Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

Corbett smiled. ‘I just can’t see why the cat couldn’t escape through the open window?’

Cade raised his eyebrows then narrowed his eyes.

‘Of course,’ he murmured. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘I would like to see the house or what remains of it. And the message Father Benedict sent to you?’

‘We don’t know what it meant, it could be anything. You know the scandals which can plague the lives of priests and monks. Perhaps it was something like that or it could be connected with Westminster.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, the abbey and palace are deserted. All building work has come to a sudden halt because the King cannot pay his masons. The Exchequer and Treasurer now travel with the King, so the court has not been there for years. Wenlock the Abbot is ill and the community rather lax. Indeed, the only importance about Westminster is that the King has moved a great deal of his treasury to the crypt beneath the Chapter House.’

Corbett looked up startled. ‘Why?’

‘Because of the building work at the Tower. Most of the rooms there are now unsafe. The crypt at Westminster Abbey, however, is probably the safest place in London.’

‘You are sure the treasury is safe?’

‘Yes, on the very day Father Benedict died I went down to see him but he was absent so I checked on the treasury. The seals of the door were unbroken so I knew it was safe. You see, there is only one entrance to the crypt, the sealed door. Moreover, even if someone got in, the narrow flight of stairs down to the crypt have been deliberately smashed and the rest of the building protected by the thickest walls I’ve ever seen.’

‘And Master Puddlicott?’

‘All I can say,’ Cade replied, ‘is that the bastard has been sighted in London, albeit the sighting is secondhand.’

‘He must be here for mischief!’

Cade laughed drily. ‘Of course, but what?’

Corbett nudged the now dozing Ranulf awake.

‘Look, Master Cade, you know the French envoy, de Craon, and his companion, de Nevers, are in London? They are ostensibly here bearing friendly messages from their master to our King, but there’s no real reason for their presence.’

‘Are you saying they could be connected with Puddlicott?’

‘It’s possible. Puddlicott has been seen in the company of Master William Nogaret, Philip IV’s Keeper of Secrets.’

Cade went across and filled a goblet of wine for himself, to which he added a generous drop of water.

‘Oh, yes,’ he replied. ‘We know de Craon is in London. He attended a civic reception and presented his letters of accreditation to the Mayor. Since then, we have kept a quiet watch on his house in Gracechurch Street but we are now bored with him. He has done nothing untoward, apparently, being more interested in our shipping along the Thames than anything else. And, as there’s no war with France, there’s no crime in him doing that.’

Corbett rose and stretched. ‘So,’ he sighed. ‘Where shall we begin?’

The under-sheriff spread his large hands. ‘As my master said, I am at your service.’

‘Then let’s follow Master Cicero, Et respice corpus ?’

‘I beg your pardon, Master Corbett!’

‘Let’s look at the corpse.’ Corbett picked up his own cloak. ‘May I borrow the list of names of the women killed?’

Cade handed it over.

‘This last victim, is she already buried?’

‘No, she lies in the charnel house of St Lawrence Jewry.’ Cade drained his cup and strapped on his sword-belt. ‘If you wish to look at her, you must hurry. The good priest intends to bury her next to the others later this morning.’

‘What’s that?’ Ranulf stuttered. ‘You said, “next to the others”?’

‘Well,’ Cade replied. ‘The dead whores are always brought in a cart from a small outbuilding in the Guildhall. We pay the priests of St Lawrence Jewry to bury them — a shilling a time, if I remember correctly.’

‘And everyone,’ Ranulf remarked, ‘except Lady Somerville, has been buried there?’

‘Yes. And for a shilling, they don’t get much: a tattered canvas sheet, a shallow hole in the ground and remembrance at the morning Mass.

‘Doesn’t anyone ever claim the body?’

‘Of course not. Some of these poor girls are from Scotland, Ireland, Flanders, towns and villages as far west as Cornwall and as far north as Berwick-on-Tweed.’

‘And no one attends their funerals?’

‘No. We thought of that and kept a careful watch.’ Cade gave a shiver. ‘They are buried like dogs,’ he murmured. ‘Not even their regular customers come to bid a fond farewell.’

Corbett finished his wine and handed the cup back to Cade.

‘I’ll ignore your blushes, Master Cade, when I say the King has high regard for you.’

The under-sheriff looked embarrassed and shuffled his great, booted feet.

‘However,’ Corbett neatly closed the trap. ‘Isn’t it strange that you have failed to draw up a list of customers of these whores? Who frequented them? After all, your informants can tell you about the emergence of a rogue like Puddlicott but not about the customers of dead whores.’

Cade’s smile faded. ‘Look,’ the under-sheriff sat down on a stool and ticked his points off on stubby fingers. ‘First, some of these whores were high-class courtesans. Oh, yes, they are poor in death but, when alive, they were favoured by some of the rich and powerful men of the city-’

‘Wait,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘Some of these young ladies earned silver and gold. What happened to it?’

Cade pulled his mouth down. ‘Most of them immediately spend what they earn. Once they die their property is plundered by people who should know better. Finally, they have no heirs or relatives so any remaining property is immediately confiscated by the Crown.’

Corbett nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, as I was saying, the lords of the soil, the prosperous merchants, would not take too kindly to having their names linked with, what they now term, common street-walkers. Secondly,’ Cade drew in his breath, his eyes turned away and Corbett sensed the under-sheriff was not telling the full truth. ‘Secondly,’ Cade repeated, ‘it’s the manner of their deaths which makes me guarded: most of them were killed in their own chambers, so they must know their killer or they wouldn’t open the door. Master Corbett, I am an under-sheriff, my fees are paid by the wealthy burgesses, I do not want to be the official who finds that one of my pay-masters visited a whore on the night she died.’ Now Cade did blush with embarrassment and he rubbed the side of his face with his hand. ‘Yes, yes, I admit,’ he continued, ‘I am frightened. I’ll catch any rogue — be he priest, merchant or lord — but, Master Clerk, this is different. I can discover that the Lord Mayor himself visited a whore but what does that prove?’

‘You could search for a pattern, a name, common to all the killings.’

Cade jabbed a hand at Corbett. ‘No, Master Clerk, you are the King’s confidant, you were recently knighted by him. You find out! You point the finger! For God’s sake, man, that’s why you were sent here and I say that without intending any offence!’

Corbett chewed the inside of his lip, he stretched over and touched Cade gently on the hand.

‘I understand,’ he muttered.

In fact, Corbett did, and appreciated why an under-sheriff had been appointed to deal with something none of his superiors would touch with a bargepole. Corbett smiled to himself; he also understood why the King had sent him back to London.

He stared at the list Cade had given him. ‘You are most observant, Master Cade,’ he remarked. ‘These whores must have known their killer; shown a great deal of trust. Even this last one, Agnes, whose corpse we are about to inspect. She was killed in a church,’ Corbett continued, ‘I suspect she was invited there by her killer.’