Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

‘The Sisters always meet here,’ he announced. ‘I believe they’ve arrived already.’

Corbett pulled open the door and walked into the porch. The church was simple enough; a long, narrow, vaulted nave under a soaring hammer-beamed roof, a chancel screen at the far end and fat rounded pillars down each side of the nave. Most of the Sisters were already assembled. At first, Corbett and his companions were ignored as the ladies scurried around, lighting braziers, pushing long trestle tables together. On these they piled clean clothes and cut up long loaves of bread, putting out bowls of salt, dishes of dried meat and bowls of apples and pears sliced and covered with sugar. Lady Fitzwarren came in through a side door, smiled and waved at them. Behind her, Lady Mary looked coyly at Ranulf.

‘You have come to watch, Sir Hugh?’

‘Aye, Madam. But also to ask you some questions.’

Fitzwarren’s smile faded. ‘When I’m ready! When I’m ready!’ she snapped. ‘The wine jug’s not yet out! I think the weather will change and we could have a busy night.’

Corbett and his companions had to sit on a bench and kick their heels before Fitzwarren and Lady Mary joined them.

‘Well, Sir Hugh, what questions do you still have?’

Corbett caught the exasperation in her voice.

‘First, Lady Mary, you were with Lady Somerville the night she died?’

The woman nodded.

‘And you left St Bartholomew’s, when?’

‘About a quarter of an hour after Lady Somerville.’

‘And you noticed nothing untoward?’

‘Nothing at all. It was pitch dark. I hired a boy to carry a torch and made my way home to Farringdon.’

‘Lady Fitzwarren, did you know any of the girls who died?’

‘Some, but you must remember the victims were all petty courtesans. We tend to meet the most degraded.’

‘Did you know Agnes, the girl killed in the church near Greyfriars?’

‘Yes, I did, and strange you mention her name. After her death I had a garbled message from someone who knew her that she wanted to speak to me.’

‘Who gave the message?’

Lady Fitzwarren shook her head. ‘I meet so many girls, it was one of them.’

‘So you never met Agnes?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Is there anything else, Lady Catherine?’

‘Such as what?’

‘Well, you meet in Westminster Chapter House. Have you noticed anything untoward in the abbey or palace?’

‘Well, they’re fairly deserted,’ Lady Mary interrupted. ‘The old abbot is ill and they have no prior, the King should really return to Westminster.’

Lady Fitzwarren stared at her companion, then back at Corbett.

‘Sir Hugh, I think there is something you should know,’ the woman lowered her voice as Lady de Lacey swept into the church as briskly as a March breeze. ‘Over a year ago,’ Lady Fitzwarren continued in a half-whisper, ‘just after these terrible murders began, Lady Mary, here, heard a rumour, a story quite common amongst the street-walkers and courtesans, how certain girls had been taken to the abbey, or rather the palace, for parties and roistering which lasted all night.’ The woman shrugged. ‘You know how it is, Sir Hugh. A common occurrence. Royal palaces are often left deserted, especially in time of war. The stewards and officials become lazy and decide to amuse themselves at the expense of their betters.’ She smiled thinly. ‘I believe even Christ told parables about it.’ Fitzwarren looked over her shoulder and waved at Lady de Lacey who was shouting for her attention. ‘That’s all I know, Sir Hugh. But, tell me, do you have any idea of who is responsible for these terrible murders?’

‘No, my Lady, but I hope to prevent any more.’

‘In which case I wish you well, Master Clerk.’

‘Oh, Lady Catherine?’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you or the Lady Mary know anything about the French envoy, Sir Amaury de Craon? Or a man known as Richard Puddlicott?’

Both women shook their heads.

‘De Craon means nothing to me,’ Lady Fitzwarren answered quickly. ‘But I have heard of Puddlicott. He’s a villain, a trickster. Some of the street-girls talk about him with as much awe and respect as I would the King.’

Corbett nodded and watched the two women walk away. He sat down on the bench and glanced at Ranulf who appeared to be blind and deaf to everything except the Lady Mary Neville. Corbett blinked and looked away. He had seen Ranulf drunk, angry, sad, lecherous and maudlin but never lovelorn and he still found it difficult to accept that Ranulf was so love-struck. Corbett sighed and diverted his mind to what he had just learnt. Everything pointed to something amiss at Westminster. Lady Fitzwarren was right: it was quite common for officials in deserted royal palaces to spend their time roistering — on one occasion he had acted as a marshal of the royal household in bringing such malefactors to judgement — but did the solution to these terrible murders lie in such roistering? Had the monks of Westminster become involved in these all-night revelries? Had something happened and the murders been committed to silence clacking tongues and scandalous whispers?

The door of the hospital opened slowly and Corbett gazed speechlessly at the two harridans who staggered into the church; their clothes were mere rags around their emaciated bodies, their hair was thin and straggly, they looked like twin witches with their hooked noses, rheumy eyes and slack, slavering mouths. They chattered and cackled like half-wits, crawling towards the tables, snatching mouthfuls of bread and slurping noisily from pewter wine cups. The stench of their unwashed bodies drew even Ranulf from his reverie.

‘Sweet Lord!’ he muttered. ‘We needn’t wait until death, Master, to see visions of hell!’

Lady de Lacey noticed their revulsion and strode over.

‘Master Corbett, how old would you say those women were?’

‘They are ancient crones.’

‘No, no. Both have yet to reach their thirty-fifth year. They are street-walkers raddled and ageing, rotting with disease, the discarded objects of men’s lust.’

Corbett shook his head. ‘I disagree.’

‘What do you mean? Men have exploited them!’

‘And they have exploited men — though, I suspect, where men had the choice, they had none.’

De Lacey stared at him shrewdly.

‘So-called “good men” used these women,’ Corbett continued. ‘Upright citizens, burgesses who sit on the council, walk in the Guild processions, who go to Mass on Sundays, arm-in-arm with their wives, their children running before them.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘And such men are liars and their marriages are empty.’

‘Most marriages are,’ de Lacey retorted. ‘A wife is like a chattel, a piece of land, a possession, a horse, a cow, a stretch of river.’

Corbett thought of Maeve and grinned. ‘Not all wives.’

‘The Church says so: Gratian wrote that women are subject to their husbands. They are their property!’

‘The law of England,’ Corbett replied, ‘also says that a man guilty of treason should be hanged, drawn and quartered but that does not mean it is right.’ He smiled at de Lacey. ‘You should read St Bonaventure, my Lady. He says “between husband and wife there should be the most singular friendship in the world”.’

De Lacey’s harsh face broke into a genuine smile. ‘Ah,’ she replied as she turned away, ‘and if pigs flew, there would be plenty of pork in the trees!’

Corbett watched her go over and talk gently to one of the old crones.

‘She’s formidable,’ Ranulf muttered.

‘Most saints are, Ranulf. Come, let us go.’

Later that night Corbett lay beside a sleeping Maeve in their great four-poster bed, staring up at the dark tapestry awning above him. He had chased the problems facing him round and round his tired mind but, though he had suspicions, there were no firm conclusions, nothing he could really grasp. He remembered the sights at St Katherine’s, the two ancient street-walkers, Lady de Lacey’s gentle care and his remarks that a man and wife should be the best of friends. He glanced at Maeve sleeping quietly beside him. Was this true? he wondered. Strange; he kept remembering Mary, his first wife, and the memories had become more distinct after his meeting with the Lady Neville. Corbett closed his eyes, he couldn’t go down that path, the past was best left alone. He chewed his lip and wondered what to do when this business was over. He had seen the filth, the degradation of the street-walkers. Perhaps he should do something and not just turn up his nose and walk on the other side of the street. In France, he thought, at least they tried to control the situation, an official known as the King of Riddles imposed some sort of order and afforded a little protection to the ladies of the night. In Florence, action was more drastic, brothels were controlled by the city authorities who actually appointed clerks to work in what was termed ‘the Office of the Night’. But surely the Church could do something apart from just condemn? Hospitals, refuges? He must advise the King that something should be done, but what? Corbett’s mind drifted sleepily over the possibilities.