Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders (7 page)

‘I am not a plaintiff before King’s Bench.’

‘You could be.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘I could serve writs on you for refusing to answer. Sir Walter,’ he leaned across the table, ‘four of God’s children lie foully murdered downstairs. Servinus their bodyguard has disappeared. They were all the King’s guests, foreigners who entered this kingdom with royal approval and licence. They fell under the Crown’s protection. Edward will want answers. So, are we going to engage in cat’s cradle? Hodman’s bluff? Answer and question? Point and counterpoint? If we are, Sir Walter, I’ll take you back to London and loose Berenger, Staunton and the other royal justices on you. They’ll savage you like mastiffs.’

‘Sir Hugh?’ Castledene held his hand up.

‘From the beginning,’ Corbett warned. ‘The truth, simple and stark; no fables, no subtle deceits.’

‘It’s true what you say, Sir Hugh,’ Castledene began slowly. ‘We have fought on the same battlefields. I am the King’s man but I’m also a Canterbury man. My grandfather’s father was born here. I was raised here. I went to school in Christchurch Cloister. I love this city. Being a second son,’ he sighed, ‘gave me little advantage, so I joined the King’s household and, as you know, showed courage – or at least didn’t betray my fear – in Wales and Scotland. I won the King’s favour and a number of valuable ransoms, and I came back to Canterbury, where I married. My poor wife died; she now lies buried in God’s acre at St Dunstan’s. I put all my energy and talent into building up trade and business; you name the item and I sell it, especially wool. Sir Hugh, the markets of France, Brabant, Hainault and Italy are greedy for our wool. I bought land. I raised sheep. I sold wool then I bought ships. Merchants from different countries, Sir Hugh, have a lot in common with chancery clerks. We speak the same language.’ He flailed his hand. ‘We meet and talk to each other. There are no differences when it comes to trade, be it Germany, Brabant, Castile or Aragon. Money always talks, it breaks the barriers; it is almost as powerful,’ he smiled thinly, ‘as God’s grace.

‘In London I met Paulents, a Hanseatic merchant. I liked him, I visited him and he visited me. We entered into trade negotiations, nothing remarkable. Now Paulents was also a scholar very interested in the history of England, particularly its eastern shrines. He was always fascinated by the stories of how his ancestors, the Angles, Saxons and Jutes, invaded this island. Anyway, about four or five years ago Paulents found an entry in a chronicle apparently written by some warrior who’d fled from England to Germany, where he later took vows and entered a monastery. When he was in England this former warrior had attended the funeral of a great Saxon king which was celebrated with fabulous ostentation. He talked about a ship of gold, laden with treasure, buried beneath the fields of eastern England. Now the chronicle he wrote,’ Castledene held his hand up, ‘contained a map in the shape of a monastic cloister: a square with pillars around its garth. According to Paulents, this Cloister Map shows the treasure to be buried beneath wasteland somewhere in south Suffolk near the River Denham. Paulents trusted me fully; he copied this map and sent it to me, but it never arrived. You see, Sir Hugh, the richer I became, the more I attracted the attention of other people. In the year of the Gascon War, 1296, an audacious privateer had appeared on the sea-roads, a man I knew vaguely: Adam Blackstock, a former citizen of Canterbury, half-brother to Hubert the Monk. You know the details of their past. The chancery at Westminster must have informed you. Well, Blackstock proved himself to be a ruthless, indomitable fighter as well as a most skilled mariner. Eventually he owned his own ship,
The Waxman
. Now here is a problem, Sir Hugh . . .’ Castledene paused.

‘What problem?’ Corbett asked.

‘Blackstock and
The Waxman
were certainly patronised by leading merchants, even here in Canterbury. I always suspected Sir Rauf Decontet secretly supported him.’

‘Was there any personal animosity,’ Corbett asked, ‘between you and Blackstock?’

Sir Walter shrugged. ‘Blackstock was a citizen of Canterbury, as was I, but we never met. He became a pirate and lived beyond the law. He sank some of my ships. He also attacked Hanse merchant cogs.’ He smiled wryly. ‘It became personal when
The Maid of Lubeck
, belonging to Paulents, was attacked and plundered, for it was also carrying the precious Cloister Map. Paulents, myself and Edward of England decided to act.’

‘But something went wrong.’

‘No,’ Castledene replied with a sigh, ‘something went right. Paulents came across Blackstock’s lieutenant, a sly, eerie man called Stonecrop, in a Brabantine port. Blackstock had dispatched him there on some errand. Now Paulents could have hanged Stonecrop out of hand; instead the man turned traitor and told us exactly what had happened. First that Blackstock had intercepted the Cloister Map. Second that he had communicated this valuable find to his half-brother. Third that he was planning to sail back to Orwell to meet Hubert and unearth the treasure. It was easy to establish the times and dates of his proposed landfall.’

Castledene paused at a noise below.

‘Parson Warfeld and Desroches the physician have arrived,’ he declared.

Corbett shrugged. ‘They have their tasks to do and so have we. Please continue.’

‘We trapped and boarded
The Waxman
and subdued its crew, but Blackstock refused to surrender—’

‘Was he hanged?’ Corbett intervened.

‘No, we killed him and gibbeted his corpse.’

‘And Stonecrop?’ Corbett asked.

‘I threw him overboard,’ Castledene declared. ‘He was worthless. I could have hanged him but he deserved a slight chance. I’ve never seen or heard of him since. He probably died in the swollen icy seas. We searched Blackstock’s cabin but found nothing. The Cloister Map had disappeared; there was nothing but an empty coffer fashioned out of whalebone.’

‘And then what?’ Corbett asked. ‘You must tell me, Sir Walter! Be precise, because I believe all this has a bearing on what we’ve seen tonight.’

‘I was angry,’ Castledene confessed. ‘We took
The Waxman
in tow and sailed up the Orwell, but when we reached the Hermitage there was no sign of Hubert.’ He shrugged and spread his hands. ‘That was the last we ever heard of him or the treasure.’

‘Were there any survivors,’ Corbett asked, ‘apart from Stonecrop?’

‘No.’ Castledene shook his head. ‘Those who weren’t killed were hanged. We showed no mercy to anybody.’

‘And then what?’

‘Paulents returned to Germany and began searching for a fresh copy of the Cloister Map. The chronicle he’d first discovered was very ancient. It had passed through his hands and he had copied it. You know what it’s like, Sir Hugh: precious manuscripts are jealously guarded by the scriptoria, libraries and chanceries of monastic houses. Paulents thought he would never find it again, but even so he searched furiously for it. The problem was that he could never tell people why he needed it. Eventually he found a copy of the manuscript in the library of the Shrine of the Three Kings at Cologne. He transcribed the map again, then wrote to me suggesting that he come to England and, with my help and that of the King, search for the treasure.’

‘Were Paulents and his entourage ill when they landed at Dover?’ Corbett asked. ‘Wendover claimed they were suffering from some sickness.’

Castledene shrugged. ‘They were certainly ill, though of what I am not sure. I sought the advice of the city physician, Desroches. Paulents’ family said they felt clammy and tired. I certainly wished to keep them safe.’

Corbett studied this cunning merchant carefully. ‘That’s not entirely true,’ he declared. ‘There was something else, wasn’t there?’

Castledene looked as if he was about to deny it, but then he opened the wallet on his belt, took out two pieces of parchment and slid them across the table to Corbett.

‘Read them.’

Corbett picked up the scraps of manuscript; the words on them were carefully written in a clerkly hand.

The other piece of parchment bore the same message. Corbett glanced up. ‘When were these delivered?’

‘One to Paulents at his tavern in Dover; the other was handed to me in Canterbury. Hubert Fitzurse, Blackstock’s half-brother, must be responsible.’

‘I thought you said he’d vanished?’

‘He had, but apparently he has now reappeared. True, Paulents and his family felt ill, but the guards at Maubisson were not posted against sickness . . .’ Castledene gestured at the parchment, ‘rather against those threats, as well as to protect the precious manuscript Paulents had brought.’

Castledene excused himself, got to his feet, scraping back the chair, and left the chamber. He returned with an exquisitely carved whalebone coffer set in wood with moulded clasps on the front. He fished a bunch of keys from his robe, opened the lock and undid the clasps.

‘Those are Paulents’ keys?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes,’ Castledene confessed. ‘I found them in the pocket of his robe.’

‘You should have told me!’ Corbett warned. ‘I never saw you do that.’

‘Sir Hugh, I cannot trust everybody. When we examined those corpses, others were milling about. I had to make sure. I took the keys and searched Paulents’ chamber. You can see that for yourself. Nothing has been disturbed and neither has this coffer.’ He pulled back the lid and drew out two rolls of parchment. The first was a list of monies Paulents had in England. Corbett could make no sense of the second document; various letters and symbols were strewn across a drawing closely resembling the cloisters of a monastery.

‘The Cloister Map,’ Castledene murmured.

‘I’ll keep this,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Ranulf will make a fair copy and return it to you, but I must keep the original.’

Castledene reluctantly agreed. Corbett slipped the manuscript into his own wallet.

‘These warnings,’ Corbett leaned across the table, ‘were delivered both to Paulents and to you?’

Castledene nodded.

‘So . . .’ Corbett picked at a wax stain on the tabletop, ‘Paulents arrives in England, he feels unwell. In Dover he receives a threatening message; in Canterbury you receive the same, which means that Hubert, Blackstock’s half-brother, must be hunting both of you.’

‘Which is why I had to keep my guests safe. Paulents and I discussed the warnings. We concluded that the safest place was Maubisson, with a strong guard around the hall and in its courtyard. No one could hurt them here.’

‘You could have moved them elsewhere: the castle?’

‘No, no!’ Castledene shook his head. ‘Paulents was very determined on that. He believed he was safe under my protection. Maubisson is on the Dover Road, close to Canterbury, and can be easily guarded.’

‘And how was that arranged?’

‘Furnishings were brought in.’ Castledene gestured around. ‘Food and provisions. The guards were always here. Nothing untoward happened. Paulents arrived late yesterday morning. I and Physician Desroches greeted him and his family. We brought them in here and housed them securely. I took Paulents around the manor, showing him where things were. Desroches then left, and I followed soon afterwards.’

‘And yet,’ Corbett declared, ‘within hours Paulents and his family were brutally murdered. But how? That provokes further mystery. Paulents was not an old man; he was strong, so was his wife, his son, even the maid; yet no one resisted. No one raised the alarm. How could anyone have got in here and hanged all four without being detected?’

Chapter 3

Quod non vertat iniquia dies
.
And so it comes, the wicked day.

Rabanus Maurus

Corbett scratched his chin, trying to ignore the cold, prickling fear in his stomach. He felt heavy-eyed, repelled by the lurking menace of this desolate manor house, now reeking of a mysterious malevolence.

‘There’s Servinus,’ Castledene remarked, ‘the bodyguard: a tall, burly man, head all shaven, dressed in black leather and armed to the teeth.’

‘Did Paulents trust him?’

‘Yes, Servinus had worked for at least a year in his household: a Brandenburger, a mercenary who’d fought with the Teutonic knights. Servinus was sober and taciturn; he’d stare at you but hardly speak, a shadow who knew his place. He too had suffered from the rough crossing, complaining in broken English about the sea salt getting everywhere. He seemed pleased to be here, satisfied with this house, calling it a “donjon” – a place of safety.’

‘So where is he now?’ Corbett wondered aloud. ‘Is he the killer? Did he flee? But how? Why? A Brandenburger, a foreigner in Canterbury in the depth of winter, would find it difficult to hide.’ Corbett moved restlessly. ‘And how could he kill four people so silently and escape so easily from what he himself called a donjon?’