Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

The young man’s eyes slid away. ‘You don’t understand,’ he murmured. ‘Father did this! Father did that! Yes, my mother’s dead. So what, clerk? In her eyes I was always dead.’

Corbett gazed at the young man and idly wondered if he had enough hate to commit murder. The young man’s bleary eyes caught his.

‘Oh, no!’ he muttered. ‘I can guess what you’re thinking, Master Clerk. In my eyes my mother didn’t exist so why should I kill her? But wait, I have something for you.’ He ran up the stairs and returned a few minutes later with a scrap of parchment in his hands. ‘Take this,’ he mumbled. ‘Study it and use it whatever way you wish. There’s no further reason for you to stay or return.’

Corbett sketched a bow, closed the door behind him and left.

He reached St Martin’s Lane before he stopped to examine the scrap of parchment. It was a list of clothing, probably drawn up by Lady Somerville in connection with her work at the abbey, but she had roughly etched crude drawings of monks with the hands joined as if in prayer. They were childish and clumsy except, now and again, instead of drawing the tonsured head of a monk, Lady Somerville had drawn the face of a crow, a fox, a pig or a dog. But what really fascinated him was that in the centre of this group, taller than the rest, was a figure dressed in a monk’s habit and cowl, the hood pushed back to reveal the slavering jaws of a fierce wolf. Corbett studied the piece of parchment and tried to follow the logic of the dead woman’s thoughts. Had she been listing items from the laundry and this had jolted a memory? Corbett shook his head.

‘Whatever it is,’ he mumbled, ‘the Lady Somerville’s perception of our brothers at Westminster left a great deal to be desired.’

‘What’s that? What’s that?’

Corbett stared as a small beggar woman, holding a battered wooden doll, jumped up and down in front of him.

‘What’s that? What’s that?’ she repeated. ‘Do you like my baby?’

Corbett gazed around and realised the crowds were thronging about him. He tossed a penny at the beggar woman and walked briskly back to Bread Street.

Corbett sensed the confusion as soon as he entered his house. He heard the shrieks from the solar, recognising the clear but powerful voice of Ranulf’s young son. Griffin dolefully confirmed the news: Ranulf and Maltote were busy playing with the young boy and were supposed to be looking after baby Eleanor whilst Lady Maeve was in the garden. Corbett followed him out. Maeve was busy amongst the lilies and marigolds, roses and gillyflowers. He stood and watched her. She was busy talking to the maid Anna and, in the dying sunlight, Corbett stood under the porch and admired how Maeve had transformed an overgrown moorland into a beautiful garden with gravel paths, sapling apple trees and climbing vines along a wall which caught the sun. Further down, beyond where a small orchard would grow, Maeve had directed the builders to erect a great white-washed dovecote next to a long row of beehives. Maeve turned as if she sensed his presence.

‘Hugh! Hugh! Come here! Look!’ She pointed towards the ground. ‘The herbs have lasted.’

Corbett gazed at the mustard, parsley, sage, garlic, fennel, hyssop and borage she had planted the previous year.

‘You see!’ Maeve cried triumphantly. ‘They have grown.’ She turned, her beautiful face flushed with the heat and exertions from her work. ‘If all goes well, at Michaelmas we’ll have more than salt to flavour the meat.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘You look tired, Hugh?’ Maeve took off the thick woollen gloves she was using and handed a small trowel to Anna who had been helping her weed amongst the sprouting herb beds. ‘Come.’ She wiped her brow on the back of her hand.

‘A cool tankard of ale. Anna and I have prepared supper.’

By the time he had washed and refreshed himself, Corbett felt better though the evening meal was a riotous one. Young Ranulf shouted all the way through and baby Eleanor, supposedly asleep in her cot, gurgled with laughter at his antics before bawling for her own food, pieces of sugar-loaf soaked in milk. Any conversation was impossible, for Ranulf had regained his good humour — too quickly, Corbett thought suspiciously — and insisted on telling everyone about Maltote’s recent clumsiness with a dagger. At last the meal ended, Corbett snapping that Maeve and Ranulf should join him in the solar.

‘Your day went well, Ranulf?’ he asked innocently, closing the door behind him.

‘Yes, yes, it did.’

Corbett gazed round the beautiful room. Maeve stared at him curiously as if she failed to understand her husband’s irritation and bad temper.

‘I am sorry,’ Corbett muttered. ‘But this problem seems to pose few solutions. The killer could be anyone. All I have established is that he wears a hood and a cowl.’

‘So it could be a monk?’ Ranulf interrupted.

‘For God’s sake, Ranulf!’ Corbett snapped back. ‘Every man in the city possesses a hood and cowl!’ He settled himself on a stool. ‘And what have you done?’

Ranulf grinned from ear to ear. Corbett groaned to himself.

‘I used my initiative, Master. You may remember Lady Fitzwarren said we were welcome to view her work? Well, I paid a courtesy visit to the Lady Mary Neville.’

Maeve covered her mouth with her hand. Corbett stared down at the floor.

‘The day is not yet done, Master. Lady Fitzwarren has issued an invitation for you to join her at the hospital of St Katherine by the Tower. Who knows,’ Ranulf beamed, ‘we might find out more.’

Corbett covered his face with his hands.

Corbett raised his head and gazed furiously at Ranulf.

‘I do not wish,’ he roared, ‘to be travelling round the city at the dead of night!’ He glared at Maeve who stood behind Ranulf, pushing the cuff of her sleeve into her mouth to stop her laughter.

‘But, Master, I thought it would help? We need to question both ladies, particularly Lady Mary. After all, she was the last person to see the Somerville woman alive.’

Corbett scuffed the toe of his boot on the carpet. Below, in the small hall, he could still hear Eleanor bawling and young Ranulf’s shrieks of delight. He glared at Ranulf and then at Maeve. Perhaps, he thought, it was best if they left; the house was in turmoil; Maeve had her mind set on her uncle’s imminent arrival and both children were in full voice. Corbett would have no peace and there were pressing matters to attend to.

‘Fine,’ he agreed. ‘But send Maltote ahead of us. Before we visit the Sisters of St Martha, I wish to meet the following: William of Senche, Brother Adam Warfield and his fat friend, Brother Richard. Tell these three redoubtable characters from Westminster that they are to meet me at The Three Cranes tavern in The Vintry. They will object, they will make excuses, they will inform you about what duties they have to perform, they may even be drunk. Tell them I don’t give a sod! They are summoned on the King’s authority and either they come or they spend the next two weeks in the Fleet, be they priest, monk or parish official!’

Ranulf, grinning from ear to ear, scampered off. In his chamber he washed carefully, changed his robes and preened himself in the metal disc which served as a mirror. ‘So far, so good,’ he murmured. He could not forget the Lady Mary and she had been so welcoming when he had paid her a courtesy visit on behalf of his master earlier in the day. Of course, Ranulf had told Lady Mary that Corbett had sent him. He only hoped his master didn’t interrogate the lady too closely, but, even in her dark house-gown, Lady Mary had been a vision of loveliness. She had sat opposite him in her small parlour serving him a cup of chilled Alsace wine and offering him sugared marzipan on a silver dish. Ranulf had acted his part, telling her how he was the son of a knight who had fallen on hard times. How he was now well placed in the Chancery, earned good fees and that he placed his good services entirely at her disposal. The Lady Mary had fluttered her eyelashes and he had trotted back to Bread Street like Galahad returning to Camelot.