moreover, and I’ve asked Castledene this,’ he bluffed, ‘when Paulents and his family arrived in Canterbury, you happened to be in the Guildhall or nearby. Yes?’ His adversary gazed stonily back. ‘You swiftly established a cordial relationship with Castledene’s guests, assuring them that all was well. Paulents’ wife was much taken with you and even asked you to stay at Maubisson. Of course, you refused; you had other plans. Now, Wendover was to guard Maubisson. However, our captain was deeply distracted, you knew that. He had been playing the fornicator, the adulterer with Lady Adelicia, who had now been arrested and lodged in the Guildhall dungeons for the murder of her husband. It would be easy for you, with your skill at disguise, to pretend to be a city guard dressed in his cloak, hood pulled up against the cold, and slip into Maubisson carrying this parcel or that.’

‘As easy as that, Sir Hugh?’

‘Very much so! Wendover was distracted. Guards milled about. Who would notice you? Who would really care? No one suspected an assassin had crept in carrying the means to inflict bloody mayhem.’

‘And?’ The self-proclaimed physician leaned forward. Corbett’s fingers curled round the catch of the arbalest.

‘A short while later Paulents and his family arrived. They locked themselves in. The guard was set, the fires lit, the food cooked, the wine served, and you emerged.’

‘Corbett, you are raving: too much time spent on idle speculation. How could I—’

‘Very easily, Master Hubert. You’d learnt the guards’ password; you pretended to leave. No one would give you a second glance either disguised as a guard or as the special friend of Castledene, the mayor of Canterbury. You made your farewells, went down the stairs, then slipped quickly into that cellar. Even if you’d been discovered, a remote possibility, you could have bluffed and lied your way out, but fortune favoured you. Paulents and his family wished to relax, Castledene to be gone, Wendover to reflect on his own troubles.’

‘If I emerged, as you put it, why wasn’t the alarm raised?’

‘Because Paulents would see you as a friend: the gentle physician who carried no weapons. You’d offer some pretence as to why you had been allowed to slip back into the manor. They must have thought Wendover had let you pass. You’d make up some story, how, perhaps, the mayor had given you a key to this postern door or that. You were the kindly physician, Castledene’s close colleague: why on earth should they suspect you? You had the night in front of you. You reassured them that all was well; they would relax as you secretly mixed a sleeping potion with their wine. While they drank, you took Servinus outside on some pretext or other. You’d already established, when talking to them earlier, how Servinus did not drink alcohol, so he was brutally dispatched with a swift crossbow bolt to the chest. You laid his body down, turning it over so no blood dripped on to the floor, staunching it with a rag. By the time you returned to the hall, Paulents and his family were sleeping. You had the rope; it was simply a matter of dragging your hapless victims across to those iron brackets, putting a noose around their necks and hoisting them up. You are a strong man, Hubert; they eventually all dangled like corpses on a gallows. They never regained consciousness, slipping from sleep into death,’ Corbett snapped his fingers, ‘like that! Servinus was a different matter. In all this you had to be careful of time passing. You knew I was coming to Canterbury. Castledene told you that. Your business had to be done quickly, then you and Lechlade were to be gone. You slit Servinus’ stomach so its foul vapours could escape and thus slowed the stench of putrefaction, staunching the wound with more cloths and napkins.’

‘I know so much about physic, the bodily humours?’

‘Of course you do, Master Hurbert. You are highly intelligent and skilled. I wager you know as much about the art of healing as you do about killing! You’ve read books, the pharmacopoeia of the Ancients. You’re probably more erudite than many a physician; you proved that when you treated Chanson’s ulcer. After all, your expertise in physic as well as artful diplomacy had secured the patronage of Castledene and others.’

‘And what did I do with Servinus’ corpse?’

Corbett eased the arbalest back. Hubert was waiting for him to tire.

‘You dragged it down into the cellar, took the lid off that vat, having first run off some of the ale, lowered the corpse in and resealed the barrel. You carefully looked for any spilt blood. I can imagine you going along the floor with a candle, wiping away any stain of violence. You then returned to the hall. You took all the wine cups, emptied them, washed them and refilled them with fresh, untainted wine. Your task was completed. Servinus was dead and so was Paulents. Revenge had been carried out. You went to the merchant’s chamber, took out the fresh copy of the Cloister Map and replaced it with another piece of parchment which was really nothing more than a farrago of nonsense.’

‘And how did I escape?’ The prisoner on the stool moved his head to ease the tension at the back of his neck.

‘Oh, that was quite easy for you, Hubert: a hunter of men, a skilled assassin. You had your city guard cloak which you had filched from somewhere. Wendover burst into the house; people were scurrying hither and thither, shouting the pass-call; you were just another figure hurrying about. Nobody would think to stop a city guard during the immediate confusion. I did wonder, however, about Oseric killed out at Sweetmead Manor. Did he notice something untoward? Did you kill him, or did Lechlade on your order, because you wanted him dead, or was it just to create more terror? Whatever, Hubert, you slipped into that manor and hid yourself away. You were elated but you also had to be prudent: the King’s man was coming, so you sent me warnings.’

‘Why?’

Corbett moved the arbalest. Hubert was whiling away the time, waiting, searching for a weakness, a mistake; the clerk strained to listen for any sound, but the guesthouse lay wrapped in an ominous silence.

‘Because three people were involved in the death of your brother: Castledene, Paulents and His Grace the King. You already knew I was hunting you. You murdered poor Griskin, didn’t you?’ Corbett accused. ‘You discovered that he wasn’t really a leper but an emissary from the Royal Chancery seeking out information, making enquiries in that part of Suffolk where the ancient treasure was supposed to be buried, about who had been there, why and when. Griskin had learnt something but it became garbled. He talked about Simon of the Rocks, a play on the name of the physician from Canterbury who was making similar enquiries. Was that Griskin’s way of concealing your true name? Or was it something else? Another alias used by you when you travelled into Suffolk? Had Griskin glimpsed you in the ruins of that lonely hermitage?’ Corbett shook his head. ‘I cannot say.’