Paul Doherty - The Mysterium

‘Of course it was all a charade, based on false logic. First, Master Fleschner claimed that as he entered the church, the assassin came out of the sacristy door, then fled back in. Why should he do that? His best path of escape was through the outer door and into the tangled, overgrown cemetery. Why come into the church except to create the illusion that there were two people in the sacristy? You, the victim, and your supposed assailant. Master Fleschner was a nervous man, you described him as such. He would take his time to cross and creep up the sanctuary steps into the sacristy. Time enough for you to pose as the victim. You wrapped the tangle of ropes around your ankles and wrists.’ Corbett paused. ‘What did it matter anyway? Master Fleschner didn’t notice anything untoward. Yet your account was further flawed. Fleschner found you bound, the letter M about to be carved on your forehead. Why didn’t the assassin take the next logical step and kill you, draw a knife across your throat in a heartbeat of breath? Why did this ruthless killer spare his victim, Evesham’s own son, all trussed up for the killing? Why leave you as a possible witness against him?’ Corbett shrugged. ‘Except, of course, that you were providing a subtle defence against any allegation levelled about yourself.’

Parson John didn’t answer. He sat more relaxed, lips parted eyes half closed, staring into the fire. Corbett wondered about the man’s wits. Did he care about what was happening? Had the revelations about his father murdering his mother crushed his soul?

‘Then there’s Mistress Adelicia’s midnight visitor out in the woods at Syon; more of that later, though it must have been you. Again a matter of logic. You asked after a woman called Beatrice. You demanded to know if Evesham had sought such information from Adelicia twenty years ago, just after Boniface’s disappearance. ’

‘I am sorry?’ interrupted Parson John, his face all haughty. ‘What do you mean, clerk?’

‘Why, priest, when I held court in St Botulph’s, I looked around and quietly asked myself who would pose such a question. Staunton or Blandeford? No, they fish in other stew ponds. Parson Cuthbert? Why should he dissimulate? Adelicia would soon have recognised him. Master Lapwing? But he knew all about Beatrice. That left you, a murderer wondering if your list of victims was complete. Sometime after you heard Mistress Beatrice’s confession, you must have visited the Guildhall and read the coroner’s roll, Master’s Fleschner’s entry regarding your mother’s death and her maid’s disappearance. You must have wondered, as I did, about Beatrice’s role in that hideous affair. Was she an accomplice? How had she escaped? Where was she? Above all, did she have any guilt regarding your mother’s death?’ Corbett paused. ‘Oh yes, you certainly heard Beatrice’s confession. By the way, where was your mother buried?’

Parson John just swallowed hard, staring unflinchingly into the fire.

‘Let me tell you,’ Corbett continued. He glanced across at Ranulf, who gazed curiously back. The clerk had been busy about his own enquiries, whilst his master had kept what he was plotting very close to his heart. All Corbett had asked him to do was to keep Mistress Beatrice’s house under tight scrutiny and immediately alert him, at a nearby tavern, if she received any visitors.

‘You know where my mother lies buried,’ Parson John broke in harshly.

‘Of course I do.’ Corbett replied. ‘In St Botulph’s, beneath the flagstones leading to the Lady Chapel. I am sure Walter Evesham placed a stone there extolling your mother’s virtues whilst lamenting his own sad loss. Once you’d heard Beatrice’s confession, you regarded that carving as a devilish lie. You had the stone pulled up and replaced with something smoother. No one would really notice. After all, grave memorials are soon forgotten, but not by you, not with memories fresh with the truth about your mother’s gruesome fate. Oh yes, you removed that stone. In your mind, it represented everything you hated about your father.’ Corbett paused, gathering his thoughts.

‘You constantly protested that you knew nothing about your father’s affairs, but that was a lie. You knew everything, which was why you became a priest, wasn’t it? You rejected your father’s world. You knew the filth he waded through, his friends, his double-dealing, his duplicity, his treachery, perhaps his love of disorder. A father knows a son, a son knows a father. It wouldn’t be hard for you to bring your father under scrutiny, to visit him in the guise of a friendly, loving son whilst keeping your eyes and ears alert. You found out about his meetings with the likes of Waldene and Hubert the Monk. You heard rumours about the way he favoured members of their covens, and so you posed as the writer from the Land of Cockaigne. A suitable choice, the world turned upside down.’ Corbett leaned across and touched the priest. ‘Parson John, I fully understand your anger, your hatred, your desire for revenge. It was what you did that makes me your adversary. At first you struck at your father’s reputation. You sent those letters to Staunton and Blandeford, one piece of evidence after another so the King was forced to act and your father was caught red-handed with Waldene and Hubert the Monk. That must have been a great source of satisfaction to you.’

Parson John grinned, as if savouring some secret joke.

‘Waldene and Hubert the Monk were lodged in Newgate, but your father surprised everyone. He didn’t try to defend his reputation; he simply threw himself on the King’s mercy. He underwent a Damascus road conversion and became the tired, broken recluse of Syon Abbey. In truth, you knew your father, as did Brother Cuthbert. Walter Evesham simply wanted time and space to reflect, to plot, to seek a way back. You were determined that he would never walk that path. You went to Syon Abbey. You visited Brother Cuthbert and Adelicia in your pastoral guise, but then you returned to spy out the land. You discovered, as I did, that the two of them would often meet at night. Brother Cuthbert would leave the Chapel of St Lazarus and go into the woods to be with the one true love of his life. They would sit and discuss the past, revelling in each other’s company. You simply waited for your opportunity, and then you struck.’

‘My visits to Syon Abbey are well recorded,’ Parson John protested.

‘No, priest. I am not talking about you entering the main gate, talking to the prior, the abbot, the guest master or the almoner, but about other times. How you came back hooded and visored, armed for war in the dead of night, bringing a ladder, scaling those walls, hiding in the undergrowth.’

‘Brother Cuthbert is sharp enough, as is his war dog.’

‘Nonsense. Ogadon is an old dog who would recognise you and offer no challenge. Just in case, you’d bring some delicacy laced with an opiate so that Ogadon would flop down and sink into the deepest slumber. That’s what happened the night you murdered your father.’

‘I was at St Botulph’s,’ Parson John declared. ‘Remember, clerk, the riot at Newgate? My church was sacked and pillaged, my parishioners slaughtered.’

‘Were you really?’ Corbett countered. ‘Who says? All was chaos and confusion. I recall meeting you the following morning — nothing more. Indeed, what happened at St Botulph’s would only intensify your determination to mete out justice. As far as everyone else was concerned, Parson John, shocked and distraught at what was happening, was sheltering in his priest’s house or had sought sanctuary elsewhere. You were in fact hastening through the dark to Syon Abbey. You entered the grounds. Brother Cuthbert was gone, Ogadon sleeping, and you helped him to remain so. You entered the mortuary chapel, going down the steps to your father’s cell. He would greet you, curious, perhaps even surprised, but not threatened, not by his son who‘d given up the world of arms to be a priest. I can only imagine his arrogance, his mocking condescension. He invited you into his cell. You simply waited for him to sit down and then you struck, a blade across his throat, cutting it open, letting the blood splash out. On that night you helped yourself to the jewellery, the few possessions your father had taken with him. You were searching for a certain ring, weren’t you?’