Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

‘Is that all? Was there anything else?’

‘Yes. Yes, there was.’ Fitzwarren tapped the side of her face with her hands. ‘In the week before she died she asked me if I thought our work was worthwhile. I asked her why, and she replied what was the use in such a wicked world? Then the Friday before she died, you must remember it, Lady Mary, she came here rather late, looking very worried and agitated. She said she had been to see Father Benedict.’

‘She didn’t give the reason why?’ Cade asked.

Corbett turned as Lady Mary clapped her hands together excitedly.

‘Oh, I remember something!’ she declared, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Corbett reflected how truly beautiful she became when she threw off her air of subdued piety. ‘Just before we reached St Bartholomew’s she murmured something about leaving the Order. I objected but she maintained the abbey contained evil.’ Lady Mary shrugged. ‘I know it sounds strange but that’s what she said.’

‘Was Lady Somerville deeply involved in your work?’

‘No,’ Fitzwarren replied. ‘And that makes what she said to Lady Mary even stranger. You see, Somerville suffered from rheumatism in her legs, she found walking the streets painful, even though the physicians claimed it was good for her. Her real work was in the abbey laundry, or rather the vestry on the other side of the Chapter House. She was responsible for keeping the altar cloths, napkins and robes clean.’

‘And Father Benedict’s death?’

‘Sir Hugh,’ Lady Fitzwarren replied. ‘He died in a fire. We were bitterly sorry. He was not only our chaplain but an old, very gentle priest. Why do you ask?’

‘How was he before he died? Did he say anything untoward?’

‘Strange that you mention it, Sir Hugh,’ Lady Mary interrupted. ‘Oh,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘he didn’t say anything but he was very quiet, distant.’ She shrugged. ‘But I don’t know why. God rest him!’

‘You noticed this after Lady Somerville visited him?’

‘Yes, but I don’t know what was said. Lady Catherine had her own problems and Father Benedict was our chaplain.’

Corbett rose. ‘My Ladies, is there anything else?’

Both shook their heads in unison.

‘Perhaps,’ Corbett ventured, ‘I could see your work.’

‘We are going out tonight,’ Lady Catherine replied.

Corbett suddenly remembered Maeve’s face and shook his head. ‘No, no, that’s impossible!’

‘Where do you actually work?’ Ranulf asked.

‘In our own ward,’ Lady Mary answered. ‘Farringdon.’

Corbett felt a twinge of jealousy at how the young woman smiled at Ranulf.

‘We think it’s best if we work,’ she explained, ‘in an area where we are known and safe, where we can always count on the local beadles for support. Perhaps tomorrow evening?’

Corbett smiled and bowed. ‘Perhaps.’

The two women rose and led them back to the Chapter House. Corbett glanced suspiciously at his two companions; Cade had a reputation of being a taciturn man but since he had entered the Chapter House, he had been very withdrawn, a shadow of himself whilst Ranulf had ceased to snigger and mutter quips.

Halfway down the deserted Chapter House, Corbett stopped.

‘May I look at the vestry room? You said it was here?’

Lady Fitzwarren led him across, opening a door in the far wall. Corbett looked inside; the vestry was nothing more than a long, oblong room with cowls, hoods and other monks’ attire hanging on pegs driven into the wall. On the shelves were neatly piled altar cloths, napkins for the lavabo, amices, stoles and chasubles. Corbett could see nothing suspicious, certainly nothing to explain Lady Somerville’s deep unease. He left and, outside the Chapter House, bade the ladies adieu, kissing both their hands. Corbett blushed as he turned away for he was sure Lady Mary had pressed his hand more firmly than perhaps she should have done.

They went back round the abbey and collected their horses. Ranulf was still silent but now Cade became talkative, he seemed fascinated by the Lady Imelda and made even the withdrawn Ranulf smile at his graphic description of how the old noblewoman would not think twice about walking into the Guildhall to harangue the Mayor and aldermen on whatever caught her fancy. They mounted their horses and left by the northern gate. On the road outside Corbett stopped and looked back at the darkened mass of Westminster Abbey. He clenched the reins tightly. What evil lurked in that great abbey which had so frightened Father Benedict and the Lady Somerville? What had they known which had caused their savage deaths? Corbett stared up at a gargoyle and the stone creature seemed to lunge towards him.

‘When this business is finished,’ Corbett said, ‘the King needs to intervene here. There’s something rotten in our great abbey.’

He turned and spurred his horse into a canter. The cowled, hooded figure hiding in one of the abbey’s rooms above the Chapter House watched the three men ride off along Holborn. The watching figure clenched a set of rosary beads, smiled, then hissed with all the venom of a snake.

At The Bishop of Ely’s inn Corbett and his party stopped and dismounted. Cade left, dourly excusing himself for other duties. Corbett watched the under-sheriff turn right, into Shoe Lane.

‘What is wrong with Cade?’ he murmured. ‘Why is he so silent? What does he have to hide?’

Ranulf merely shrugged, so the clerk decided to move on. They joined the crowds pushing through Newgate as the road narrowed and became blocked with carts trundling into the city loaded with produce, fruit, rye, oats, slabs of red meat, squawking geese and chickens penned in wooden cages. The noise grew deafening as the huge dray horses plodded by, the wheels of the carts rumbling like claps of thunder and raising great clouds of dust. The air rang with strange oaths, sudden quarrels, the lash of whips and the jingle of harnesses. Corbett turned left just within the city gate, leading Ranulf down an alleyway strewn with broken cobbles which filled and blocked the sewer running down its middle. They had to walk slowly for sometimes the ground was broken by wide gaps and deep holes. Some were filled with bundles of broom and wood chip, others were cesspits full of night soil thrown out from the houses on either side.

‘Master, where are we going?’

‘St Bartholomew’s. I want to look into the soul of a murderer.’

They crossed a street and went down another alleyway dark as night with the houses tightly packed together. The gables of the upper stories jutted out so far that they met each other and blocked out the sunlight. At last they reached Smithfield, the great open expanse still thronged with people attending the horse fair, particularly the rich, eager to bid in an auction for Barbary mares. Young gallants in thick doublets with fiercely padded shoulders and tight waists, their sleeves were puffed out in concoctions of velvet, satin and damask, their legs covered in tight, multi-coloured hose which emphasized the shape of the calf and the grandeur of their codpieces. On the arms of these fops rested ladies equally splendid in rich tapestry dresses, square-cut at the breast and gathered high with cords of silk; their head-dresses were ornate, billowing out above eyebrows and foreheads severely plucked of hair. Corbett smiled when he compared these with the Sisters of St Martha, with their sober attire and unpainted faces.

They struggled through the crowd, past the great charred execution stake where criminals were burnt to death, and entered the arched doorway of St Bartholomew’s hospital. They crossed an open yard, past stables, smithies and other outhouses to the hospital’s long, high vaulted hall which ran parallel to the priory church. An old soldier, now turned servant, basking in the warm afternoon sun, offered to guide them in. They went along corridors, past chambers, clean and well swept, the windows thrown open, the rushes on the floor fresh and sprinkled with herbs. In each chamber there were three or four beds and Corbett glimpsed sick men and women, heads pressed against crisp linen bolsters. In the main, these were the poor unfortunates of the city whom the brothers took in to tend, cure or at least provide their deaths with some dignity. The old soldier stopped and knocked at a door. A voice cried ‘Enter!’ and Corbett and Ranulf were ushered into a sparsely furnished chamber. The air was fragrant with the smell from pots and bowls of crushed herbs and other concoctions. The apothecary, Father Thomas, sat with his back to them, crouched over a table under the window.