Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

‘Shut up!’ the sacristan snarled, his white face twisted in a mixture of fear and rage.

‘No, I won’t!’ the steward yelled.

‘What did he look like?’

‘I don’t know.’ The steward rubbed his face between his hands. ‘I really don’t know,’ he bleated. ‘He always came in the evening and kept in the shadows. He thought it was best like that. He always dressed like a monk in robes and cowl with the hood pulled well over his head and at the revelries he wore a satyr’s mask.’

‘He had a beard?’

‘Yes, he had a beard. I think his hair was black.’

Corbett got up and stood over the three men. ‘I think Brother Adam of Warfield may know his true identity. Yes, Master William, your Master of Revels was called Richard. His full name is Richard Puddlicott, a well-known criminal. Didn’t you ever ask yourself why a man, a complete stranger, was so interested in providing revelry and ribaldry?’

‘He came to the palace one evening,’ the steward stammered. ‘I told him I was bored. He suggested some fun.’ The steward glanced sideways at the sacristan. ‘Then one day Adam of Warfield found out.’ The fellow shrugged. ‘You know the rest. Some of the monks joined us.’ He looked pitifully at Corbett. ‘We did no wrong,’ he wailed. ‘We meant no harm.’

‘Until someone decided the parties must end and the prostitutes you had invited be silenced.’

Both the steward and Brother Richard moaned in terror.

‘You are not saying,’ Brother Richard’s voice rose to a scream. ‘You are not saying we are involved in the terrible deaths of those girls in the city?’

‘I am, and not only those but perhaps the deaths of Father Benedict, who found out about your midnight feastings, and Lady Somerville who had her own suspicions.’

Adam of Warfield sprang to his feet and Corbett stepped back. The monk’s face was now pallid and tense, covered in a fine sheen of sweat. His eyes glowed with the fury burning within him.

‘Never!’ he rasped. ‘I had. . we had no part in that!’

Corbett sat down in his chair and shook his head.

‘I have witnesses,’ he said. ‘A number of sightings of the killer. All of these point to a man dressed in the garb of a Benedictine monk, very similar to what you are wearing now!’ Corbett eased his dagger out of the sheath. ‘I suggest you sit down, Master Sacristan.’

The monk crouched between his two companions, his eyes never leaving Corbett.

‘You can’t prove that,’ he muttered.

‘Not now, but soon, perhaps.’

The monk stared and suddenly his face twisted in a malicious smile.

‘No, you can’t, clerk,’ he repeated. ‘All you can prove is that we broke our vows. Wrong? Yes, I admit we were wrong. But you did say in the presence of witnesses that we were charged with treason. I am no jurist, Master Corbett, but if fornication is now treasonable, then every man in this bloody city should be under arrest!’

Corbett got back to his feet. ‘I shall prove my charges. Master Limmer, Ranulf, Maltote! You will join us now! Outside the treasury door!’ The clerk smiled bleakly at Warfield. He was pleased to see all the bombast and pretence drain from the monk’s face. He looked weak like some broken old man.

‘What are you going to do?’ he whispered.

Corbett snapped his fingers and strode off, the three prisoners and their escort trailing behind. They entered the south transept and stopped before the great reinforced door. Corbett grasped his dagger and, despite the protests and worried exclamations of his companions, slashed through each of the seals.

‘What is the use?’ Ranulf murmured. ‘We do not have keys!’

‘Of course,’ Corbett cursed softly, in his excitement he had forgotten. ‘Master Limmer, I want four of your men. They are to bring one of the heavy benches. I want that door smashed down!’

The officer was about to protest but Corbett clapped his hands.

‘On the King’s authority!’ he shouted. ‘I want that door clean off its hinges!’

Limmer hurried off.

‘And some others had better bring a ladder!’ Corbett called. ‘The longest they can find!’

Corbett stood, looking at the treasury door waiting for the soldiers to return. Behind him, Ranulf and Maltote muttered dark warnings, William of Senche was gibbering with fright. Brother Richard lounged against the wall, arms folded, whilst the sacristan just stood like a sleep-walker drained of all emotion.

The soldiers returned. Six carried a very heavy church bench and behind them two more held a long thin ladder. Corbett stepped aside; Limmer pushed the three prisoners away; and the archers, thoroughly enjoying their task, drove their battering ram against the great door. Backwards and forwards they swung the heavy bench until the crashes reverberated through the empty abbey like the tolling of a bell. At first the door withstood the attack but then Limmer told them to concentrate on the far edge where the hinges fitted into the wall. Again the soldiers attacked and Corbett began to hear the wood creak and groan. One of the hinges broke loose and the soldiers stopped for a rest, panting and sweating before resuming their task. At last the door began to buckle. With another crash, followed by an ear-splitting crack, the door creaked and snapped free of its hinges. The archers heaved it to one side, snapping the heavy bolts and lock, and Corbett stepped into the low, dark stone-vaulted passage. A candle was brought and having ordered the sconce torches on the wall to be lit, Corbett grasped one.

‘Limmer, leave two, no, three archers to guard the prisoners, the rest follow me but walk carefully! The passageway is steep and ends in stairs but they have been smashed away. Take care!’ He turned. ‘Oh, by the way, where is Cade?’ Corbett realised how the under-sheriff had kept very much in the background.

‘He’s outside,’ Ranulf muttered.

‘Then bring him in!’

They waited until Ranulf returned with Cade, who stood astounded at the broken treasury door.

‘Sweet Lord, Master Clerk!’ he whispered. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing!’

‘Sweet Lord!’ Corbett mimicked. ‘I think I am the only one who does!’

They went down the passageway, the flames of the torches making their shadows dance on the walls; their footsteps sounded hollow and echoed like the beating of some ghostly drum. Corbett stopped abruptly and pushed the torch forward. Suddenly the passageway ended, and he edged forward gingerly, crouching and waving the torch above the darkened crypt below. The staircase was there — well, at least the first four steps — then it fell away into darkness. The ladder was brought, lowered and, once it was secured, Corbett carefully descended, with one hand on the rung, the other holding the torch away from his face and hair. He looked up, where the others were ringed in a pool of light.

‘Leave two archers there!’ he called. ‘And come down. Bring as many torches as you can!’

He reached the bottom and waited while the archers, with a great deal of muttering and cursing, came to join him. More torches were lit and as their eyes became accustomed to the light they glanced around. The crypt was a huge, empty cavern, the only break being the central column which, Corbett deduced, was the lower part of the great pillar rising to support the high soaring vaults of the Chapter House above. He sucked in his breath. Was he going to be right? Then he glimpsed it: the precious glint of gold and silver plate from half-open coffers, chests and caskets.

‘Surely, they should be locked?’ Cade muttered, seeing them at the same time as Corbett did. He ran across to one. ‘Yes! Yes!’ he said excitedly. ‘The padlocks have been broken!’ He held his torch lower. ‘Look, Sir Hugh, there’s candle grease on the ground.’ He edged towards a white blob of wax. ‘It’s fairly recent!’ he cried.