Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

‘Nothing, sir.’ was the reply. ‘A house was broken into in Three Needle Street, two rogues armed with catapults broke a window in Lothbury and a student from Oxford became drunk and played the bagpipes in Bishopsgate.’

Corbett smiled his thanks and moved on across into Wood Street then Gracechurch Street, dodging and moving aside as the timber merchants opened their stalls and prepared for a brisk day’s business. He asked directions from a loud-mouthed apprentice, the boy shook his head, shouting that he didn’t know where any Frenchman lived. A maid, carrying buckets of fresh water up from the Conduit, showed him the house de Craon had rented, a small, two-storied building, tightly wedged between two shops, dishevelled and rather crumbling. Corbett grinned to himself, the bells of the church were still ringing for the first Mass of the day and he hoped he was early enough to rouse de Craon from a peaceful sleep. He lifted the great brass door-knocker and brought it down with a crash then quickly repeated the action. He heard footsteps, the door was thrown open and de Craon appeared, fully dressed in a dark red cote-hardie and leather breeches pushed into soft black riding boots. His cunning, foxlike face gave Corbett the falsest of smiles.

‘My dear Hugh, we have been waiting for you.’ He clasped Corbett’s hand, holding it tightly between his. ‘Hugh, you look tired. Or should it be Lord Corbett?’ The Frenchman’s close-set, green eyes glittered with amused malice. ‘Oh, yes, we’ve heard the news. Come in! Come in!’

Corbett followed the man, who would love to kill him, into a small, downstairs chamber. The room was shabby; the rushes on the floor were dirty, the fire a pile of cold ash, the walls cracked and peeled and the chair de Craon pulled out from a table looked splintered and wobbled dangerously.

‘Sit down! Sit down!’

Corbett, ever watchful, accepted de Craon’s invitation whilst the Frenchman sat on the corner of a table swinging his legs. The clerk just wished the Frenchman would wipe that sly malicious smile off his face. De Craon clapped his hands.

‘Well, Hugh, is this a courtesy call? Oh,’ he leaned forward and touched Corbett on the hand, ‘I have met the Lady Maeve. Your daughter, she is beautiful. She takes after her mother. You want some wine?’

‘No!’

De Craon’s smile faded. ‘Fine, Corbett, what do you want?’

‘Why are you here, de Craon?’

‘I bring messages of courtesy and friendship from my master, the King of France.’

‘That’s a lie!’

De Craon glared at Corbett. ‘One of these days, Hugh,’ he said in a mock whisper. ‘One of these days I’ll make you choke on your insults!’

Now Corbett smiled. ‘Promises, promises, de Craon! You still haven’t told me why you are in England and why you tarry in London.’

De Craon stood up and walked to the other side of the table.

‘We have French merchants living here, they have interests which affect King Philip. You English are known for being hostile to foreigners.’

‘Then, de Craon, you should be careful!’

‘Oh, Hugh, I am and so should you. Where’s your shadow, Ranulf?’

‘At the top of the street,’ Corbett lied. ‘Sitting in a tavern with a group of royal archers waiting for me to return.’

De Craon cocked his head to one side. ‘You were in Winchester, now you are in London. Why should the King send his most trusted clerk and Keeper of the Secret Seal back to the city?’ De Craon held a finger to his lips. ‘There are the murders,’ he continued, as if talking to himself. ‘I know the fat ones in the city do not want their secret sins brought to light. There’s the death of Lady Somerville and, of course, the mysterious fire at the house of the King’s old chaplain, Father Benedict.’ De Craon preened himself, running a hand through his thinning red hair. ‘Now what else could there be?’ he asked in mock wonderment.

‘Richard Puddlicott.’

De Craon’s mouth opened and closed. ‘Ah, yes, Puddlicott.’

‘You know Puddlicott?’

‘Of course.’ The Frenchman smiled. ‘A well-known English criminal. What do you call his type, a confidence trickster? He is wanted in Paris by our Provost as he is in London by your Sheriff.’

‘For what reason?’

‘For the same reasons as in London.’

‘Then why?’ Corbett asked slowly, ‘was Puddlicott seen being entertained by your King’s closest counsellor, Master William Nogaret?’

De Craon refused to be flustered. ‘Puddlicott is a criminal but a valuable one. He sells secrets to us. What he thinks is valuable information, just as surely as your master buys secrets from traitorous Frenchmen.’

Corbett heard a sound and stood up. He felt nervous in this silent, dusty house. He turned, staring at the doorway, just as a stranger slipped like a shadow into the room.

‘Ah, Raoul.’ De Craon went round the table. ‘Master Corbett, or rather Sir Hugh Corbett, can I present Raoul, Vicomte de Nevers, King Philip’s special envoy to Flanders and the Low Countries.’

De Nevers shook Corbett’s hand warmly and the clerk took an immediate liking to him. In looks he resembled Maltote but was thinner, leaner, his hair was blond, his features regular, rather boyish, though Corbett noted the shrewd eyes and the firm set to mouth and chin. He could see why Maeve had liked him. He had a lazy charm and a frank, open demeanour which contrasted sharply with de Craon’s subtle falseness.

‘Before you ask why Raoul is in England, de Craon murmured, ‘I’ll be honest. Next spring King Philip intends to move into Flanders. He has certain rights there which-’

‘Which King Edward does not recognise,’ Corbett interrupted.

‘True! True!’ de Nevers replied in broken English. ‘But our master wishes to keep an eye on Flemish merchants. We know they come to London. We watch their movements and we bring messages for your King, how ill advised he would be to give these merchants any solace or comfort.’

Corbett stared at both men. They could be telling the truth, he thought, or at least part of it and de Nevers made more sense than de Craon. English envoys watched Scottish merchants in Paris, so why shouldn’t the French watch Flemish merchants in London? Corbett picked up his cloak.

‘Monsieur de Craon, Monsieur de Nevers, I wish you a safe stay in London but I also bring warnings from my master. You are protected by letters of safe conduct. Monsieur de Craon, you know the rules of the game. If you are found interfering in anything you shouldn’t be, then I will personally escort you to the nearest port and send you packing back to France.’ Corbett sketched a bow at both men and, before they could answer, made his own way out of the house.

Corbett stood in the street and breathed a sigh of relief. He was pleased that he had surprised both de Craon and his companion for he was sure that they were involved in some villainy, but only time would reveal what it was. He picked his way round the mounds of refuse and stared curiously at the empty dung cart, a tired-looking horse between the shafts, which stood on the other side of the street. He looked back at de Craon’s house. There was something wrong but he couldn’t place it. He’d glimpsed some detail which didn’t fit. He shrugged. ‘Only time will tell,’ he muttered.

Staring up and down the street, he noticed the mounds of refuse piled high on either side of the sewer, then he walked gingerly down the street, keeping a wary eye as windows above were suddenly opened and the contents of night pots thrown out to drench the cobbles and passers-by with their filth. He stopped at a cookshop on the corner of Wood Street and bought a pie but then threw it into a sewer when his teeth crunched on something hard.