Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

He rose, strode to the door and shouted for Ranulf.

‘Come on, man!’ Corbett urged. ‘We have business to do in the city. You will take the following message to the Lady Mary Neville.’

Corbett went back to his writing tray and scrawled a few words on a piece of parchment which he then deftly folded and sealed.

‘Give this to her; and watch her eyes. Then you are to go to the Guildhall and do the following. .’

Corbett heard Maeve’s footsteps coming along the passageway so he quickly whispered his instructions to an even more surprised Ranulf.

‘Master, that’s foolish.’

‘Do as I say, Ranulf. Go now!’

‘What is the matter, Hugh?’

Corbett seized his wife and kissed her on the forehead. ‘I have been a fool, Maeve, but bear with me.’

He walked back, collected his sword-belt, boots and cloak and, shouting farewells to his wife and daughter, ran into the darkening street. He took a barge from Fish Quay and, ignoring the boatman’s chatter, sat, wrapped in his cloak, as the skiff, helped by the pull of the tide, swept him down to the King’s Stairs at Westminster. The abbey and palace grounds were now packed with soldiers, men-at-arms and archers. They had constructed their own bothies from branches, cut from the nearby trees, whilst officers had set up their own coarse-clad pavilions.

Corbett was challenged at every turn but, when he showed his warrant, was allowed through the different cordons thrown around the abbey until he reached the Chapter House. An officer, now carrying the keys of the abbey, unlocked the door for him.

‘Collect three men and stay outside!’ Corbett ordered. ‘But allow any visitors in!’

The soldier obeyed and Corbett walked into the long, high-vaulted, deserted room, his footsteps ringing hollow and eerie in the watchful silence. Despite the warmth of a summer evening, the Chapter House was cold and dark so Corbett took a tinder and lit a few of the sconce torches, and wax candles on the table, where he sat in de Lacey’s chair and waited for the drama to begin.

Ranulf and Cade came first, the under-sheriff looking haggard and tired.

‘Sir Hugh, what is the matter?’

‘Sit down, Master Cade. Ranulf, did you deal with the other matter?’

‘I did.’

Corbett tapped his fingers on the table top. ‘Then let us wait for our guests to arrive.’

They must have sat for half an hour, Cade trying to make desultory conversation, when they heard a knock on the door.

‘Come in!’ Corbett shouted and Lady Mary Neville slipped into the room.

She had the hood of her cloak well forward, and, as she pushed it back and sat in the chair Corbett offered, he caught the woman’s nervousness. Her skin had lost its lustre, she kept licking her lips and her eyes darted to and fro as if she suspected that some great danger threatened.

‘You asked to see me, Sir Hugh?’

‘Yes, Lady Mary. The night Lady Somerville died, you went to St Bartholomew’s hospital?’

‘I have told you that.’

‘So you did. And who else knew you were going?’

Corbett watched the woman closely as he heard the Chapter House door quietly open. ‘I asked you a question, Lady Mary. Who else knew? Or shall I answer it for you?’ Corbett looked up and stared at the woman standing just inside the doorway.

‘Well, Lady Fitzwarren, can you answer?’

The tall, angular woman swept towards him; her stern face looked harsh, her eyes were like two pieces of hard slate in her angry, drawn face. Corbett saw her hands were tucked into the sleeves of her gown and he did nothing to stop Ranulf drawing his own dagger.

‘Master Cade, a seat for our second guest.’

Lady Fitzwarren sat down carefully.

‘As I was saying, Lady Mary and her companion went to St Bartholomew’s hospital on Monday, May eleventh. Now, I always believed that Lady Somerville’s death was some accident, but I have changed my mind. I realise my own mistake, a lack of attention to detail. Only someone who knew Somerville would know she would walk across Smithfield Common by herself.’ Corbett smiled at both women. ‘Oh, yes, Lady Somerville knew her killer. You see, the murder was witnessed by someone.’ He saw Fitzwarren’s eyes flicker in fear. ‘A mad beggar squatting at the foot of the scaffold saw Lady Somerville stop and wait for her killer, he heard her call out “Oh, it’s you!” Now,’ Corbett leaned his hands on the table, ‘I was far too clever. I should have listened to that beggar man more carefully. He described the killer as tall as the devil with horned feet. I dismissed that as some phantasm of his imagination but, of course, he was talking about you, Lady Catherine. You are taller even than most men. And you were dressed in cowl and hood when you carried out your bloody murders.’

Lady Mary recoiled in fright and horror. Fitzwarren pursed her lips.

‘You speak gibberish, clerk!’

‘Oh, no, I don’t. Let’s go to another murder. Father Benedict. Someone blocked the keyhole of the poor priest’s door, threw a jar of oil through the open window then struck a tinder and flung that in as well. Go and look at the ruins of Father Benedict’s house. The window is high in the wall, someone well above average height threw that jar in.’

‘They could have stood on a log or a stone,’ Lady Mary whispered.

‘Yes, that’s true, but they didn’t. No log or stone was found near the window nor did the ground outside bear any such mark.’

‘You still haven’t produced any proof,’ Fitzwarren challenged.

‘Oh, I’ll come to that by and by. You see, when I examined the room, I found traces of the oil, clear and pure, of a very high quality. Only the wealthy purchase such oil for their food. I realised that this evening whilst watching my wife prepare our meal. The assassin used that oil because it was free of any reeking odour and, if spilt over dry rushes, would soon catch alight.’

‘The assassin could have bought it!’ Fitzwarren snapped.

Corbett steeled himself for the next lie to come.

‘Ah, yes, but in Newgate there is a man called Puddlicott, lying under sentence of death, who is responsible for the robbery of the King’s treasure. You must have heard of that? He was in the abbey grounds the night Father Benedict’s house was burnt down. He saw you, Lady Fitzwarren, throw a jar of oil through Father Benedict’s window.’

‘He’s a liar and a rogue!’ she hissed. ‘Who would believe him?’

‘The King, for a start. Puddlicott has no grievance against you. He seeks no reprieve or pardon. Both are out of the question. Lady Fitzwarren, he recognised you.’

The old noblewoman’s face lost some of its arrogant hauteur. Corbett leaned towards her, silently praying that his bluff would force a confession.

‘Even if Puddlicott’s story is rejected,’ he continued quietly, ‘others saw you. Do you remember the whore Judith? I believe you were hiding in a large cupboard in the garret she used? She opened the door and you lashed out with your knife. You did not stay to mutilate her body because she had screamed but, Lady Fitzwarren, she survived and is now under royal protection. Master Cade will swear to that.’

The under-sheriff, who was staring open-mouthed at Lady Catherine, nodded solemnly.

‘She, too, recognised you,’ Corbett insisted. ‘She caught the fragrance of your perfume, a glimpse of your face. I don’t bluff. Judith must have survived for only she or her would-be killer would know about the incident in the cupboard.’

Lady Fitzwarren drew back, hissing and muttering to herself.

‘I could go on,’ Corbett continued. ‘The whore Agnes, the one you killed in a church near Greyfriars, she also glimpsed you leaving the house where her friend had died. I believe she was on the point of sending a note to Lady de Lacey, here at Westminster, but the boy dropped the note down a sewer. Somehow you realised the poor girl posed a danger. She saw you, perhaps you glimpsed her. Anyway, you forged a note, probably in de Lacey’s handwriting and, dressed like a monk, you slipped it under her door. The poor girl fell into the trap. She would never dream that her killer was luring her to murder on consecrated ground. She was one of the few not killed on the thirteenth of the month. Because she had seen you leaving the corpse of one victim, Agnes had to be silenced as quickly as possible. Now, as regards Lady Somerville. .’