Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

‘Bring me a stick, Ranulf!’

The manservant hurried out to the orchard and brought back a long piece of yew which he pruned with his dagger. Corbett began to sift amongst the ashes, digging at the packed earth, concentrating on a line which ran directly from the window; then he went over to where they stood near the door.

‘Father Benedict was murdered,’ he announced.

The sacristan gasped.

‘Oh, yes, Brother Adam. Tell me again what happened when you tried to douse the flames?’

‘Well, we couldn’t get near the door, the heat was so intense. We threw buckets of water at the walls and through the window. It was the only thing we could do.’

‘And then?’

‘Well, the flames died and we forced the door.’

‘It was still locked?’

‘Oh, yes, but loose on its hinges.’

‘And you found the half-burnt body of Father Benedict?’

‘Just inside; the corpse of the cat beside him.’ The sacristan shook his head. ‘I can’t see how he was murdered. The door was locked, there was only one key. Father Benedict would hardly open the door for someone to come in, start a fire, leave and then lock the door behind him!’ The sacristan smiled in triumph as if he had presented some brilliantly lucid syllogism.

‘The murderer didn’t get in,’ Corbett replied. ‘If the fire had started near the hearth, the flames would have been the fiercest there. But look at the wall under the window and the wall directly opposite. Both are very badly burnt, as is the line of floor between. The fire started in the middle of the room. What happened was this; somebody tossed a jar, or skin, of oil, very pure oil because it is hard to detect, through the window into the middle of the room. The jar or skin burst, a tinder or candle was thrown and the dry, oil-drenched rushes soon turned into a raging inferno.’

‘Of course!’ Cade exclaimed. ‘That’s why the cat couldn’t jump through the window, it was too high for it and the floor beneath the window had been saturated by oil.’

‘And the far wall?’ Ranulf explained. ‘It’s badly burnt because of the breeze from the window, which would waft the flames that way.’

‘Nonsense!’ the sacristan exclaimed.

‘No, no,’ Corbett replied. ‘I have examined the floor in the centre of the room beneath the rushes. There’s nothing but packed earth yet the clay there is stained with oil, some of it slightly less burnt.’

‘But,’ the monk protested, ‘Father Benedict reached the door.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Corbett replied. ‘The sound of the oil hitting the floor, and the roar of the flames would have roused him. He seizes his cloak and the key by his bed and, holding the cat, runs towards the door.’

‘What about the wall of flames across the floor?’

‘They would be fierce but, probably, still not fully fanned. Father Benedict would be desperate, he had to brave them before they grew, roaring to the rafters.’

‘How do you know the key was not in the lock?’ Cade asked.

‘Because if it was, Father Benedict would have survived and the murderer would have chosen another scheme.’ Corbett looked at the under-sheriff’s sword belt. ‘Your dagger, Master Cade, it’s of the Italian mode, thin and slender. Can I borrow it?’

Cade shrugged and handed it over.

‘Now,’ Corbett said. ‘Would you all stand outside? Ranulf, cup your hand beneath the keyhole.’

Corbett’s companions, rather bemused, stepped outside the burnt building. Corbett heaved the door closed, holding it fast with one hand before slipping Cade’s thin stiletto through the keyhole. At first it was blocked so Corbett carefully pushed until he heard Ranulf’s exclamation of surprise. The clerk pulled the door open and handed the dagger back.

‘Well, Ranulf, what do you have?’

His manservant showed him a thin strip of half-burnt wood, long and rounded as if cut by a master carpenter.

‘You see, what happened,’ Corbett concluded, ‘was that the murderer knew where Father Benedict kept his key. On the night he murdered the priest, he slipped this piece of wood through the keyhole, went quietly round to the window, threw in the oil and lighted torch then slipped away. Father Benedict reaches the door, the fire raging all around him; he inserts his key but the lock is blocked. He takes it out, perhaps tries again but it is too late.’ Corbett stared at the sacristan. ‘It couldn’t have been there earlier, otherwise Father Benedict wouldn’t have locked the door behind him. On, no, Master Sacristan, Father Benedict was cold-bloodedly murdered. I intend to discover why and by whom!’

Corbett turned at the sound of footsteps. A small, fat monk, the folds of his pasty face betraying both anxiety and self-importance, hurried out of the trees and across to the priest’s house.

‘Brother Warfield! Brother Warfield!’ he gabbled. ‘What is going on here?’ He stopped, his head going back, like that of a small sparrow, lips pursed, little black eyes darting round the group. ‘Who are these people? Do you need help?’

‘No, Brother Richard, I don’t!’ Warfield replied.

The portly monk stuck his thumbs inside the tasselled cord round his waist. ‘Well!’ he exclaimed, staring round the room. ‘I think you do!’

‘Go away, little man!’ Ranulf answered. ‘This is Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, Special Emissary of the King!’

‘I am sorry, so sorry,’ the portly monk stuttered, his eyes pleading with Warfield.

‘Don’t worry, Brother Richard.’ The sacristan clapped him hard on the shoulder. ‘Everything is well here!’ Warfield smiled at Corbett. ‘Brother Richard is my assistant and most zealous in his duties.’

‘Good,’ Corbett snapped. ‘Then both of you can show me the entrance to the crypt.’

Corbett turned away but not before he glimpsed the quick, warning glances which passed between Warfield and his portly assistant.

Adam of Warfield took them over to the abbey church; the stone pillars and passageways stretched before them as silent as the grave. The air was musty and Corbett caught the bitter-sweet smell of incense and rotting flowers. The dappled shadows were broken by bursts of sunlight which poured through stained-glass windows high in the walls. They walked along a transept, their footsteps ringing hollow, even their breath seemed to echo in the vastness of the vaulted roof. At last they came to the south transept which was barred by a great oaken door reinforced with strips of steel and iron studs. The edge of the door, where it met the lintel, had been sealed with great blobs of scarlet wax and bore the imprint of the Treasurer’s seal. The door was fastened by three bolts and each of these was secured with two padlocks.

‘To each padlock,’ Adam Warfield explained, ‘are two keys. One is held by the King, the other by the Lord Mayor.’ He pointed to the keyhole. ‘This, too, has been sealed.’

Corbett crouched and stared at the great disc of purple wax which had been sealed by the Chancellor. Corbett examined everything carefully.

‘Nothing is broken,’ he said. ‘But what happens if the King wishes to enter?’

‘I asked that myself,’ Cade replied. ‘The barons of the Exchequer have made it very plain: the door is not to be opened except in the presence of the King himself. So far he has sufficient silver and gold and, if more is needed, he will melt down bullion still stored in the Tower.’ Cade made a face. ‘The peace with France,’ he continued, ‘has meant the King need not make a run on his treasury.’

Corbett nodded. Everything appeared secure and what Cade said nudged his memory about gossip at court: the treasury officials had boasted to him how the King, as yet, had no need to melt down cups of plate to pay his troops.