Paul Doherty - The Mysterium

‘But you knew nothing of Waldene or Hubert the Monk’s relationship with Walter Evesham, the chief justice?’

‘I did not. I now understand there was another spy, someone who described himself as being from the Land of Cockaigne, but I knew nothing of that.’

‘And the prison riot?’ Corbett asked. ‘You visited the coven in Newgate?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I wanted to maintain the fable that I was their ally, worried about what might have happened to my friends. I told them I’d escaped the clutches of the sheriffs’ men. They didn’t realise I secretly carried a letter that provides me with all the protection of the Crown.’

‘And when was this?’

Lapwing blinked, and his lips tightened. You’re lying, Corbett thought, you are not telling the full truth.

‘When was this?’ Ranulf barked.

‘Shortly before the riot. I continued to pose as one of them. I did not see Waldene; he was held in one of the pits. I brought wine, bread and fruit for his followers. I chattered with them, I assure you, nothing of importance.’

‘And that is all?’

‘I have told you, that is all.’

‘So why did you join the other criminals and felons in the cemetery of St Botulph’s?’

‘The Chief Justice’s disgrace came as a surprise to me. I hoped to learn more information that could tie Waldene and Evesham more closely together. I didn’t. The following day, hearing of the riot and the consequent escape, I went down to St Botulph’s. By sheer chance, a mere accident, I was recognised and taken prisoner. I maintained my pretence till I appeared before you.’

‘What now, Master Clerk?’ Corbett asked. ‘What will you do?’

‘I hope to gain from what I’ve achieved. Lord Staunton might well appoint me to his household or secure some other benefice for me.’

Corbett sat back in his chair.

‘You know, Master Escolier, Lapwing or whatever you call yourself, I am half minded to put you in irons and send you back to Newgate.’

‘Sir Hugh, why? What crime have I committed?’

‘Like your masters,’ Corbett replied, ‘you haven’t told a lie, or I don’t think you have; you just haven’t told me the full truth. You are far too glib, sir! The words trip off your tongue like a well-rehearsed speech, some lesson learnt by rote in the halls of Oxford. To put it bluntly, I do not trust you. I think you know more about the villainy that has occurred than you reveal. You are, by your own admission, a mailed clerk. You’ve served in the King’s armies. It’s possible that you entered the Halls of Purgatory, took Ignacio Engleat out and murdered him at Queenshithe. It’s possible that you entered the grounds at Syon Abbey and executed Walter Evesham. It’s possible that you entered the Angel’s Salutation and slaughtered two men you nurse deep grievances against. Finally it’s possible that you entered Walter Evesham’s house and, for reasons known only to yourself, decapitated Clarice, our former justice’s second wife, and her lover Richard Fink.’

‘All things are possible, Sir Hugh, but there again, why should I? My only interest was Waldene and Hubert the Monk.’

‘I don’t deny that,’ Corbett retorted. ‘What I want to establish is what role you may have had in these other horrid deaths. So, sir, you reside with your mother in Mitre Street. Well, do not go far, and wait to be summoned again.’

Lapwing left. Corbett picked up a quill and began to sharpen it with a small paper knife.

‘You don’t believe him, master?’

‘Far too glib, pretty-tongued, sharp-witted, but one thing he cannot hide.’ Corbett smiled at his companion. ‘His hair.’

‘Yes, master?’

‘His hair,’ Corbett murmured, ‘dark-flamed red like that of Boniface Ippegrave.’

‘Which means?’

‘I don’t know, Ranulf, it’s something we have return to. Let’s deal with the others.’

Ralph Sandewic and an old bailiff named Osbert bustled in next to take the oath. Sandewic was gruff, rushing through his words; he then had to walk back to help Osbert recite them, bellowing at the man to keep his hand on the Book of the Gospels. Once they were seated, Corbett bowed towards Sandewic. He liked the old constable. Absolutely fearless in battle; Sandewic had only one weakness: he believed that the King sat on God’s right hand, so what Edward wanted could never be wrong. Nevertheless, he was honest and blunt. He could no more tell a lie than a pigeon could sing plainchant. Dressed in his half-armour, the veteran glared at Ranulf, who found it deeply amusing that the Guardian of the Tower was garbed as if expecting attack at any moment. He had even whispered to Corbett how ‘The constable must go to bed armoured and his lady wife must surely protest at the sharp chain mail and the spurs on his boots.’ This morning, however, Ranulf kept his head down and his face impassive, and when he did have to grin, he brought up a hand to hide his mouth. Corbett decided to move matters swiftly.

‘I am asking you a great favour, Master Constable: go back twenty years to the arrest of Boniface Ippegrave. Were you there?’

‘No I wasn’t, but Osbert was. He was a bailiff in Cripplegate ward and was taken up in the posse organised by Walter Evesham to go across to a certain tavern in Southwark.’ Sandewic turned and poked Osbert in the chest. ‘Well, tell them, you’re on oath, tell them what happened.’

Corbett, however, was still distracted. He was not satisfied with the answers he’d received from Staunton or Lapwing. He held up a hand for silence.

‘Chanson,’ he called, ‘hasten now. Go out after Staunton, Blandeford and the creature who calls himself Lapwing. Tell them I am not finished with them. I have further questions; they are to return here and wait.’

Chanson leapt to his feet and left, slamming the door behind him so hard that Osbert startled in alarm. Corbett smiled at the bailiff.

‘Now, sir, you still hold office?’

‘No, I’m well past my sixtieth year. I can’t run or chase villains as I used to.’

‘Twenty years ago,’ Corbett said quietly, ‘you were part of a comitatus, a posse,’ he explained, ‘summoned by Walter Evesham, who later became Chief Justice in the Court of King’s Bench. You remember it?’

‘Oh yes, sir, I was a bailiff in Cripplegate ward. We had to muster outside St Botulph’s Church and Evesham joined us there. Some of us went by barge and others followed him across London Bridge. We were told to assemble outside a tavern.’ He screwed his eyes up. ‘The Liber Albus, that’s what it was called. It was a bright summer morning, very quiet. Evesham and his henchman, an arrogant clerk. .’

‘Engleat?’

‘Yes, sir, that’s right, Engleat. They went into the tavern. We heard shouts and cries. Engleat came out and summoned us in. The taproom was fairly deserted. You know Southwark, sir, it only comes alive at night. The clerk Boniface Ippegrave was there. He looked startled. In a window-seat enclosure sat a prosperous-looking merchant. Evesham had confronted both men.’

‘Can you recall precisely what happened?’ Corbett pleaded. ‘It’s very important.’

‘Yes, sir, I was at the front. Ippegrave had surrendered his sword and so had the merchant. Evesham asked the merchant what he was doing in a Southwark tavern. The man was beside himself with fright; he was trembling, face pale as a ghost. He kept plucking at his cloak and looking towards the door. He could give no honest explanation.’

‘And the clerk Boniface?’

‘He produced a piece of parchment and handed it over. Evesham read it. If I remember rightly, it was simply a message that if Ippegrave came to the Liber Albus tavern in Southwark at a certain hour, it would be of great profit to both himself and the King.’