Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

‘This is impossible,’ Lady Mary interrupted. ‘Why should the Lady Fitzwarren murder one of her sisters and poor Father Benedict?’

‘You are right to think both are connected. You see, our killer dressed as a monk. She carried with her the sandals, cloak, cowl and hood of a Benedictine monk. She took them from the vestry which adjoins this Chapter House. Now, I can only conjecture, but I suspect that Lady Somerville, whilst cleaning and laundering the vestments, came across a monk’s cowl, or gown, which bore marks of blood, perhaps traces of a woman’s perfume. Naturally, she would be puzzled, hence her constant quotation of the riddle “the cowl does not make the monk”. She was not referring to any moral platitude about our monkish brethren, though God knows she may have been right, she was being quite literal. Just because someone dons the cowl and hood, that doesn’t make the wearer a monk.’

‘And Father Benedict?’ Cade asked, reasserting himself.

‘Oh, I suspect Lady Somerville talked to him. Perhaps even conveyed her suspicions that the person killing the prostitutes and whores of London was one of her own sisters, someone from the Sisters of St Martha.’ Corbett glanced at Lady Mary Neville. ‘The shock of what Lady Somerville learnt made her sketch a caricature of what was happening at Westminster. The monks here may have been lax but, in their midst, they harboured a slavering wolf. It also explains why Lady Somerville thought of leaving the Sisters of St Martha.’

‘But why would the killer suspect Lady Somerville?’ Ranulf asked.

‘A matter of speculation, as well as logic. Lady Somerville was muttering mysterious riddles which only the killer could understand and, perhaps, the murderer realised the mistake she had made in returning a blood-stained gown. A gown quite singular because it had been designed for someone very tall in stature. The assassin would watch Lady Somerville and notice where she went. Now, Lady Somerville wouldn’t talk to the brothers in the abbey and her story was too incredible to take to any official, she was alienated from her own son so Father Benedict was the logical choice.’

‘He’s right,’ Lady Mary retorted, staring at Fitzwarren. ‘He’s right.’ Her voice rose in anger. ‘Lady Somerville and Father Benedict were very close.’

‘Yes, yes, they probably were,’ Corbett answered.

‘Everything else fits the picture,’ Ranulf remarked, rising out of his seat to go and stand behind Lady Fitzwarren. ‘Our murderer had two advantages: dressed as a monk, she could go anywhere and, being a member of the Sisters of St Martha, she knew which whores were more vulnerable, where they lived, their routine, their personal circumstances. Moreover, no woman would see another as a threat.’ Ranulf leaned over the woman’s chair and seized her by the wrists.

Fitzwarren struggled, her face snarling like a vixen.

‘You bastard!’ she hissed. ‘Take your hands off me!’

Ranulf drew Lady Catherine’s hands out of the sleeves of her gown and looked at Corbett in surprise, for there was no dagger there.

Corbett stared at the ugly, old face, full of venomous hatred. She’s mad, he thought. Like all killers she has let some canker, some rot, deep in her soul, poison her whole mind. Fitzwarren stared at him like some spiteful scold being caught in a misdemeanour.

‘Finally,’ Corbett concluded, ‘I became fascinated why the women died on or around the thirteenth of each month. You know the reason why. Your husband, Lady Catherine, died at Martinmas, the Feast of St Martin, pope and martyr, whose mass we celebrate on April thirteenth.’

‘But the last one, Hawisa’s death, did not follow this sequence,’ Cade interrupted.

‘Yes, I know,’ Corbett replied. ‘But that was meant to puzzle us. You see, Master Cade, only a handful of people realised the pattern in the deaths. Ranulf, myself, you and two other people I talked to: Lady Mary Neville and Lady Catherine Fitzwarren.’ Corbett smiled weakly. ‘I confess, for a while, Master Cade, you were under suspicion. Lady Mary, I also began to wonder about you. However, both Puddlicott and the beggar described the killer as very tall. Finally, His Grace the King unwittingly told me the date of Lord Fitzwarren’s death. You killed that last girl, Lady Catherine, just to muddy the water.’ Corbett drummed his fingers on the table top. ‘You were always dirtying the water,’ he added.

‘When we visited you at St Katherine’s by the Tower you hinted that the monks of Westminster were involved in some scandal which could be linked to the deaths of the street girls.’ Corbett smiled thinly. ‘I suspect when the dust settles, everyone will be so knowledgeable. You, however, saw such rumours as a cover for your own murderous activities.’

Fitzwarren preened herself, smiling spitefully. ‘All of this is conjecture,’ she retorted. ‘You have no real proof.’

‘Perhaps not, but enough for the King’s Justices to try you at Westminster. And what then, Lady Catherine? Public humiliation? Suspicion? You will be regarded as the lowest of the low.’ He watched the smile fade from the old woman’s face. ‘And after conviction? God knows what. If you are found innocent or, more likely, the case not proven, will you ever be able to walk the streets of London? And, if you are found guilty of so many deaths, you will be taken from the Fleet prison, dressed in the scarlet rags of a murderer and burnt at Smithfield, where every whore in the city will gather to laugh at your dying screams.’

Fitzwarren looked down then quickly back at Corbett.

‘What other choices are there?’ she asked softly.

‘The King would wish this matter kept quiet. A full and frank confession and forfeiture of all your goods to make compensation.’

‘And me?’

‘You will take the veil in a lonely, deserted convent. Perhaps somewhere on the Welsh or Scottish march and live out the rest of your days on bread and water, making reparation for the terrible crimes you have committed.’

The old lady grinned and cocked her head sideways.

‘You are a clever, clever boy,’ she murmured. ‘I should have killed you,’ she added softly. ‘With your hard face, worried look and cunning eyes.’

‘You tried to, didn’t you? You hired those killers who attacked us in the Walbrook?’

Fitzwarren wriggled her shoulders and pouted as if Corbett had made some mild criticism.

‘You are a clever, clever boy.’ Fitzwarren repeated. You see, Corbett,’ she moved in her chair, as if she was telling a story to a group of children. ‘You see, I loved my husband. He was a noble man. We had no children so I lived for him.‘ She looked around, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘Don’t you understand that? Every breath I took, my every thought, my every deed was centred on him. He died a warrior’s death fighting for the King in Wales.’ Fitzwarren crossed her arms, her face became sad, losing its mask of hatred as she withdrew deeper into the past. ‘I really loved my husband,’ she repeated. ‘In a way, I still do, despite the terrible injury he did me.’ Her eyes quickened with malice and she glared at Corbett. ‘I joined the Order of St Martha, devoting my life to good works, I pitied these girls and I never dreamt what secrets I would find. One day I was talking to one of them, she was young, with skin as white and smooth as marble and eyes as blue as the summer sky, she looked like some angel, beautiful and innocent.’ Fitzwarren tightened her arms. ‘That was until she opened her mouth. I tried to reason with her, tried to explain the wrong she was doing. I pointed out how hard my life had been, a Fitzwarren, with a husband who had been a general in the King’s army.’ Lady Catherine’s lips curled. ‘The bitch asked my name and I repeated it. She asked me again and again whilst rocking to and fro with peals of laughter.’ The old woman stopped speaking and looked down at the table.