Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

The young man nodded.

‘Then go now!’

Maltote hurried off and Corbett grasped Ranulf by the arm.

‘Take your care whilst you can, Ranulf,’ he murmured. ‘For, when the King returns, the city will buzz like an overturned beehive!’

They waited until Limmer sent archers round to guard the secret tunnel, then Corbett and Ranulf walked back through the abbey grounds.

‘What shall we do, Master?’

Corbett watched Limmer’s archers now hurrying backwards and forwards and noted with relief that fresh troops, men-at-arms, had also arrived from the Tower. Some of the abbey lay-brothers, officials, scullions and servants from the kitchens wandered about asking questions, whilst at the gates, archers with drawn swords were pushing back a small crowd of curious bystanders.

‘Master, I asked, what shall we do?’

Corbett looked at his dishevelled manservant.

‘Well, you need a wash and I need something to eat and drink. So, for a while, it’s back to The Golden Turk to sit and take stock.’ He squeezed his servant’s arm. ‘Oh, by the way, I am grateful for you going down the tunnel. I may have gone in but I doubt if I would have returned.’

Ranulf was about to make some mischievous reply when, suddenly, Lady Mary Neville appeared, her black hair falling loose under her blue veil as she ran breathlessly towards them.

‘Sir Hugh, Master Ranulf, what is the matter?’

The young widow stopped in front of them, her face slightly red, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

‘What is happening?’ she repeated. ‘There are soldiers all over the abbey. They say some of the brothers have been arrested! Have you found the killer, Sir Hugh?’

Corbett took the young woman’s small, white hand in his, lifted it and brushed it softly with his lips.

‘Oh, more than that, Lady Mary. But for the moment, let the gossips have their way.’ He bowed and moved on, Ranulf trotting enviously behind him.

‘Oh, Master Ranulf!’

Corbett deliberately walked on as Ranulf stopped and returned to Lady Neville.

‘Yes, Lady Mary?’

The young widow looked at him coyly. She lifted her hand and Ranulf, with a flourish which would have been the envy of any courtier, caught it and raised it to his lips. The young woman laughed, withdrew her hand, turned and walked swiftly away. Only then did Ranulf realise she had pressed a small gold amulet into his hand with the phrase ‘Amor vincit omnia — Love conquers all’ inscribed on it. Ranulf gazed after her, speechless with amazement, until the roars of Master ‘Long Face’ shook him from his golden reverie.

After their journey down river, Corbett went into the tavern whilst Ranulf stayed to wash himself in the water butts near the horse trough. By the time he rejoined his master, the landlord was serving two bowls of hot spiced lamb and chunks of meat, roasted on a spit, floating in a thick gravy with onions, leeks and other vegetables. Corbett had bought a small jug of wine, the best the house could provide, and as he filled their cups commended Ranulf for his bravery, until his servant blushed crimson with embarrassment.

‘Do you think we’ve reached the end of the story, Master?’ Ranulf said trying to divert the conversation away from his own achievements.

‘I don’t know. What do we have here, Ranulf? Mischievous monks and a subtle thief who has stolen the royal treasure. These things we can prove but what is more difficult, is to make the logical leap and link the debauchery in the abbey with the robbery of the royal treasure house and then with the deaths of those poor prostitutes in London, not to mention the murder of poor Lady Somerville and Father Benedict.’ Corbett scraped his bowl clean with his horn spoon, then wrapped the spoon in a napkin and put it back in his pouch. ‘Everything we know seems to prove there is a link, but a good lawyer would demonstrate we have fashioned a net with as many holes as it has cords. Moreover, we do not know who the thief is.’

‘It must be Puddlicott?’

‘Oh, yes, we think it is; we know it is. You know; I know. We are all very knowledgeable,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Yet we have no proof. Who is Puddlicott, where is Puddlicott? We can’t even answer these questions.’ He picked up his wine cup and held it, gently rocking it to and fro. ‘Above all, we do not know who the murderer is.’ He took a generous swig of wine, and his servant glanced at him curiously — Corbett was known for his sobriety.

‘You are anxious, Master?’

‘Yes, Ranulf, I am anxious because when the King asks me to account, I’ll describe the problems but offer few solutions.’

‘You discovered the treasury was robbed.’

‘The king won’t give a fig for that. He will be more interested in getting his treasure back and hanging the bastard who stole it. No, no.’ Corbett loosened his tunic round his neck. ‘It’s the murders which fascinate me and I have two nightmares, Ranulf. First, are the murders connected to the abbey? And, secondly, are we talking of two or even three murderers? The prostitutes’ killer, the murderer of Lady Somerville and the silent assassin of Father Benedict.’

‘You have forgotten one thing, Master. Amaury de Craon, that cunning bastard must have some hand in all this dirt.’

Corbett looked sharply at Ranulf. His servant’s words jogged a memory and he realised he had forgotten all about his French opponent.

‘Of course,’ he breathed. ‘Amaury de Craon. Look, Ranulf, have you finished? Good! Then go to Cock Lane.’ He shook his head at the smile on his manservant’s face. ‘No, no, keep your lusts to yourself. I want you to stand outside the apothecary’s shop and search out a little beggar boy dressed in rough sacking. Take him to Gracechurch Street and tell him to keep a sharp eye on the house of the Frenchman. If anything untoward happens, such as an unexpected visitor or busy preparations for departure, the boy is to come and leave a message at my house in Bread Street.’

Ranulf agreed and hurried off. Corbett finished the rest of the wine and, feeling rather flushed and slightly sleepy, left the tavern and made his way to the main gateway of the Tower. He showed his warrants to the guards on duty, crossed the moat, went under successive arches and into the inner wards which surrounded the four-square central donjons, or White Tower. The clerk was challenged as he approached each gateway but, on producing the King’s writ, was allowed to proceed. At last he reached the inner bailey, quiet in the early summer heat though Corbett could see that building works in the Tower were now underway again as the King feared a French landing in Essex or even on the Thames estuary. Bricks were stacked around huge kilns, sand and gravel were piled high, and thick oaken beams lay in lopsided heaps.

The Tower was a village in itself, with rows of stables, dovecotes, open-fronted kitchens, barns and hen coops all huddled along the inner walls. A small orchard stood in one corner next to the wooden and plaster houses of the Officers of the Tower. Corbett passed huge mangonels and battering rams being prepared and was half-way across the green to the White Tower when he was challenged by a burly-faced officer. The fellow was still trying to read Corbett’s warrant when Limmer suddenly appeared and hurriedly intervened.

‘Sir Hugh,’ he announced, ‘the interrogation has begun.’ He shook his head. ‘But, so far, we have learnt little.’

He beckoned Corbett forward, leading him down a steep row of steps cut into the side of the White Tower and into a dungeon at the base of one of the turrets. Corbett shivered: the place was low-roofed, cold and damp and, despite the daylight, torches had been lit and were now spluttering against the darkness. He could smell the damp earth beneath his feet mingling with the stench of smoke, charcoal, sweat and fear. The chamber was bare of all furniture except for great iron braziers clustered together at each end. Chains and manacles hung on the walls but the clerk’s eyes were drawn to a small recess and the macabre group standing there. As Corbett approached, he glimpsed the torturers: men stripped to their waists, scraps of cloth wrapped around their foreheads to keep the sweat from running into their eyes. Their bodies glistened as if covered in oil and they lovingly stood over the braziers, pushing in and out long rods of iron, the handles wrapped in cloth to protect their hands. One of the torturers lifted a rod out, blew the red hot tip and moved to the shadowy recess. The fellow muttered something then Corbett heard a scream. He moved closer and saw that Adam of Warfield, Brother Richard and William the Steward had all been stripped of everything except their breeches, their outstretched hands being manacled to the wall. The torturer whispered something, then grunted and the iron was placed on a body that jerked in terror, the chains drumming against the wall. Another iron was placed, more whispers from a scribe sitting on a small stool keeping a faithful record of what was said. A curse, a scream, a cry, and so the questioning continued. Corbett turned away.