Paul Doherty - The Mysterium

The shutters on the widow swung back, and Corbett approached.The ivory-skinned face staring back at him was smooth, narrow-featured, framed by a creamy wimple beneath the dark blue capuchin of a Benedictine nun. The eyes, however, redeemed the harshness of the woman’s face; large and clear, they stared direct and frank with a hint of amusement.

‘You are, sir?’

Corbett introduced himself. ‘You won’t come out?’ he added.

‘No, clerk, I feel safe here. I can and do leave, but not now. I’ll listen to your questions. I know that Evesham has, thank God, gone to a higher court to answer for his sins.’

‘Which are?’ Corbett drew closer, and caught the sweetness of herbs and soap.

‘Arrogance, cruelty, greed.’

‘You know nothing of his death?’

‘Of course not.’

‘But you are pleased?’

‘No, I am satisfied.’

‘Did he ever visit you?’

‘No, I wanted nothing to do with him.’

‘Yet he came to this place, where you and Cuthbert Tunstall shelter?’

‘Yes, clerk, sheltering from the violent tempest he caused in all our lives.’

‘Yet he came to make atonement. Did he ever ask to see you?’

‘Once. I refused.’

‘Too little, too late?’ Corbett asked.

‘No, no.’ Adelicia’s voice turned soft. ‘God save me, I’ll be truthful. Brother Cuthbert and I did not believe Evesham’s protestations. ’

‘Why not?’

‘As the root, so the flower, clerk. Can a man like Evesham change so swiftly, so dramatically? I don’t think you believe that either.’

‘He apparently did. He came here perhaps to atone in full view of yourself and Brother Cuthbert.’

‘Or to shelter,’ she retorted. ‘Like a ship takes refuge from a storm or a wounded wolf slinks off to some cave to lick its sores and wait for a more opportune time to return to the hunt.’

‘What do you mean? What evidence do you have?’

‘Nothing, clerk. You work in the chancery, in the courts of law. If you seek proof here I cannot give it. We are spiritual beings; we have faith in the things we cannot see, hear or touch. I believe Evesham was a most malignant creature.’

‘You also believe that your brother, Boniface, was innocent.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘So Evesham was lying?’

‘No.’ Doubt tinged her voice. ‘He was ruthlessly ambitious. Over the years I have learnt a little about what happened. Evesham was hunting a secret assassin, a murderer. He was determined to trap his quarry. I believe, despite all that, that he truly believed Boniface was guilty. He was determined on that.’

‘But?’

‘I think he was mistaken.’

‘Do you think Evesham realised that, I mean secretly?’

‘No, clerk, I do not. Evesham was as convinced of Boniface’s guilt as I am that you are here. I can see why.’ Her voice faltered. ‘Boniface could not truly account for being in that tavern. He did flee for sanctuary. He was secretive. He held certain scraps of manuscripts and more gold than he should have done.’

‘You say secretive, yet he was your brother.’

‘We lived our own lives in our narrow house in Catskin Alley off Cripplegate. I worked as a seamstress. Boniface was very much the royal clerk. I loved him dearly, but he was as elusive as a sunbeam. He was often away, and the rare times he did return, he’d be out before dawn and come back long after compline. He talked very little about what he did. He could not account for the gold and silver that sometimes bulged his purse. Other times he seemed as poor as a church mouse.’

‘So you know nothing really about him or the cause of his fall?’

‘Nothing at all, clerk. Sometimes I used to catch a rich smell of heavy perfume from him. Boniface, I am sure, visited the more expensive ladies of the town in the richly tapestried chambers of their own gilded world.’

‘And you?’

‘I was left very much on my own. I had my sewing, some books, a few friends and, of course, Parson Tunstall. He invited me on to the parish council and asked me to look after the altar cloths, vestments and all the drapery of the church.’ A smile transformed her face, making it beautiful, youth-filled. ‘I know what you are thinking, clerk. No, I was not his doxy, his mistress. I was his friend; he was like a brother to me. We talked, we read, we walked, we laughed together, until the darkness fell on that hideous afternoon in June some twenty years ago. I was in my chamber. One of Parson Tunstall’s parishioners burst in all hot and bothered to tell me that Boniface had taken sanctuary in St Botulph’s. He was accused of some ghastly crime, a hanging offence, and a royal clerk, Walter Evesham, was determined on taking him. I was beside myself, besieged by the noonday terrors. I went down to the church, but Evesham was hot as the fires of hell against Boniface. He would not let me see him. He turned me away. I pleaded with him, but his heart, if he had one, was as hard as stone. When I returned the next day, Evesham had softened a little. He asked me for some token he could show my brother. I handed over a ring, a gift from my mother. Evesham must have given it to Boniface. I never saw it again, or my brother.’ She paused, head down, shoulders shaking.

Corbett stared at the window that framed this picture of misery. Adelicia sobbed a little, then raised her tear-wet face. ‘Two days later I heard that Boniface had disappeared.’ She lifted her mittened hands, Ave beads wrapped around her fingers. ‘I swear by all that is holy, I do not know what happened to him.’

‘And Evesham?’

‘He was beside himself with rage. He and his minion Engleat came to my house. They bullied and threatened me with every kind of torture and punishment. They claimed I knew something.’ Her voice faded. ‘I did not. They did the same to Parson Tunstall. When Evesham learnt we were friends, he swept back like a summer storm with his threats and cruel sarcasm. After a while he accepted that Boniface had disappeared and left us alone, but the damage had been done.’

‘Yet your brother left you a message protesting his innocence?’

‘Yes, yes, he did.’ Adelicia withdrew from the window. Corbett heard her move around, a coffer lid creaking open then snapping shut. She returned to the window and handed him a small scroll. ‘Please,’ she begged, ‘it is a keepsake. I want you to read it. The good Lord has answered my prayer.’

‘What prayer?’

‘When Evesham had finished with us and realised that Boniface would never return, Parson Tunstall was a broken man. I was tired of life. I took a solemn vow to spend the rest of my years as an anchorite. I ask God one favour before I die.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘I want the truth. I want my brother vindicated. I have prayed and fasted for that. I have asked God to send his angel, and now he has. You!’

Corbett glanced up sharply.

‘We tend to think that angels come in shafts of light. They also come in flesh and blood. Oh yes, I’ve spoken to Brother Cuthbert, which is why he has been so honest and frank with you. This is the hour. Please read what I’ve given you.’

Corbett wondered how honest and frank this strange couple really were. Their responses were too well rehearsed. He was sure they were only telling him half-truths, but why? He sighed. That would have to wait. He undid the crinkling yellow parchment rubbed smooth over the years. The script was clear, bold, black and stark: I stand in the centre, guiltless, and point to the four corners.

‘Don’t ask me what it means; that’s Boniface. My brother was a clerk, he loved puzzles. He was also afraid of Evesham. He never wrote or sent me any loving words. Only what was on his mind, the last thing he wrote, a secret message that Evesham would never discover. I believe it is the key to Boniface’s innocence. Remember it, clerk.’