Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

‘When did Lady Mary Neville leave?’

‘Oh, shortly afterwards.’

‘And what route did she take?’

The young brother smiled. ‘Sir Hugh, I cannot help you with that.’

Corbett thanked him and Brother David was halfway out of the room when he suddenly turned.

‘I heard about Lady Somerville’s murder,’ he remarked. ‘Her body was found near the scaffold in Smithfield?’

‘Yes, yes, that’s correct.’

The monk nodded towards the window. ‘It’s growing dark, the horse fair is now ended. If you wish, and this may help, I know there’s a beggar, a half-crazed man, who lost his legs in the King’s war. At night, he sleeps beneath the scaffold; he feels he is safe there.’ The young monk shrugged. ‘He may have seen something. I heard him one night, as he passed the priory gates, screaming that the devil was stalking Smithfield. I asked him what he meant but he lives in a world of his own. He is always claiming to see visions.’

The young monk closed the door behind him and Corbett stared first at Father Thomas then at Ranulf.

‘Chilling,’ he murmured. ‘The killer could be anyone but somehow I believe that Lady Somerville’s death does lie at the root of it all.’

They took their farewells of Father Thomas. Corbett paused awhile in the hospital to visit the wizened crones whom the Ladies Neville and Somerville had visited on the night of May the eleventh. These, however, proved witless, their minds wandering, their speech rambling so Corbett let them be. In the hospital courtyard he readjusted his cloak and looked at Ranulf who still appeared subdued, lost in his own thoughts.

‘Ranulf,’ Corbett teased gently. ‘What is the matter?’

‘Nothing, Master.’

Corbett linked his arm through his companion’s and pulled him closer. ‘Come on, man, you’ve been quiet as a nun!’

Ranulf shook himself free, stepped away and stared up into the gathering darkness; the blue sky was tinged with the dying rays of the setting sun and a faint breeze carried the fading sounds of the city towards them.

‘There’s something,’ he muttered. ‘But I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘And the rest?’

Ranulf sighed. ‘Perhaps I am growing old, Master. I go out drinking and roistering in the taverns. I rub shoulders with the kind of girls this killer has slain. I see their eyes dance with merriment. I tease them and pay them gold.’ He blew his cheeks out. ‘Now I see another side to their lives and. .’

‘And what?’

‘What really frightens me, Master, is what Father Thomas said. The killer could be anyone. If you and I hadn’t been in Winchester, like every other man in the city, we’d be under suspicion and that includes our friend Alexander Cade.’

Corbett’s face hardened. ‘What do you mean, Ranulf?’

‘Well, Cade’s a good law officer. He never takes bribes. He is thorough and ruthless. So why was he so quiet at the abbey? And I noticed that at St Lawrence Jewry he soon left the death house, he kept his distance. Perhaps I am wrong, Master, yet, I agree with you, he is hiding something.’

‘I suggest everyone is hiding something,’ Corbett answered. ‘You have heard Father Thomas. We are dealing with a man who leads two lives; an upright life in the daylight but, at night, he crawls the streets and alleyways hell bent on murder. Well, Ranulf, hold your nose and harden your stomach. It’s time we visited the scaffold.’

They left the priory and crossed the now deserted ground of Smithfield market. A few people still tarried; a horse coper, desperately trying to sell two old nags who looked so exhausted they could hardly stand; a huckster with his barrow almost empty of apples; two boys kicked an inflated pig’s bladder, whilst a drunk leaned against one of the elms and chanted some ribald song. The darkness was now gathering. They passed the spot where criminals were burnt and climbed the gently sloping hill where the great three-branched scaffold stood. The night breeze wafted down the bittersweet smell of corruption. Corbett and Ranulf immediately lifted the hems of their cloaks to cover their mouths and noses for in the poor light they could see the bodies still dangling from their ropes. Corbett told Ranulf to stay and went ahead to inspect. He kept his eyes away from the lolling heads, tried not to glimpse the bloated stomachs, the bare feet dangling as if still trying to grasp the earth. He looked round the scaffold: nothing. But then he heard the clatter of wooden slats so he stopped and waited. A strange-looking creature was making his way up the beaten track towards the scaffold. In the gathering dusk he looked like some dwarf swathed in rags. He stopped when he saw Ranulf, one hand went out, followed by a whine for alms. Then he glimpsed Corbett striding purposely down the track towards him. The hand fell away and the fellow turned as quick as a rabbit, despite the wooden slats fastened to the stumps of his knees.

‘Don’t go!’ Corbett called.

Ranulf seized the man by the shoulder. The beggar whimpered; his twisted, lined face contorted into a pitying plea.

‘For pity’s sake, let me go!’ he cried. ‘I am a poor beggar man!’

Corbett came up and crouched before him. He stared into the bright half-mad eyes, noting the unshaven cheeks and jaw, the lines of saliva from toothless gums running down either side of the mouth.

‘You come here every night, don’t you?’

The fellow still tugged at Ranulf’s hand.

‘We mean you no harm.’ Corbett added soothingly. ‘Indeed.’ He stretched out his hand where some pennies and two silver coins caught the beggar’s eyes. The man relaxed and grinned.

‘You mean well,’ the fellow said. ‘You come to help old Ragwort.’

He sat rocking on his wooden slats and Corbett felt uneasy as if he was talking to someone half buried in the dark earth.

‘You mean me no harm,’ he repeated and Corbett saw the fellow’s dirty hand come up for the coins.

‘These are yours,’ Corbett whispered, ‘if you tell us what you saw.’

‘I sees visions,’ the beggar replied, more composed now, settling down as Ranulf released his grip. ‘I sees the devil walk. That’s why I hide with the dead. They protect me. Sometimes I talk to them. I tell them what I know, what I see and sometimes they talk to me. They say how sorry they are.’ The fellow grinned slyly. ‘Never alone am I. Even in winter.’ He pointed to the lights of St Bartholomew’s. ‘When the sun goes, so do I. I sleep in the cellars but I don’t see my visions there.’

‘And what did you see?’ Corbett persisted. ‘The night the old lady died?’

The fellow screwed up his eyes. ‘I forgets now.’

Coins exchanged hands.

‘Now I remember!’ he yelled, almost deafening Corbett with his shout.

‘Hush!’ Corbett raised a finger to his lips. ‘Just tell me, and the rest of the money is yours.’

Ragwort twisted his neck and nodded towards the scaffold. ‘I am sitting there talking to my friends.’

Corbett suddenly realised he meant the people hanging from the ropes.

‘When suddenly I hears footsteps and sees a figure coming out of the darkness. It’s the woman.’

‘Then what?’

‘I hears other footsteps.’

‘What did they sound like?’

‘Oh, heavy. The devil is heavy, you know.’

Corbett glanced in exasperation at Ranulf. The beggar was half mad and the clerk wondered how much of what he was saying was true and how much the product of a fevered imagination.

‘What happened then?’ he muttered.

‘I knows it’s the devil,’ the fellow repeated. ‘I wants to warn the woman but she stops. She looks back into the darkness and cries out, “Who is it?” The devil draws closer and the woman says, “Oh, it’s you”.’