Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

‘Father Benedict’s death!’ Cade interrupted excitedly. ‘The old priest died because he saw or knew something about the midnight revelries of these monks. That’s why he wanted to see me. And that’s why he was murdered!’

Corbett leaned against the wall and nodded. But why, he thought, were these illicit parties organised? Who was this Seigneur? The girl admitted it was not William of Senche. Perhaps it was the sacristan Adam of Warfield? But why, why, why? Corbett stared at the grass, the dew twinkling like diamonds, and he suddenly went cold.

‘Of course!’ he shouted. ‘Of course!’

He strode back to the girl and gripped her tightly by the wrist. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’

‘No, sir. No, I have told you all I can.’

‘Good, then you will stay here. Cade, follow me!’

Corbett walked briskly out to where Ranulf and Maltote still sat in the cloisters.

‘Ranulf! Maltote! Come on! Don’t sit there like two love-lorn squires when there’s treason and murder afoot!’

The two men scampered after him like rabbits. Corbett bade a swift farewell to a surprised Mother Superior, collected his horse and cantered out of the convent gates as if the devil himself was driving him.

They rode through the winding lanes, not pausing till they entered the narrow warren of streets in Petty Wales round the Tower where they stopped and dismounted at The Golden Turk tavern.

‘No drinks for you, Master Cade, you have work to do!’ Corbett drew a warrant from his wallet. ‘Take this to the Constable of the Tower. Give him the compliments of Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Seal, and tell him in an hour I want three barges assembled at the Wool Quay. One for us, the other two full of royal archers. I want veterans; good men who will carry out any order I give them. No.’ He shook his head at the under-sheriff’s face. ‘No explanations now. Just do it and come back here when everything is ready.’

He stood and watched Cade stride away.

‘Master, what’s wrong?’

‘For the moment, Ranulf, nothing. I am hungry. I want to eat. You are welcome to join me.’

Inside the tavern, Corbett told Ranulf and Maltote to look after themselves but asked the greasy-aproned, bald-headed landlord for a chamber for himself.

‘I want to be alone!’ he declared. ‘Bring me a cup of wine!’ He sniffed the fragrant appetising aroma from the kitchen. ‘What are you cooking, Master Taverner?’

‘Meat pies.’

‘Two of those!’ Corbett nodded at a surprised Ranulf and followed the landlord upstairs.

The small bedchamber was clean, neat and well swept. For a while Corbett lay on the small truckle bed staring at the ceiling. The landlord returned with a tray bearing food and wine. Corbett ate and drank hungrily, trying to curb his own excitement for, at last, he had found a way forward. He unrolled the parchment Cade had given him and studied the information provided by the clerks on Richard Puddlicott. According to this, Puddlicott had had a fairly long and varied criminal career. He had been born in Norwich and had so excelled himself as a scholar, he had entered one of the Halls of Cambridge where he had taken a degree, as well as minor orders. He had then abandoned the life of a clerk for a more profitable calling as a trader in wool, cheese and butter. For a while he travelled abroad, visiting Ghent and Bruges but there his fortunes had changed for the worse. The English were forced to renege on loans from the Bruges merchants and Puddlicott had been one of those Englishmen seized in retaliation and forced to kick his heels in a Flemish gaol. At last he had escaped, killing two guards, with a festering grievance against Edward of England.

Puddlicott had returned to London and embarked upon a life of crime. He swindled certain goldsmiths in Cheapside; he defrauded a Lombard banker and stole valuables from churches. Yet his real skill was as a confidence trickster, being able to pose as whoever he wanted to in order to gain money through fales pretences. On a number of occasions law officers had laid him by the heels but Puddlicott, a master of disguise, had always escaped. Corbett sipped the wine and marvelled at this confidence trickster’s prowess. No one was safe. Shrewd merchants, hardened officials, dewy-eyed widows, cunning soldiers, grasping tenant farmers, all had been victims of Puddlicott’s fraudulent ways.

Corbett tensed as he looked at the list of dates. A government spy had heard of Puddlicott being in England the previous autumn. There were similar reports of fresh sightings in the spring, followed by the English spy’s most recent communication of Puddlicott being seen in Paris. Corbett put the parchment down and lay back on the bed. Was it possible? he wondered. Was the Seigneur whom Judith had described, the master of nightly revels at Westminster Palace, none other than Richard Puddlicott? But why? The rogue might be showing his contempt of authority by debauching monks, consorting with whores? Corbett had a vague idea of the truth and there was only one way of establishing that. He heard a crashing on the stairs and Ranulf hammered on the door.

‘Master! Master! Cade has returned, the barges are ready!’

Corbett rose, drained his wine cup, and made his way downstairs. He settled his bill with the landlord and strode out into the yard where Cade, still looking rather sheepish, waited, his great hands nervously clenching and unclenching.

‘Everything ready, Master Cade?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugh. They wait at the Wool Quay.’

‘It’s Westminster isn’t it?’ Ranulf shouted. He clapped his hands. ‘It’s those mischievous monks.’ He nudged Maltote playfully. ‘Now the fun begins,’ he whispered. ‘Wait until old Master “Long Face” exerts his power.’

Master ‘Long Face’, however, as Ranulf secretly described Corbett, was already striding down the alleyway towards the riverside. At the Wool Quay the three great barges were pulled in, waiting. An officer of the Tower garrison came forward to greet them.

‘Sir Hugh, my name is Peter Limmer, sergeant-at-arms.’ He waved at the barges full of archers dressed in leather sallets, steel conical helmets on their heads. Each was armed with sword, dirk and heavy crossbow.

‘Good!’ Corbett murmured. ‘We go to Westminster and you will do exactly as I say.’

The lanky, crop-haired officer nodded. They clambered aboard. Orders rang out and the barges pulled out into mid-stream.

The journey was a peaceful one, broken only by the sound of splashing oars, the creak of leather and the clink of armour. A heavy mist still hung over the river so Corbett felt cut off from the busy life of the city. Now and again they passed the occasional boat or ship. The silence was shattered when Limmer roared out orders to pull towards the centre of the arches under London Bridge which provided wider space to shoot through. Here the water frothed around the great starlings built to protect the river craft from the massive stone columns of the bridge. Oars were pulled in and the barges shot under the bridge and into calmer waters. The mist still hung heavy as they turned the bend to go down towards Westminster. The oarsmen feverishly pulled to one side when the great gilt-edged prow of a Venetian galley suddenly broke through the mist bearing down on them. Otherwise, the journey was uneventful. They rowed to the northern bank, the mist now thinning, and they glimpsed the tower and turrets of Westminster.

They disembarked at King’s Stairs; orders rang out and the archers, organised in two columns, marched behind Corbett and his companions. They swung through the gardens, surprising the odd, sleepy-eyed servant, and across the palace yard into the abbey grounds. A side door to the abbey was open. Corbett, leaving the military escort outside, walked into the deserted side of the nave. It was dark and cold.