Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

‘I thought it best if the killer believed she had died,’ Cade added.

‘So you must have seen something?’ Corbett asked.

The girl made a face. ‘Who would believe me?’

‘What did you see?’

‘I only caught a glimpse but I thought it was a monk.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘The figure was cloaked, cowled and hooded but you see, Sir Hugh,’ the girl smiled primly, ‘when I held the candle up I caught a glimpse of the attacker’s sleeve. It was the dark brown of a monk. I also saw something else.’

‘Come on, girl, tell me!’

‘As I drew away and the candle fell, I am sure I saw a white tasselled cord.’ She looked up. ‘Only a monk wears that.’

Corbett looked accusingly at Cade. ‘That’s why you were quiet when we went to Westminster Abbey and met the sacristan and his bosom friend. Only Benedictines wear brown habits. Don’t you realise, Cade, the killer must be a monk!’

Cade banged his fist against the wall. ‘Of course I realised!’ he retorted. ‘But who would believe a prostitute?’ He looked at Judith’s sad eyes. ‘I am sorry,’ Cade muttered, ‘but that’s what they’d say, a prostitute’s word against a monk’s and what proof would she have, Sir Hugh, except her own assessment? Any monk accused of a crime would have his brethren swearing mighty oaths that Brother So-and-So and Father This-or-That were elsewhere at the time of the attack.’

‘You’ve never put it like that before,’ the girl interrupted. ‘You always said you had me here to protect me. You were protecting yourself!’ She looked at Corbett. ‘Before the under-sheriff continues,’ she added, ‘and asks me what motive a monk would have in attacking a whore, well I’ll tell you, Sir Hugh. You will be the only person I have spoken to about it.’

Corbett crouched before the girl and held her fingers lightly.

‘Tell me the truth,’ he insisted. ‘Tell me everything you know and I will catch the man who attacked you. I will give you protection, the King’s own writ and a substantial reward. Yes,’ he added as he saw the hopeful gleam in the girl’s eyes. ‘Good silver to go elsewhere and begin a new life. A small dowry, perhaps you can return to your village, marry and settle down.’

The girl gripped Corbett’s fingers.

‘You promise?’

Corbett raised his other hand. ‘I swear by the King and by the sacrament, and my oath is a solemn one. You will be protected and rewarded.’

‘About a year ago,’ Judith began, ‘in the late summer and early autumn, I and other girls were hired to go to the empty Palace of Westminster. We were paid good silver and taken down river by barge. We were led up King’s Stairs and into one of the chambers of the deserted palace. We went there at least a dozen times, indulging in the most riotous revelries. I have never seen anything like it. Wine poured like water, food stacked high on platters,’ she smiled. ‘But the light was always poor. We would be joined by men. One I recognised, I think he was Steward or Bailiff of the Palace, he was always drunk.’

‘And who else?’

‘Well, as I have said, the wine would flow like water. We’d take our clothes off, there’d be music and dancing. Our companions were always masked but I am sure,’ the girl paused, ‘I am sure some of them were monks from the nearby abbey.’

Corbett whistled through his teeth and glanced up at Cade. ‘Hell’s teeth, Cade! I’ve heard rumours of these revelries. Does anyone else in the city know about them?’

The under-sheriff had paled. ‘There have been rumours,’ he mumbled.

‘When the King hears this,’ Corbett continued, ‘his rage can only be imagined.’ He smiled at the girl and tightened his grip. ‘Oh, not you, Judith. The King will have bigger fish to fry than you. You’ll be safe.’ He stared into the girl’s frightened eyes. ‘Who was the leader, the organiser of these parties?’

‘I don’t know. At first I thought it was the steward but he was a born toper. He was so drunk he couldn’t do anything with the girls. No, there was another man. Tall, well built, his body muscular but he always wore a satyr’s mask. It was he who made sure the rooms were in darkness, that the food was served, the wine poured and, most importantly, that by dawn we were out of the palace and back in some barge being rowed up river.’

‘Do you know who he was?’

‘No, he was always called “the Seigneur”.’

‘How do you know monks were involved?’

The girl laughed. ‘Sir Hugh, I may be ignorant but if you work the streets of London you soon learn enough about men to fill a thousand pieces of parchment.’ She shrugged. ‘I know it was dark but the men’s bodies were pampered, well fed. Anyway,’ she chuckled, ‘only monks have tonsures!’

Corbett grinned. ‘So, they would be drinking, eating, dancing and-’

‘Yes,’ the girl interrupted with a smile. ‘And the other. We’d separate into pairs, then a horn would be blown, fresh meats and full cups served and the revelry would go on until the early hours.’

‘You said a year ago. Why did it suddenly stop?’

‘I didn’t say it did. All I think happened is that the Seigneur chose a different group of girls.’

‘Ah!’ Corbett got to his feet. ‘Of course, just in case you or your companions became too knowing.’

‘But why,’ Cade interrupted, ‘didn’t anyone report this to the authorities?’

The girl looked at him pityingly. ‘Alexander,’ she replied. ‘You are a good man but you’re such a fool. Who was going to tell? The Seigneur and his coven? The girls? And so be deprived of good silver, food and drink? Who would dare?’ She tossed her head. ‘And, as you said, Alexander, who would believe us, whores and prostitutes!’

Corbett went to stand near the small casement window. He stared out at Ranulf and Maltote who sat in the green cloister garden warming themselves in the early morning sun, laughing and chuckling over their exploits of the previous evening.

‘What you say, Judith,’ he concluded, ‘makes sense. You think some monks from the abbey were involved in these all-night revelries. Perhaps one of them began to feel concerned, even threatened, and decided to remove the evidence?’

The girl nodded. ‘I suppose so,’ she replied. ‘But there may be more than one killer, Sir Hugh. The deaths have occurred throughout the city.’

‘Perhaps,’ Corbett replied. ‘But everything you say, Judith, fits the puzzle. First, Lady Somerville.’ He glanced at the girl. ‘She was one of the members of the Sisters of St Martha, brutally murdered at Smithfield. You have heard of the good Sisters?’

Judith nodded.

‘Well,’ Corbett continued, ‘she had a very low opinion of monks. She was always quoting a proverb that the “cowl does not make the monk” and she drew some rather crude caricatures of them. Perhaps she knew about this debauchery and had to be silenced? Secondly, what has always puzzled me is how the killer could slip unobserved around the city and, of course, who would stop and question a monk? Thirdly, a monk was seen entering the house where one of the victims was found. Finally, everyone trusts a monk, which is why the victims always allowed their killer to get close.’

Corbett stared out of the window at the sunlit cloister garth. Of course, he thought, it also fits in with what Brother Thomas had said: perhaps the monk killed these girls, not only to silence them but because he felt guilty at what he had done and believed he was atoning for his sin by spilling their blood. What the old, mad beggar had said now also made sense: the gnarled toes of the devil were really the bare sandalled feet of the monk. And, of course, Lady Somerville would stop in the dark and greet a monk hurrying behind her.