Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

‘Repeat that.’

‘The old woman says, “Oh, it’s you”.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘The devil draws near. I hear the slash of the knife and the devil has gone.’

‘What did the devil look like?’

‘Oh, he wore a cloak and great black sandals on gnarled feet.’

‘Sandals?’ Corbett exclaimed and looked at Ranulf. ‘One of our monkish friends!’

‘Oh, no!’ the beggar cried. ‘It was the Lord Satan for he flew off, his great bat wings beating the night air.’

Corbett sighed and handed the rest of the coins over.

‘Too good to be true,’ he murmured. ‘Come on, Ranulf, we’ve done enough!’

Corbett and Ranulf walked back through the darkened city to Bread Street. They found the household in turmoil. Maltote had returned and he and Ranulf fell on each other’s necks like long-lost brothers. Corbett, raising his eyes heavenwards, kissed Maeve and baby Eleanor now staring up at him, round-eyed in excitement, and went upstairs to his bedchamber. Maeve followed with a cup of wine and sat beside him on the bed.

‘It’s dark out there!’ Corbett said wearily. He looked at the lattice window. ‘Dark as hell,’ he added. ‘There’s something evil, nasty, brutish. Not human evil, not like de Craon who likes power, or Edward who wants to be seen as the new Justinian of the west!’ Corbett grasped his wife’s wrist. ‘You are never to go out by yourself, certainly not at night, not until this business is finished!’

Then he put the wine cup down and hugged his wife, kissing her gently on the neck but, when he looked up, the darkness still pressed against the window.

Corbett rose early the next morning, broke his fast in the buttery, told Griffin, who was stumbling about the kitchen, that he was not to be disturbed and went to his small writing office at the back of the house. He took out a small piece of parchment, smoothed it with pumice stone and began to list everything he knew.

First: sixteen prostitutes had been killed. One dying every month, usually on or around the thirteenth of the month. They were all killed in the same way: throats slit and bodies mutilated. Most had been killed in their own chambers, though the last one had been in a church. Corbett bit the end of his quill. What else did he know? According to Cade the victims were all young, more courtesans than common street-walkers. So why did the killer select just these rather than the old hags and raddled whores who slept in the stinking alleyways? Corbett threw back his head. If most were killed in their chambers they must have opened their doors, allowing their killer to get close, so it must be someone they trusted? And who could that be? Someone rich? A customer common to them all? Or a city official? Or a priest? Corbett scratched his brow. Yet Cade had reported that no one had seen anything. Who was this killer? Who could slip like the shadow of death, stab, hack and disappear like some demonic will-o-the-wisp? And why the thirteenth? Was it some Satanic feast? Was the date significant? And why just one a month? What motive was there? Corbett recalled Father Thomas’s words and shivered. He dipped his quill in the ink and continued writing.

Second: Lady Somerville’s death. She had been killed out in the open. If the mad beggar could be believed, and Corbett distrusted the fellow’s ramblings, Lady Somerville must have known her killer for she called out in the darkness to him. Did this provide any clue to the murderer? Again, Corbett was brought to the common denominator. Whom would Lady Somerville know? Whom would she stop for in the darkness? A priest? A monk? A city official? Someone from her own class? Someone she could trust?

Third: what did Lady Somerville mean by the phrase ‘the cowl does not make the monk’? Was this a reference to the double life of the killer? Was it the murderer she was talking about? Or did it refer to the private life of some priest or monk? Corbett bit his lip and shook his head. Lady Somerville could have been talking about some other scandal, perhaps something she had seen at Westminster? And was her murderer the same red-handed slayer of the prostitutes? Or someone else who wished to make it look that way?

Fourth: Father Benedict. What troubled him? Why did he send that cryptic message to Cade? Wasn’t it strange that Cade never managed to find him and discover the truth behind the priest’s concerns? And was Father Benedict’s murder linked to the death of the prostitutes?

Fifth: Richard Puddlicott? Was this master trickster involved in one of de Craon’s subtle schemes? Did this have anything to do with the deaths Corbett was investigating? Corbett leaned back in his chair, his mind whirling with the different possibilities.

‘How many mysteries here?’ he murmured to himself. ‘One, two or three? Are they separate or connected?’

‘Hugh!’

Corbett whirled round. Maeve, sleepy-eyed, stood in the doorway. She looked like a ghost in the white, woollen blanket wrapped round her. She tiptoed over and kissed him gently on the head.

‘You’re talking to yourself,’ she murmured.

‘I always do.’ He looked up at his wife. ‘Is Ranulf up and about?’

‘Sleeping like a pig, I heard him snoring from the foot of the stairs. He and Maltote were out last night. Don’t say anything, Hugh, but I think our Ranulf’s in love.’

Corbett smiled, though his stomach lurched.

‘Hugh, do you know who it is?’

‘No,’ he lied. ‘You know Ranulf, Maeve. His love-life is as intricate and complex as a piece of your embroidery.’

Maeve spun on her heel. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she called out over her shoulder, ‘Maltote brought me news. Dearest Uncle, the Lord Morgan, will be with us within a week!’

Corbett waited until the door closed behind her. ‘Oh, God,’ he sighed. ‘Ranulf loves the Lady Mary Neville and will do something foolish and Uncle Morgan will only make matters worse!’

‘I told you not to talk to yourself. So, it’s the Lady Mary Neville!’

Corbett spun round. ‘You fox!’ he shouted. ‘I thought you were gone!’

‘The Lady Mary Neville.’ Maeve’s eyes rounded. ‘I have heard of her. Ranulf aims high. Who knows,’ she slipped behind the door before Corbett could throw something, ‘next he will be wooing some Welsh princess!’

Corbett smiled and went back to his notes. He remembered his conversation with Cade and angrily scratched his head. He had searched for a pattern but, if there was one, why did it break down? He picked up his quill.

Item One: De Craon, what was his role?

Item Two: Where was Puddlicott? Why did he appear in Paris then in London? What was he doing? Was there some connection between him and de Craon? Did either or both have anything to do with the murders?

Item Three: What was Cade hiding?

Item Four: What was Warfield hiding?

Item Five: What did Somerville mean by her cryptic remarks about monks and something evil at Westminster? Did Father Benedict become her confidant? Was the same person responsible for their deaths?

Item Six: Was their murderer also the slayer of the prostitutes? If so, he must have been busy in the week beginning May 11th. Killing Somerville, Father Benedict and the whore Isabeau on subsequent evenings.

Item Seven: The last murder victim, Agnes, whose corpse he had viewed. She had been killed two days ago, just as Corbett was travelling back to the city. Her death had occurred on the 20th, not on the 13th. Why?

Corbett shivered. Was Cade correct? Was there really a pattern? Or were they hunting one, two or even three killers?

An hour later a disgruntled, uneasy Corbett left the house quietly vowing he would have words with Ranulf who was still sleeping off the after-effects of last night’s drinking. Maeve was now engrossed in the preparations for ‘dear’ Uncle’s arrival and Corbett was determined to untangle the web of mysteries confronting him. He crossed the thronged marketplace of West Cheap, stopping to enquire from the beadles of any news in the city, but they shook their heads.