Paul Doherty - The Mysterium

‘The assassin entered swiftly,’ Corbett surmised. ‘The two lovers were disturbed.’ He gestured at Fink’s corpse, its sagging belly, the thickening flesh around shoulders and chest. ‘Fink was no warrior, but he tried to defend himself and his lover.’ He crouched down and pointed to the bruising on the upper chest. ‘Fink tried to resist. The assassin, probably armed with a short two-headed axe, knocked him away. I wager Fink’s head is also badly bruised.’ He rose and smeared the blood with the toe of his boot, then tapped at the deep cuts on the wooden floor. ‘Fink was stunned. The assassin turned on Clarice; shocked and terrified, she tried to move, but again, a blow to her head. Afterwards the assassin severed each at the neck, put the heads in a sack and left. At least I think that’s what happened.’ He stood, eyes closed, imagining the sequence of events, then opened his eyes and returned to the window.

‘The day’s dying,’ he remarked. ‘There is nothing more I can do, not now. Ranulf, summon the coroner’s bailiffs; have the cadavers removed to the death house at St Margaret’s-on-the-Heath.’ He whispered a requiem and crossed himself. ‘Afterwards, go to St Botulph’s and collect the heads. They’ll be bruised and I am sure will have the letter “M” carved on the foreheads. Take them to the-’ He suddenly noticed the piece of yellowing parchment lying on top of a small coffer. He picked it up. It was well used, the script clear in a bluish-green ink.

‘ Mysterium Rei — the Mystery of the Thing?’ asked Ranulf.

‘Aye. .’ Corbett pushed the scrap into his belt pouch and pressed a hand against a crucifix nailed to the wall. ‘And with the Lord’s good help I will solve the mystery and send this murderer to the scaffold. Ranulf, once you’ve finished with the dead, quicken the living. Go to the writ chamber in the Chancery of the Green Wax and issue a summons to everyone: Lapwing,’ Corbett chewed his lip, ‘Brother Cuthbert, Mistress Adelicia.’ He waved a hand. ‘Even those recluses must obey the King’s writ and attend to God’s business. Oh yes,’ he smiled thinly, ‘Staunton and Blandeford, that precious pair. Parson John, Miles Fleschner. Afterwards, seek out any bailiff involved in the arrest of Boniface Ippegrave. Tell Chanson to help you. Talk to Sandewic; he may have names.’

‘And the time and place?’

‘After the sext bell tomorrow in the oyer and terminer chamber at Westminster. I want them all there, on oath, to see what calm I can impose on this bloody chaos.’

Corbett, muffled in his cloak, sat at the great chancery table in the Office of the Secret Seal, deep in the labyrinth of galleries, passageways and chambers on the second floor of the rambling, ancient palace of Westminster. The lowered candelabra of beeswax lights illuminated the ox-blood Cordovan leather table top and the manuscripts Corbett had neatly laid out. He slouched in the quilted high-backed chair and stared around. Braziers crackled against the cold seeping like a mist through the shuttered windows. Lantern horns brightened the corners as well as the aumbries, coffers and chests stacked around the chamber. The flickering light caught the glint of a silver crucifix and shimmered in the vivid colours of the glorious tapestry, a gift from the King’s allies in Flanders, which proclaimed the story of the Archangel Raphael from the Book of Tobit. A shadowy shape flittered across the pool of light and disappeared through the slightly ajar door.

‘Good hunting Footpad,’ Corbett called; the great tomcat, the scourge of vermin, prowled like Death itself along the narrow wintry galleries, ready to pounce on any wandering mouse or rat. Elsewhere, Footpad’s lieutenant Assassin was also on the hunt. Corbett half listened. The old timbers and woodwork of the palace creaked and groaned. Sentry calls carried on the late-night air, whilst the persistent chilling breeze rattled the shutters. A place of ghosts, Corbett reflected. He got to his feet, stretched and moved to a small mullioned glass window, its panes decorated with heraldic motifs, where he peered down at the juddering light from cressets flaring in their holdings as well as the makeshift fires of the sentries. Westminster was now quiet. Some claimed how, after dark, the palace became too silent and all the ghosts of yesteryear returned. Clerks who’d spent their lives in their narrow chambers and ignored the call to worship God. Priests who had flocked to the palace to collect fat benefices and comfortable sinecures but failed to offer masses for the stipends received. Those killed in the constant brawls and affrays in Westminster’s many taverns, ale houses and brothels, which did such lively business for the court. These were joined by the spectres of those who’d died in sanctuary, the refuge for outlaws and wolfsheads in the great meadow that separated the Abbey of Westminster from the palace, their shades mingling with those who’d been hanged outside the great gate of the abbey. Corbett smiled. Despite the legends, he preferred Westminster after dark, at peace from the constant clatter and chatter of the day.

He returned to his chair. It was very warm in here, and he was glad to be out of the cold, away from that dreadful chamber in Evesham’s house. He and Ranulf had informed Parson John about what had happened. The priest said he could not bear to view the corpses. Indeed, he began to shiver and cry so woefully that Fleschner had to take him back to St Botulph’s. Lapwing had kept his distance. Once Corbett had announced the dire news, the mysterious clerk declared that he wished to leave. Corbett had grasped the man by the cloak and warned that he would soon receive a writ of summons and must accept it. Lapwing had simply shrugged and slipped away. Corbett then re-entered that macabre house and carefully searched it, yet apart from the gruesome slaughter in the bedchamber, nothing else had been disturbed. No sign of forced caskets, chests or coffers, no violence anywhere. The killer had slipped like the Angel of Death through that mansion, where the two lovers had considered they were safe, with no servants, no one to report on their illicit tryst.

‘And no manuscripts,’ he mused loudly. ‘Evesham’s chancery chamber was as empty as a poor man’s pantry.’

He picked up his goblet of mulled wine and sipped carefully. He must sleep and prepare for tomorrow, yet he was vexed, for he could make little sense nor impose any real order on the bloody swirl of events. He pulled across the various manuscripts culled from the pouches and coffers of the Secret Seal. He had read Evesham’s report on his hunt and capture of Ippegrave. The King’s summation of events had been accurate; only one extra detail stood out. Evesham had explained how he was so surprised at Boniface being the Mysterium that he had bound neither him nor the merchant Chauntoys when they were brought across the bridge from Southwark. As he had rightly argued, Ippegrave was a clerk in minor orders accused but not condemned. For the rest, the account provided no new information nor offered any further evidence. Evesham described how Boniface had escaped, taken sanctuary in St Botulph’s and was not allowed out. How his sister had approached with a ring that Evesham claimed he handed over to her brother. He detailed how closely guarded the church had been, every door and window, and could not explain his quarry’s escape. A list of depositions from bailiffs and others who had guarded St Botulph’s all confirmed this mystery.

Corbett pulled across another pouch. He’d broken the seal and examined its contents, found in Boniface’s lodgings as well as his iron-bound coffer here in the chancery. The items had been listed by a clerk, Rastall. Corbett smiled. He remembered old Rastall, grim and abrasive but as clear and honest as the day. He had led the search of Boniface’s personal belongings; he would have scrupulously ensured that nothing had been deliberately placed there to incriminate the fugitive clerk, and had declared as much in a small memorandum sewn to the contents. The list of gold and silver found, now long spent by the exchequer, was considerable. Corbett whistled under his breath. It was certainly more than any chancery clerk could earn in a year. He examined with interest the message found on Boniface the day he was arrested. Written anonymously in faded ink, the writ gave the time and place, with the added advice that Boniface’s presence at the Liber Albus would be of great profit to both himself and the King.