Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

‘Stop it, Limmer!’ he hissed. ‘Stop it now! And tell the scribe to join us outside.’

Corbett walked back into the open air. ‘Christ,’ he gasped. ‘From such terrors deliver me!’

He sat on one of the wooden beams and wished he hadn’t drunk the wine for his throat was dry and he found it difficult to reconcile sitting on green grass under a clear blue sky with the terrors he had just witnessed. Limmer and the scribe joined him. The latter was a chubby, bald, red-faced man who seemed to enjoy his work and viewed the horrors he had to witness as one of the gruesome necessities of life.

‘Have the prisoners confessed?’ Corbett asked.

Limmer shrugged.

‘Yes and no,’ the scribe replied thinly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, Sir Hugh, we must draw a line. Brother Richard is guilty of nothing except drinking too much wine and the violation of his monastic vows. He has been terrified but not tortured. I strongly recommend that he be released.’

Corbett stared at the scribe’s hard blue eyes and nodded.

‘Agreed. But he is to be kept until even-tide, then released into the custody of the Bishop of London. What else?’

‘The steward, William of Senche, is guilty of gross misdemeanours against the King.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘Patience, Sir Hugh. He also confessed to knowing a well-known criminal, Richard Puddlicott. Master William has some knowledge of thieves for his brother is Keeper of Newgate Gaol. Now William of Senche was approached by Puddlicott and, together, he and Puddlicott planned to enrich themselves at everybody’s expense.’ The scribe licked his lips. ‘According to William’s confession, Richard Puddlicott — and before you ask, Sir Hugh, we have no clear description of the villain except talk of black hair and black beard, and of Puddlicott being constantly cowled and hooded.’ The fellow shrugged. ‘You can believe that if you wish — anyway, according to the confession, one day the steward and the rogue were wandering through the abbey cloisters. They greedily noticed the rich stores of silver plate carried in and out of the refectory by the servants who wait on the brethren at meals.’ The scribe laughed softly. ‘The happy idea struck them that such silver could be theirs. One night they put a ladder against the wall of the refectory and secured a rich booty of plate which they carried off and sold.’

‘And no one noticed it was gone?’

‘Well.’ The scribe smiled bleakly. ‘It’s the usual story. A sick, old abbot, no prior.’ He glanced up at Corbett. ‘Yes, Sir Hugh, the thought also occurred to me. I do wonder if the good prior was helped out of this vale of tears. Anyway, now we come to Adam of Warfield. He noticed the silver was gone. He also heard of the revelries William was holding in the palace, he demanded to be involved in these nefarious goings-on or he would go straight to the King. Master William and Puddlicott agreed. Warfield was given a third of the monies they had made in selling the abbey plate. Then they seized on a brilliant idea of robbing the royal treasury.’ The scribe moved the sheafs of parchment in his hand. ‘Their schemes were well laid. Sixteen months ago Adam of Warfield declared the cemetery was out of bounds; hempen seed, which grows quickly, was sown in profusion and Puddlicott began his tunnelling. About ten days ago he forced an entry; he did not want the plate, our good sacristan sold that.’ The scribe smiled. ‘I suspect, Master Corbett, that there are goldsmiths in our city who know full well that the plate they have acquired is stolen property.’

He paused and Corbett whistled through his teeth in disbelief.

‘And when did Puddlicott dig his tunnel?’

‘According to Warfield, at night, but because the cemetery was deserted, sometimes even during the day.’

Corbett’s hand flew to his mouth. ‘Good God!’ he breathed.

‘Sir Hugh,’ Limmer asked. ‘What is the matter?’

Corbett just shook his head. He did not want to confess that he had probably seen Puddlicott, for he remembered his first visit to the abbey and the old gardener, hooded, with his back to him. No gardener, Corbett thought bitterly, but Master Puddlicott in one of his clever disguises.

‘What else?’ he asked sharply. ‘Could they tell us anything about Puddlicott?’

‘No, the rogue was a master of the shadows. He always contacted them and never told them where he stayed. He was either late or very early and would disappear without a word to anyone. Sometimes he would be a regular visitor, at other times he would be absent for weeks.’

‘And the gold and silver which was stolen?’

‘They received their share but, naturally, Puddlicott took the lion’s portion.’

‘And the murderers?’

‘Ah.’ The scribe shook his head. ‘They deny any involvement in anyone’s death, be it Lady Somerville, Father Benedict or the whores in the city.’ The scribe plucked a quill from behind his ear and tapped the parchment. ‘However,’ he added hopefully, ‘Warfield is a killer. He is no more a man of God, Sir Hugh, than the creatures in the royal menagerie. I have attended many interrogations,’

Corbett looked into the flint-like eyes and could well believe it.

‘I have attended many similar interrogations,’ the scribe continued firmly. ‘Warfield is a murderer, he has killed once. I am sure he had a hand in the death of the prior. You know the way of the world, Sir Hugh? A man who kills once will always kill again.’ The scribe rolled the parchment up. ‘More than that,’ he concluded flatly, ‘I can tell you nothing.’ He smiled bleakly. ‘Of course, we still have further business with Brother Adam.’

Corbett thanked him and the little man waddled off, back to his duties.

‘What further can we do?’ Limmer asked.

‘As I have said, release Brother Richard into the hands of the church. Interrogate Warfield. I also want a message taken to the Sheriffs and Guildmasters. On the King’s authority, they are to make a thorough search of the city. They are to look for plate bearing the royal insignia and report any influx of freshly minted coins. The sheriffs are to hand over a summary of their findings to me at my lodgings in Bread Street. Do you understand that?’

Corbett waited until the soldier faithfully repeated his instructions, bade him adieu and left the Tower.

By the time he had reached Bread Street, Ranulf had returned from his errand. Maeve was absent, taking her small daughter and the maid Anna to one of the stalls at Cornhill. So Corbett, feeling tired and dejected, went upstairs to his bedchamber. He kicked off his boots and lay down on the red and white silk cover. He drifted in and out of sleep, his mind plagued by horrible nightmares, peopled by torturers, the walking corpses of young girls, their throats slashed from ear to ear, Adam of Warfield’s hate-filled eyes and the roars of wrath of his royal master. Corbett woke and stared at a hanging on the wall, depicting Salome’s dance before Herod. Why had Maeve hung it there? he wondered. He tossed and turned and thought about the death of the last whore, Hawisa. Why had she been killed at the time she had? Corbett had expected the next murder to have occurred sometime in the middle of June. He thought of the Lady Mary Neville and her same sweet smile as his first wife. Corbett drifted into a calmer sleep and was awoken by Maeve, bending over him, shaking him by the shoulder.

‘Hugh! Hugh! Supper is ready!’

Corbett yawned and swung his feet to the floor.

‘Come on, clerk!’ Maeve teased with mock severeness. ‘You stay in bed and there’s work to be done. More importantly, the table has been laid and the meal is ready.’

Maeve’s teasing eventually drew Corbett out of his dark depression. Moreover, his wife was determined that he now attend to certain household duties. Letters had come from the bailiffs of their manor at Leighton in Essex. She wished to discuss preparation arrangements about Lord Morgan’s stay. Would Hugh be free of his duties? So Corbett, at his wife’s insistence, spent the next few days in his own house. He played with baby Eleanor. He sat in the garden with his steward Griffin going through household accounts and, once again, tried to advise the impetuous Ranulf against his love tryst with the Lady Mary Neville. However, Ranulf was totally smitten and Corbett sensed the change; his manservant’s red hair was now groomed and carefully covered in oil, his doublet, hose and boots were the very best Cheapside could provide and Corbett secretly smiled at the richly perfumed oils Ranulf rubbed into his skin. Maeve enjoyed every minute of it and, when Ranulf hired a troupe of musicians to serenade the Lady Mary, she collapsed in a fit of giggles.