Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

Corbett finished chewing the meat and washed his hands in a small bowl of rose water brought out by a thin-faced urchin. The lad looked half-starved, his eyes almost as big as his face. Corbett pressed a coin into the boy’s hand. ‘Buy some food yourself, lad.’

He dried his hands on a napkin and waited to make sure the boy did as he was told. Then, leading the horses, they walked down Cheapside. Corbett, half-listening to Ranulf’s glowing description of his son, recalled the events of the night before: after their wild, passionate love-making, Corbett and Maeve had gone down for a meal in the kitchen before going back to bed. He recalled Maeve’s teasing and his idle chatter about affairs at court. His wife, however, became anxious as Corbett described the reasons for his return to London.

‘I have heard of these murders!’ Maeve commented, sitting up and drawing the sheets round her body. ‘At first no one noticed. In a city like this, girls are killed or disappear and no one cares but,’ she shook her head, ‘the deaths of these women, the manner of their dying — is it true?’ she asked.

Corbett, lying flat on his back, suddenly stirred.

‘Is what true?’

‘They say the murderer-’ Maeve shivered and brought her knees up under her chin. ‘They say the killer mutilates the bodies of the girls.’

Corbett looked up in surprise. ‘Who told you that?’

‘It’s common gossip. Most women are frightened to go out at night but that last death was during the day.’ Maeve went on to tell him of the recent killing and the mutilated corpse of a whore being found in the porch of a church in Greyfriars.

Corbett gently stroked her bare arm. ‘But why the fear? The women he has killed have all been whores and courtesans?’

‘So what?’ Maeve tossed her head. ‘They are still women and Lady Somerville was certainly not an whore!’

Corbett had fallen silent. Somehow he believed that Lady Somerville’s death was different from the rest. Had the old lady discovered something? Had she surprised the killer?

Corbett looked round as Cheapside began to fill. Already he could glimpse the whores in their bright clothes and garish wigs. Suddenly the day didn’t seem so bright and as he recalled Maeve’s words about mutilation he felt uneasy. His usual adversaries, be they de Craon or some calculating murderer, had reason and motive for their actions. But what now? Was he hunting — as Ranulf had described the previous day — some mad man, some lunatic with a twisted hatred of women who found it easier to prey upon poor street-walkers but who might change and strike at any woman, lonely and vulnerable enough. Corbett wished he could turn and go back home. He felt he was about to enter a very darkened house with shadowy labyrinthine passages and, somewhere, a killer lurked waiting for him to come. Oh, God, he prayed, bring me out of this safely; from the snare of the hunter, Lord, deliver me.

At the Guildhall, Corbett’s sombre mood was not helped by a beadle standing on the steps auctioning the goods of a hanged felon: a battered table, two broken chairs, one ripped mattress, two thimbles, a set of hose, a shirt, a doublet and a battered pewter cup inlaid with silver. The man had apparently robbed a church but his accomplice had escaped so a rather shabby cleric, holding a candle in one hand and a bell in another, was loudly proclaiming his excommunication in a litany of curses.

‘May he be cursed wherever he be found. At home or in the field, on a highway or a path, in the forest or on water. May he be cursed in living and in dying, in eating and drinking, whilst hungry and thirsty, sleeping, walking, standing, sitting, working, resting, urinating, defecating and bleeding. May he be cursed in the hair of his head, in his temples, brow, mouth, breast, heart, genitals, feet and toe-nails!’ On and on the dreadful, sonorous declamation continued.

‘I think,’ Ranulf whispered to Corbett, ‘that the poor bastard should get the message now!’

Corbett grinned and threw the reins of his horse at Ranulf. ‘Stable him in a tavern,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll meet you inside.’

A beggar, his face hooded and masked, crouched in the doorway of the Guildhall whining for alms whilst, on the other side, a huckster sold pretty ribbons. Corbett stopped and indicated both to move out of his way.

‘I know who you are,’ he said softly. ‘You’re upright men, counterfeiters, and whilst I am busy with the beggar, the other will try and pick my purse.’

The two men fairly scuttled away and Corbett walked down the passageway, across a courtyard and into a small mansion. The Guildhall proper was merely a walled enclosure containing a number of buildings around a large, three-storied house. Corbett waited inside the doorway until Ranulf joined him. They went up a rickety wooden staircase into a spacious, white-washed chamber where clerks sat at a table scratching away at great rolls of vellum and parchment. Not one of them looked up as Corbett and Ranulf entered but a large fat man, seated at the head of the room, got up and waddled over. Corbett recognised the podgy, red face above the ill-fitting gown and food-stained jerkin.

‘Master Nettler.’ Corbett extended a hand which Nettler, Sheriff of the Wards in the north of the city, clasped, his watery blue eyes alight with pleasure.

‘We expected you, Hugh. The King’s letters arrived last night.’ Nettler glanced at the scriveners and lowered his voice. ‘No man can be trusted,’ he muttered. ‘The killer could be anyone in this room. I am not dealing with it. One of the under-sheriffs will advise you. Come! Come!’

He led them out along the passageway to a small, dusty chamber. A clerk sat at a high desk in the corner, copying letters. Beside him stood a tall, broad-shouldered, prepossessing man whom Nettler introduced as Alexander Cade, Under-Sheriff of the city. Once the introductions were finished, Nettler brusquely left; the Under-Sheriff completed the letter whilst Corbett studied him. He had heard of Cade, an excellent thief-catcher with an astute eye who could spot a villain across a crowded tavern. The rogues of London’s underworld rightly feared him yet, despite his size, Cade looked like a court fop in his gaudily trimmed gown, high leather riding boots, cambric shirt, and small skull cap which he wore on the back of his thick black hair. His forked beard was neatly trimmed which, together with his sallow features and lazy, good-natured eyes, gave Cade the appearance of a man who enjoyed the good things of life rather than the ruthless pursuit of villains and rogues. He waved Corbett and Ranulf to a window seat whilst he finished the letter. Once done he turned with a flourish.

‘You’re here about the murdered whores?’ Cade made a face. ‘Or should I be honest? Your presence here is not about them but about Lady Somerville’s death as well as that of Father Benedict.’

Cade whispered something to his clerk, who got down from his seat, went over to one of the shelves and brought back a sheaf of documents.

‘Thank you,’ Cade muttered. ‘You may go.’

He waited until the old man closed the door behind him then picked up a stool and sat opposite Corbett.

‘There are three matters which concern me,’ he announced. ‘The deaths of the whores, the deaths of Lady Somerville and Father Benedict, and Puddlicott’s arrival in London.’

Corbett’s jaw dropped in surprise.

‘Oh, yes,’ Cade said. ‘Our friend, that master of disguise, Richard Puddlicott of a dozen names and countless appearances, is back in the city.’ Cade’s eyes opened wide. ‘This time I want to catch him! I want to see that clever bastard in chains.’

‘How do you know he is here?’

‘Just read these.’ Cade handed the sheaf of documents over. ‘Read them,’ he repeated. ‘Take your time, Master Corbett. Or should I call you Sir Hugh?’ Cade smiled. ‘We have heard the news. Accept our congratulations. The Lady Maeve must be pleased.’