Paul Doherty - Murder Wears a Cowl

‘My Lady?’ Corbett insisted.

Fitzwarren looked up, her eyes slits of malice, and Corbett sensed her mind was slipping into madness.

‘The bitch,’ she hissed. ‘She plucked up her skirts and showed me her private parts! “See these, my Lady Fitzwarren!” she yelled. “Your husband fondled them, kissed and ploughed me because of the joys you could not give him!’” Fitzwarren rubbed her face in her hands. ‘I couldn’t believe it,’ she whispered. ‘But the whore described my husband, his skin, the colour of his hair, his walk, his posture, even his favourite oaths. According to the bitch, my husband used not only her but others of her ilk. I could not deny it for when we were in London my husband was often absent on the King’s business, or so he said.’

The old noblewoman laughed abruptly. ‘The bitch thought it was so funny. Here was I, serving those who served my husband so well! The girl kept pulling up her skirts, standing on a stool, flouncing her filthy nakedness before me. There was a knife on the table. I don’t know what happened. I picked it up and struck. The girl screamed so I yanked her hair back and slit her throat.’ Fitzwarren stared at Corbett. ‘How could he,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘How could he consort with such women and leave me a laughing stock, the butt of every common prostitute’s jokes? Oh, I am no fool,’ she added. ‘The girl’s words raised ghosts in my own mind. How my husband neglected me and everything began to fester. Yet I found the whore’s death acted like a purge, cleansing my blood, purifying my mind, so I struck again. Each time I used a robe and cowl from the vestry at Westminster.’ She smiled. ‘Those fat monks never noticed that anything was amiss. I heard the rumours about their late-night revelries and saw them as a marvellous opportunity. I also thought of my dear departed husband and vowed that every month, on the anniversary of his death, a whore would die.’ She raised whitened knuckles to her lips. ‘Oh, I used to love it. I would prepare carefully, single out my victim and plot her destruction.’ Fitzwarren leaned over and tapped Corbett on the hand with her icy fingers. ‘Of course, you were right, you clever, clever boy. Now and again things went wrong. The whore Agnes saw me. Silly, silly girl! She thought she was hiding in the shadows but I saw the light glinting on her cheap jewellery, and her stupid face peering through the darkness.’ She rubbed the side of her cheek. ‘Her death was easy, but Lady Somerville was different. Usually I checked the robe I used, even cleaned it myself, but one day I made a mistake. You know how it is, Corbett? Dark red blood merges so well with brown. Then, of course, the fragrance of my perfume. Anyway, I caught Somerville holding the robe, she just stood and looked at me, and I smiled back.’

‘And Father Benedict?’ Corbett asked.

‘I knew Somerville would go to him,’ she spat out. ‘For she would find no joy with de Lacey.’ She smiled to herself. ‘Life became so, so busy. Somerville suspected and was already talking to Father Benedict. I knew he would take some convincing and I had already marked Isabeau down as my next victim.’ Fitzwarren gazed into the middle distance, talking as if to herself. ‘Somerville had to die and Father Benedict as soon as possible afterwards, before he could gather his dithering wits and realise what was happening. The following evening I visited Isabeau. I didn’t dream Agnes would arrive. The rest. .’ Fitzwarren shrugged and put her hand inside her robe as if to scratch her chest, ‘well,’ she whispered then rose, bringing her hand back in a lightning lunge. Corbett saw the glint of a thin steel dagger in her hand. Yet Fitzwarren’s speed made her clumsy, instead of thrusting she tried to hack at his face. Cade jumped up and Lady Mary Neville screamed as Corbett seized Fitzwarren’s wrist, squeezing it tightly till his assailant, her face contorted with pain, let the dagger drop. Ranulf sprang forward, grabbed the woman, dragging her arms behind her back and expertly tying her thumbs together with cord from his pouch. Fitzwarren just stood, smirking in satisfaction.

‘Clever, clever boy,’ she murmured. ‘I paid those bastards well but trust a man to bungle matters.’ She threw her head back and laughed until Ranulf slapped her across the face. ‘Bastard!’ she screamed.

Ranulf seized her shoulder and whispered something in her ear. The old noblewoman drew away, her face pale with fright.

‘You wouldn’t?’ she hissed.

‘Oh, yes I would,’ Ranulf replied quietly.

Corbett just stood and watched this eerie pantomime being played out.

Again Ranulf whispered in the old woman’s ear.

‘At The Wolfshead tavern, Southwark,’ Fitzwarren replied. ‘The former hangman, Wormwood.’

Ranulf nodded and stepped away. Corbett snapped his fingers at Cade.

‘Take her,’ he ordered, ‘to some chamber in the White Tower. She is to be held there until the King’s wishes are known.’ Corbett nodded at Lady Mary Neville, who sat white-faced, eyes staring, mouth half-open. ‘Ranulf, see the Lady Neville home.’

Corbett sat down as Cade hustled a now passive Fitzwarren to the door. Ranulf gently helped Lady Mary Neville to her feet and, with one protective arm around her, left the Chapter House without a backward glance. Corbett watched the door close behind them and leaned back in the chair, hugging his chest. He stared into the dark emptiness. ‘It’s all over,’ he whispered. Yet was it? As in war, victims and wounds remained. He would draw up his report, seal it with the secret signet, and pass on to other matters. But what about Cade and his young doxy Judith? Puddlicott and his brother? Young Maltote? The monks of Westminster? The Sisters of St Martha? All had suffered because of this. Corbett sighed and rose wearily to his feet and wondered what Ranulf had whispered to Lady Fitzwarren.

‘He’s changing,’ Corbett murmured. Lady Mary Neville, he thought, only emphasized these changes more: Ranulf was more cautious, more ruthless in his self-determination and Corbett had glimpsed the burning ambition in his manservant’s soul. ‘Well, well, well!’ Corbett tightened his sword-belt round his waist and then grinned to himself. If Ranulf wants more power, he thought, then he will have to accept the responsibility that goes with it. The clerk’s grin widened as he decided Ranulf would be responsible for informing the formidable Lady de Lacey of what had been happening in her Order.

The clerk stared around the gathering shadows. So much had happened here, the chamber seemed to echo with the vibrant passions revealed there. Corbett recalled Fitzwarren’s sardonic dismissal of him as a clever boy. He grinned sourly. ‘Not so clever!’ he muttered. He had always prided himself on his logic and yet that had actually hindered his progress: he had believed that Warfield, Puddlicott, de Craon, the killer and the murder victims were all inter-woven. He should have remembered how logic dictated that all parts do not necessarily make the same whole and that fortune, chance and coincidence defy the laws of logic. The only common factor was Westminster, its deserted abbey and palace. Corbett tapped the table-top absent-mindedly. ‘The King must return,’ he whispered, ‘set his house and church in order!’

Corbett left the Chapter House, walked through the abbey grounds and hired a wherry to take him down river. He was still thinking about Ranulf as he pushed open the door to his house and heard the commotion from the solar above: baby Eleanor’s shrieks, the shouting and thumping of feet and, above all, the beautiful wild singing of Welsh voices. Corbett leaned against the wall and covered his face with his hands. ‘Now,’ he groaned, ‘my happiness is complete!’