Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

‘Make yourself comfortable on that stool. Landlord, your best dish. What is it?’

‘Fish pie.’

‘Is it fresh?’

‘Yesterday the fish were swimming in the sea.’

Corbett smiled. ‘The largest portion for my guest here and some white wine.’

Puddlicott, a half-smile on his face, watched the landlord bustle off to serve them as if he was some important guest of state rather than a doomed malefactor. They waited in silence until the landlord returned. Puddlicott ate the food eagerly enough and Corbett had to admire the man’s cool nerve. When he had finished, Puddlicott drained his wine cup and held it out for more.

‘Make hay whilst the sun shines.’ Puddlicott grinned, then he became serious. ‘I do have a favour to ask, clerk.’

‘I owe you nothing.’

‘I have a brother,’ Puddlicott persisted. ‘He’s been witless since birth. The Brothers at St Anthony’s hospital look after him. Give me your word he will be well looked after. A royal stipend, and I’ll tell you what I know.’ He half-raised his cup. ‘If I am to die I want it to be quick. Richard Puddlicott was not put on God’s earth for the amusement of the London mob!’

‘You have my word on both matters. Now, you stole the gold and silver?’

‘Of course. Adam of Warfield and William of the palace were involved. William is just a toper but Adam of Warfield is a malicious bastard. I hope he hangs beside me!’

‘He will.’

‘Good, that will make it all the more enjoyable.’ Puddlicott sipped from his cup.

‘Eighteen months ago,’ he began, ‘I was in France after a short stay at Westminster where I helped William of Senche remove some of the abbey treasure from the monk’s refectory. Now, I am not a thief,’ he continued with a grin, ‘I just find it difficult to distinguish between my property and everyone else’s. I tried the same ruse in Paris at the house of the Friars Minor. I was arrested and sentenced to hang. I told my gaoler that I knew a way of making the French king rich at the expense of Edward of England.’ Puddlicott blew his lips out. ‘You know the way of the world, Corbett? When you’re in a corner you’ll try anything. I thought it would be forgotten but, the day before I was due to hang, de Craon and the Keeper of the King’s Secrets, William Nogaret, visited me in the condemned cell. I told them my plan and heigh-ho, I was released.’

‘You could have gone back on your word,’ Ranulf interrupted. ‘Shown them a clean pair of heels.’

‘And fled where?’ Puddlicott asked. ‘To England? As a ragged-arsed beggar? No,’ he smiled and shook his head. ‘De Craon said if I broke my word he would hunt me down. Moreover, I had my own grudge against Edward of England. Oh, by the way, Corbett, de Craon hates you and one day intends to settle scores.’

‘So far, you have told me nothing I didn’t know already,’ Corbett snapped.

‘Ah, well, I returned to England. I grew a beard, dyed my hair black and arranged the festivities at the abbey.’

‘Why?’

‘Adam of Warfield has his brains between his legs. He has a weakness for whores, heady drink and good food. William of the palace can be bought for a good jug of wine, so I had them both. I told them my plan; the cemetery was declared unuseable; I thickened the undergrowth by sowing hempen seed — it sprouts quickly and covered my activities.’

‘You made the tunnel at night?’

‘Usually. But sometimes I dug during the day. It was a brilliant plan, Corbett. No one likes cemeteries by night, or day, and, with the protection of Warfield and William, I could make all the progress I wanted.’ He shrugged. ‘You know the rest. I was after the coins. Warfield took some of the plate, the silly bastard! I moved and hid the sacks in an old dung cart. You guessed that, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Corbett replied. ‘Both Ranulf and I saw it there. Yet, strangely, the street seemed no cleaner.’

Puddlicott smiled. ‘What else did I do wrong?’

Corbett seized Puddlicott’s hands and turned them palm up. ‘When I shook your hand in de Craon’s lodgings I sensed something was wrong but didn’t realise what it was until later. You were a nobleman, Puddlicott, or supposed to be, yet your hands were calloused and rough. The legacy of a misspent youth as well as digging in the abbey graveyard.’ Corbett filled his prisoner’s wine cup. ‘Now the murders.’

Puddlicott sat back. ‘What murders?’

‘The whores! Father Benedict! Lady Somerville! We believe the whores were killed because of the midnight revelries, whilst Lady Somerville and Father Benedict were murdered because of what they knew.’

Puddlicott threw his head back and laughed. ‘Corbett, I am a thief and a rogue. If I thought I could kill you and escape, I would. But some poor girls, an old priest, a grey-haired old lady? Oh, come, come, Master Corbett.’ He sipped from the wine cup and his expression hardened. ‘A comfortable cell in Newgate and I’ll tell you something extra!’

Ranulf snorted with laughter. ‘Any more, Master, and he’ll be bargaining for his release.’

‘I agree to your request,’ Corbett snapped. ‘But no more. Well, what is it?’

‘Something I saw the night Father Benedict died. I was in the abbey grounds resting after hours of digging. I saw a tall, dark form slip through the grounds. I was intrigued so I followed. The figure stopped outside Father Benedict’s house, crouching before the keyhole. The figure, nothing more than a mere shadow, came round to the open window and threw something in. I saw a tinder struck, I guessed what was happening so I fled.’

‘And you know nothing more?’

‘If I did, I would tell you.’

‘Then, Master Puddlicott, I bid you adieu.’ Corbett rose and called for the guards even as Puddlicott grabbed the wine cup and drained it.

Corbett stood and watched the soldiers carefully secure Puddlicott’s chains to their own wrists.

‘Take him to Newgate!’ Corbett ordered. ‘He is to be lodged there as the King’s guest. The most comfortable room, everything he desires. The Exchequer will pay the bill.’ And, turning on his heel, Corbett left the tavern with Puddlicott’s fond farewell ringing in his ears.

Edward of England knelt on the window seat and stared out over the gardens of Sheen Palace. Corbett and de Warrenne, Earl of Surrey, sat watching him guardedly. Of course, the King had been pleased. The Barons of the Exchequer were already counting the coins from the sacks, and high-ranking clerks had been despatched to the treasure house to carry out a full audit. Searches had been made in the London markets for any of the King’s plate, and royal troops were now garrisoned in the abbey grounds. Edward had already sent a note of furious protest to his good brother, the King of France, in which the English King declared that Monsieur Amaury de Craon was persona non grata and if he set foot on English soil would face the full rigours of English law. Corbett had been thanked: a silver chain with a gold Celtic cross for Maeve; a silver goblet stuffed with gold pieces for young Eleanor. The King had clapped Corbett on the shoulder, calling him his most loyal and faithful clerk; but Corbett was vigilant. Edward of England was a consummate actor: the rages, the tears, the false bonhomie, the role of the courageous general and the stern law-giver. All of these were masks that Edward could don and doff to suit his pleasure. Now, Edward was cool, calm and collected and Corbett sensed the genuine fury in what the King saw as treason, breach of faith and blasphemy.

‘I could hang Cade,’ the King muttered over his shoulder.

‘Your Grace, the man is still young and inexperienced.’ Corbett said. ‘He has proved to be a great asset. He was the only official in London who helped me. A reward rather than a reproof would make him more loyal.’