Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

The others dispersed, examining the various caskets and chests. Some of them had their locks broken, others had been smashed with an iron crowbar or axe, and the contents had been rifled. But none was empty.

‘The crypt has been plundered!’ Corbett announced. ‘Some plate has been taken! But that is bulky, cumbersome and unwieldy and very difficult to sell. Look!’

He pulled from a chest a small silver dish encrusted round the rim with red rubies. He held it close to the flame of his torch. ‘This is engraved with the goldsmith’s hallmark and the arms of the royal household. Only a fool would try to sell this. And our thief is no fool.’

He went back to stare at the great pillar and noticed that portions of the column had been cut away by a stone mason to form a series of neatly made recesses. Corbett put his hand into one of these and drew out a tattered empty sack. ‘By all the saints!’ he muttered. ‘Everyone. Here!’ He held up the tattered remnants of the bag. ‘Our thief did not come for the plate but for the newly minted coins of gold and silver. I suspect these recesses were once full of bags of coins and now they have all gone. These sacks were the thief’s quarry.’

‘But how did he get in?’ Cade asked.

Corbett walked over to the grey mildewed wall of the crypt, built with great slabs of granite.

‘Well,’ Corbett murmured, his words echoing through the darkened vault. ‘We know the thief could not come from above. He certainly didn’t come through the door.’ He tapped his boot on the hard concrete floor. ‘From below is impossible, so he must have burrowed through the wall.’

‘That would take months,’ Limmer answered.

‘You’ve been at a siege?’ Corbett asked.

The soldier nodded.

‘These walls are thirteen feet thick. No different from many castles. How would a commander breach such a wall?’

‘Well, a battering ram would be useless. He would probably try and dig a hole, a tunnel beginning at the far side of the wall under the foundations and up.’

‘And if that didn’t work?’

‘He would attack the wall itself. But that would take a long time.’

‘I think our thief had plenty of time,’ Corbett muttered. ‘I want you to examine the wall with your torches. If the flame flutters from a violent draught, that’s the place.’

It took only a few minutes before Ranulf’s excited yell, from behind some overturned chests, attracted their attention. Corbett and the others examined the place, and Ranulf pushed against the stone.

‘It’s loose!’ he said. ‘Look!’ He pointed to the mounds of dusty plaster around the foot of the wall.

‘Oh, Lord!’ Corbett whispered. ‘I know what he’s done.’ He tapped the wall. ‘On the other side of this is what?’

‘The old cemetery.’

‘Let’s go there.’

They rescaled the ladder. Corbett ordered the archers to guard it whilst, outside the door, the three prisoners stood silent and forlorn, their hands and feet quickly bound. Corbett and the others, at a half-run, went out of the abbey and into the old cemetery. They had to wade through the waist-high hempen coarse grass and other shrubs before they stood before the walls of the crypt. Here the signs of an intruder were more apparent: a broken spade, a rusting mattock, pieces of old sacking and Ranulf even found a silver noble shining amongst the weeds. Corbett tried to visualise the inside of the crypt and pointed to a fallen, battered headstone.

‘Pick that up!’ he said.

The stone was easily shifted to one side, revealing a hole large enough for a man to go down. Corbett looked round and grinned to hide his own nervousness. He could not stand such enclosed spaces and knew what terrors would assail him if he got stuck or was unable to turn. He shrugged uneasily.

‘I have a fear of such places,’ he whispered.

Ranulf needed no second bidding but, on hands and knees, wriggled down the hole, Corbett heard him scuffling down the tunnel like some fox returning to its earth. After a few tense minutes Ranulf returned, covered in dirt, but smiling from ear to ear.

‘The tunnel gets wider as you approach the base of the wall.’

‘And the wall itself?’

‘Nothing but a hole. Apparently our thief simply hacked his way through, crumbling the stone by lighting a small fire then bringing it out in sacking and scattering it amongst the graves.’

‘It would take months!’ Limmer repeated unbelievingly.

‘It can be done,’ Corbett replied. ‘I have seen miners in the King’s army perform a similar feat against castle walls. Remember, it’s not natural rock but man-made slabs of stone. Once cracked, it’s a matter of scooping it out.’

‘And the final stone?’ Cade said. ‘The one Ranulf disturbed in the crypt?’

‘The tunnel ends there,’ Ranulf replied. ‘But if you brace yourself and thrust with your feet, the stone simply slides in and out. Our thief even fashioned a great hook to pull it back. Once pushed away there’s a natural door into the crypt and the King’s treasure.’

Corbett stared round the forlorn cemetery. ‘So, we have a man probably working at night. He begins here, digs through the soft clay until he reaches the base of the wall. He then hacks through the brickwork, probably weakened by fire, bringing out the results of his handiwork in sacks. The final stone is also attacked, weakened and an iron hook and ring placed in it so it can be pushed in and out. The thief helps himself to some of the royal plate, though his real quarry are those sacks of coins.’ He stared round. ‘And now they have gone.’

Corbett rubbed the side of his face with his hand. He’d felt pleased that his theory had proved correct. But two problems remained. First, the thief? He had no doubt it was Puddlicott but where the hell was the man? And, more importantly, where were his ill-gotten gains? Corbett squeezed his lips between his fingers. Secondly, although the secret life of these monks had been revealed in the full glare of day, he still had no evidence to link them to the murders. Nothing except the scribblings of an old woman and the eyewitness account of a beggar boy and a common prostitute. Corbett sighed and looked up at the blue sky.

‘Of course,’ he muttered. ‘There’s a final problem. Who will tell the King. .? We have done what we can here,’ he continued loudly. ‘Master Cade, you are to take the archers and secure the treasury room, fill in the stone, bring masons and carpenters from the city and do what you can. Master Limmer, I want you to forget the law! Our three prisoners are to be taken to the Tower and, short of loss of life or limb, they are to be interrogated until the full story is known.’

The soldier, nervous at what he was being involved in, spat and shook his head.

‘Sir Hugh, two of them are priests!’

‘I don’t give a damn if they are bishops!’ Corbett snarled. ‘Take them and do what you have to. This is treason, man. They have robbed a royal treasury. You would soon object if the King could not pay your wages.’

‘How do we know they were involved?’ Cade interrupted.

‘Oh, you will,’ Corbett replied. ‘Master William perhaps, Brother Richard maybe, but Adam of Warfield definitely. I also suggest you search the latter’s chamber. I am sure you will find more than an expensive pair of riding boots.’ Corbett clapped his hands. ‘Now, come on, there’s yet more to be done.’

Limmer and Cade hurried away. Corbett slapped Maltote on the shoulder and the young messenger, who was staring open-mouthed at the hole in the ground, jumped and blinked.

‘Yes, Master?’

‘Take two horses, Maltote. The fastest we have. You are to ride to Winchester and tell the King exactly what you have seen here. You are to ask His Grace to return with all speed to London. Do you understand? You have money?’