Paul Doherty - The Mysterium

‘It’s done, Sir Hugh, their souls have gone to God and I must sate my appetite.’

Corbett smiled and handed over a silver piece. The friar bit the coin, grinned, sketched a blessing and went to join the rest gathered in the taproom downstairs, where the delicious details of these heinous slaying were being greedily picked at and sifted. An old beggar woman had offered to sing the song of mourning and was now doing so, the lugubrious noise echoing up the stairs. In between verses her companion, a cunning man, loudly declared that the beating heart of a mole would be sure protection against malignant chattering ghosts and offered, for a certain price, to get one for Minehost. The two whores, Robinbreast and Catchseed, were slurping their tankards of ale, smiling gratefully through their tears for the coins and free drinks offered by those who wanted to relish the gory details. Both whores wailed how the spirits of the two dead men hung close, ghosts in wolfskins. They could, they were sure, remember the details of the slaughterer, ‘dark in all things’, who’d slid silent as a viper into that dreadful chamber.

Corbett had questioned both the prostitutes and the others, but had learnt little except how the killer had declared himself to be Boniface Ippegrave, that he was of ragged appearance, his face ‘the colour of boxwood, with a look of dark-robed night about him’. In truth the two whores were more frightened of the King’s man, the royal clerk. Dressed in black, Corbett, had swept into the tavern, his heavy cloak folded over one arm, spurs jingling on his riding boots. His battle belt with its scabbarded sword and dagger made him ominous enough, but he also carried the royal warrant and wore the King’s seal ring on his right hand. The whores had been deeply unsettled by the clerk’s steady gaze, his black hair swept back, face all watchful, as Catchseed whispered, ‘A king’s hawk come to brood.’

Corbett sighed and rose to his feet, once again he examined the corpses of the two gang-leaders and that of their guard. A local physician, eyes all rheumy, nose dripping, had pronounced that Waldene and Hubert had been poisoned by a powerful infusion of hemlock. Corbett picked up the empty flask and sniffed the top; it still smelled of rich claret. The wine could have been bought at any vintner’s. He turned and glanced at the corpse of the ugly ruffian sprawled on the bed. The great open wound in the guard’s left side was now a thickening soggy mess. The physician had declared all three deaths unlawful, collected his coin and stomped off. Corbett tapped the hilt of his sword and turned as the door opened and Ranulf came in. He glanced at the cadavers and whistled under his breath.

‘So it’s true: Waldene, the Monk and one of their guards all gone to Heaven’s bench. The King will be pleased. Who will mourn their passing?’

‘Those who hired them,’ Corbett replied, ‘that tribe of serpents in the city who use such dagger men to ladle out the evil stored in their own baleful hearts.’

‘Master, you’re angry.’

‘No, Ranulf, my apologies, I’m confused, puzzled. Why all this? Why now? It was so easily done,’ he mused. ‘Waldene and Hubert left Newgate; their release was well known, as it was that both malefactors would come across here to cry wassail and toast their freedom. They hired a chamber, two ladies of the town, a jug of ale and a platter of cold meat and bread. According to the whores downstairs, this cowled, cloaked stranger entered. He caused no disturbance, silently knifing their guard. Waldene and Hubert, deep in their cups, thought he’d been allowed in.’ Corbett tapped the flask. ‘He brought this Bordeaux with a strong infusion of powerful hemlock. He mentioned something about Evesham’s treasure. He poured the claret, watched the poison swiftly paralyse his victims, carved his murderous mark on their forehead, announced that he was Boniface Ippegrave, threatened the whores and left.’ He paused. ‘Boniface Ippegrave,’ he repeated.

‘Did you know Ippegrave, master?’

‘Not really. I remember him as short, good-looking, neat and precise, with sharp eyes. Yes, that’s it.’ Corbett chewed the corner of his lip. ‘Now I remember. Yes. .’ He wagged a finger as his memory was pricked.

‘Master?’

‘Dark reddish hair, rather singular, though that was twenty years ago.’

‘Do you think he has returned?’

‘Perhaps, why not? After all, he was a royal clerk.’ Corbett grinned, then stepped closer and touched Ranulf gently on the cheek with a gauntleted finger. ‘Resourceful, ambitious. Anyway, the Comfort of Bathsheba?’

‘Ignacio Engleat went there and then on to a tavern, the Halls of Purgatory. He drank deep and fell asleep. Someone, nobody knows who, helped him out,’ Ranulf shrugged, ‘hauled him off to his death. The tavern was very busy. The servants were only too pleased to see a drunk go.’ He paused at a tap on the door; it opened and Minehost, face all concerned, bustled in.

‘Sir Hugh, my lord,’ he gestured, ‘downstairs there’s a creature, Lapwing he calls himself. He wishes words with you, as does Parson John of St Botulph’s. He is here with Miles Fleschner, his parish clerk.’

Corbett raised his eyes heavenwards and gestured at Ranulf to follow. At the door he paused, crossed himself and pointed to the bloody mayhem on the far side of the chamber.

‘Minehost, the coroner and the ward catchpole will deal with those. Now, sir?’

The men were waiting for him in the taproom below. Lapwing, neatly dressed in a bottle-green cote-hardie, leggings and soft brown boots, was playing with the clasp of his dark blue cloak. A man of sharp but calm wit, Corbett thought. He had shaved his face and his hair was cropped close above his ears. Corbett went to speak to him, but Lapwing winked and pointed to a table in a shadowy recess where Parson John and Fleschner were greedily gulping wine.

‘I heard about the tumult,’ Lapwing whispered, ‘and hurried here. Parson John arrived close behind me; he is almost out of his wits.’

Corbett nodded, and approached the parson’s table, settling himself on a stool.

‘Parson John?’ Corbett touched the priest’s arm. ‘My condolences on your father’s death.’

‘Blood here, blood everywhere,’ murmured the parson, pushing his face forward. He looked ill and unshaven, and Corbett glimpsed the bloody line on his forehead. Fleschner was even more agitated, sitting back in the shadows, grasping his goblet as a child would a cup. Corbett let them drink and stared around. Minehost had wisely moved the two whores and their small spellbound audience into the scullery. The day’s trading had not yet ceased and the taproom was deserted except for a blind jongleur humming a lullaby to his pet ferret.

‘Parson John, why are you here? Tell me what has happened.’

The priest did so, words gushing out as he described the horrors perpetrated in his church. Corbett listened intently, comforted that Ranulf stood behind him. Here in this darkened tavern where savage murder had struck, another tale of terror was unfolding. He concealed his own spurts of fear, which pricked both his mind and his heart with their sheer coldness. As he listened to Parson John, he recognised that in the labyrinth of mysteries stretching before him prowled an assassin, a midnight soul. The hunt was on, dreadful and dark. The creeping flame of sudden slaughter would flicker around him. The twisted roots of long-buried sin would draw fresh sap and thrust up. The parson eventually finished and sat staring, mouth gaping in shock.

‘I took the heads,’ he mumbled. ‘I placed them in a sack, which I left in the sanctuary. What should we. .?’ He glanced up fearfully.

‘The heads?’ Ranulf hissed. ‘You recognised them?’