Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

Ranulf now pressed his damp hair into place and liberally sprinkled his doublet with rose water. He clambered downstairs to kiss his offspring good night and hustle a complaining Maltote out of the door and across to the tavern for their horses.

Corbett left the house an hour later, still disgruntled at Maeve’s total absorption with her uncle’s visit and nursing a sore elbow where young Ranulf, who had inveigled him into a short game in the buttery, had thrown his toy sword at him. ‘A sad day,’ Corbett grumbled, ‘when a man can’t find peace in his own home.’

Still muttering curses, he pulled his cloak around him and made his way across Trinity through the darkened streets to Old Fish Street and into The Vintry and the welcoming warmth of The Three Cranes tavern. He must have been there an hour, sitting in a darkened recess beside the great open hearth, before Ranulf and Maltote joined him, leading his three disgruntled visitors: William the Steward was half-drunk whilst the two monks looked peeved and red-faced at being unceremoniously dragged away from their evening meal. Corbett made them welcome and ordered tankards of watered ale for, by the looks of William’s flushed face, bleary eyes and fiery red nose, if the steward took any more wine he would fall into a drunken stupor. The sacristan was the only one of the three who appeared to have his wits about him.

‘We have been summoned here,’ he drew his dark robes about him, ‘without good cause or reason.’

Corbett made a face. ‘Monk, the King has summoned you here. So, if you object, take it up with him.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Honest answers to honest questions.’

‘I have answered your questions.’

‘What’s been happening at Westminster Abbey and Palace?’

‘What do you mean?’

Corbett drew Somerville’s drawing from his purse and tossed it at the sacristan, pushing the thick tallow candle closer so the monk could study it.

‘What do you make of that, Adam of Warfield?’

The sacristan studied it. ‘A crude drawing,’ he snapped.

Corbett saw he was blustering and sensed his fear. Brother Richard leaned over and, bleary-eyed, also examined the drawing.

‘Scandalous!’ he mumbled. ‘Whoever drew this offends the Church.’

‘Lady Somerville drew it,’ Corbett replied. ‘A high-ranking member of the Sisters of St Martha. She worked in the vestry and laundry of the abbey. What did she discover, this widow of good repute, this pious noblewoman? What did she see which made her draw such a cruel parody of so-called “men of God”? Master William, perhaps you can help?’

The steward shook his head and Ranulf, sitting behind Corbett’s visitors, smirked from ear to ear. He always enjoyed such occasions, when the so-called ‘pious’, the self-seeking, high and mighty, were brought to account. Corbett was forever quoting St Augustine: ‘ Quis custodiet custodes ?’ ‘Who shall guard the guards?’ Ranulf was forever repeating it and he couldn’t resist choosing this occasion to murmur it into the ear of Adam of Warfield. The monk turned, his lip curling like a dog.

‘Shut up, knave!’ he snarled.

‘Enough!’ Corbett ordered. ‘Brother Adam, Brother Richard, Master William, did you know any of the whores recently murdered in the city?’

‘No!’ they chorused in unison.

‘Do the names Agnes or Isabeau mean anything to you?’

Adam of Warfield shot to his feet. ‘We are men of God!’ he snapped. ‘We are priests, monks bound by chastity. Why should we have anything to do with whores, prostitutes and courtesans?’ He leaned over the table, his eyes glaring with hatred. ‘Do you have any more questions, clerk?’

Corbett made a face. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘But you still haven’t answered the ones I have asked.’

‘We don’t know any whores.’

‘And you know nothing about Lady Somerville’s death?’

‘No, we do not!’ the monk shouted, disturbing the other drinkers.

‘Or what she meant by “The cowl does not make the monk”?’

‘Master Corbett, I am leaving. Master William, Brother Richard?’

The monk swept towards the door, his two tipsy companions staggering behind him. As the monk’s robe swirled about him, Corbett caught a glimpse of his high-heeled, costly Spanish leather riding boots and the beautiful gilded spurs attached to the heels.

‘Monk!’ Corbett bellowed, now rising.

‘What is it, clerk?’

‘You also took a vow of poverty. You have eaten and drunk well before you came. Your companion, Brother Richard, is tipsy and you wear boots even the King himself would envy.’

‘My business, clerk.’

Corbett waited until the priest was almost at the door.

‘One last question, Adam of Warfield!’

The sacristan turned and leaned against the lintel, a smug smile on his face. After all, he had come to see this clerk, he had answered his questions and the matter was now ended.

‘For God’s sake, clerk, what is it?’

Corbett walked across the quiet tap room and grasped the half-open door. He pushed his face close to the monk’s. ‘Do you,’ he hissed, ‘know anyone called Richard Puddlicott?’

‘No, I do not.’ Warfield turned and walked into the tavern yard, slamming the door behind him.

Corbett rejoined his companions. Ranulf still smirking, Maltote, as usual, sitting, mouth half-open, he was still unused to his strange master dealing so brusquely with the great ones of the land. Corbett sat down and leaned back against the bench.

‘You learnt nothing, Master?’ Ranulf taunted slyly.

‘No, I learnt three things. First, Adam of Warfield and his companions, or at least one of them, knew the dead whores. You see, Ranulf, although he was angry, Brother Adam never queried why I asked him. I never actually told him that Agnes and Isabeau were two whores, so why did he reach that conclusion?’

Ranulf’s smile faded. ‘Yes, yes, he did. And what else?’

‘Secondly, something is going on in the abbey. I don’t know what. Again, Adam of Warfield didn’t ask me the reason for that question. Like any guilty man he wanted to keep his answers short and brief.’

‘In other words,’ Maltote interrupted like some school-boy solving a problem, ‘least said soonest mended!’

‘Exactly!’

‘What else?’ Ranulf asked crossly, glaring at Maltote.

‘More importantly. .’ Corbett looked across the tavern at a slattern in the corner clearing a table. ‘Girl, come here!’

The serving girl hurried over. Corbett slipped a penny into the pocket of her dirty apron.

‘Tell me, girl, do you know Richard Puddlicott?’

‘No, sir, who is he?’

‘It does not matter,’ Corbett replied. ‘I just wondered. You see,’ Corbett murmured as the girl walked away, ‘when I asked her about Puddlicott, she immediately answered my question with another one. Our good sacristan never did that about the whores, about their names, about what might be going on in the abbey and, most importantly, why I should be asking about a complete stranger named Richard Puddlicott.’ Corbett drained his tankard, picked up his cloak and got to his feet. ‘At last we have made some progress,’ he murmured. ‘But God knows where it will lead us.’

Corbett, Ranulf and Maltote hired a wherry from Queenshithe and made their way up river, disembarking at the Custom House near the Wool Quay. They walked along the riverside, past the darkening mass of the great Tower and out through open fields to where the lights of the hospital of St Katherine beckoned. Ranulf kept silent, sulking, for he always loved to catch his master out and matters were not helped by Maltote openly preening himself. At St Katherine’s a porter let them through and took them across to the small church which stood next to the main hospital building.