Paul Doherty - The Mysterium

‘How would I know about that?’

‘Oh come, priest, the story about what happened at St Botulph’s is well known. It’s something you could have learnt over the years, I mean about Adelicia’s ring. It would certainly be an item your father would keep close. Once you’d killed Sir Walter, you took the ring and left. Sometimes circumstances conspire against us, other times in our favour. Brother Cuthbert returned to find Sir Walter murdered and became involved in a great deal of mummery to cloak the murder in deep mystery in order to protect himself, so that he wouldn’t have to answer questions about where he was when Sir Walter was slain.’

‘I did all this?’ Parson John jibed. ‘And no one noticed?’

‘I have walked the grounds of Syon Abbey, they’re deserted. The curtain wall is very close to the river. Someone like yourself, young, able and strong, could hire a small boat, go along the bank, remove the ladder you’ve concealed there and climb over the wall. Sentries don’t patrol. Ogadon knows you. Brother Cuthbert often leaves the Chapel of St Lazarus to visit Adelicia. You did the same the night you went to see Adelicia, slipping through the woods determined to establish who this Beatrice was. However, to return to the night your father was murdered.’ Corbett glanced quickly back at the doorway. Chanson stood on guard, the arbalest primed. Ranulf was as vigilant as ever. Beatrice sat on her stool, gaping in astonishment at what she was hearing. ‘You also struck at Engleat. He was a much easier quarry. Engleat was in his cups. He’d been to a brothel. Tired and drunk, he sat slumped in that taproom. You entered, hooded and masked. The tavern was busy, who would notice, who would care? Engleat, drunk and fuddled in his wits, was helped through the door, down to that lonely, filthy alleyway, where he was prepared for execution, lashed to the hanged man, before being rolled into the river.’

Corbett started as the priest fished beneath his robe, but all he brought out was a small string of Ave beads, which he started threading through his fingers.

‘I did say,’ Corbett remarked, ‘that sometimes circumstances conspire in our favour, sometimes against. What you had not plotted or planned for was the riot at Newgate and the followers of Waldene and Hubert the Monk breaking out. Now that was the work of Master Lapwing, and he must answer for it. You could have been killed but you weren’t; perhaps you viewed your survival as justification for your actions. You had already decided on the deaths of Waldene and the Monk, and to put it bluntly, their heads were presented to you on a plate. The King was forced to release them for lack of evidence following your father’s murder. It was well known that they were going to celebrate in the Angel’s Salutation. You simply waited, chose your moment and struck. Armed and disguised, you entered that tavern, climbed the stairs, killed their guard then confronted them. Both riffler leaders were fuddled in their cups. They took the poisoned wine and you watched them die. You carved the “M” on their foreheads, threatened the whores and left.’

‘I could have been apprehended, seen.’

‘Not really. Your head and face were hidden behind a mask and a deep cowl. Anyway, who’d really care about Giles Waldene and Hubert the Monk? I don’t think the line of mourners at their funerals was a long one. You were fully intent on finishing your murderous business as swiftly as possible. I’m not too sure about the events as they happened, but either before you killed those two rogues or shortly afterwards, you visited Mistress Clarice and Richard Fink in their great mansion. You must have suspected Lady Clarice’s loose morals, her relationship with Fink. You’d certainly have discovered how they were most reluctant for their servants to stay. That helped your cause; it certainly struck me as suspicious. Who would know that the house was deserted? Moreover, when I entered, I detected no signs of disturbance or robbery. That’s because you knew your way in. You went up those stairs knowing what you’d find. You reached the bedchamber. Fink was alarmed, he met you as you entered the room. Blows were struck. .’

‘I’m a priest, I have no skill-’

‘Nonsense,’ Corbett retorted. ‘You trained as a battle squire in Norfolk’s household. More importantly, you are full of hate and anger. You were determined that Clarice would die. Why should such a woman benefit from your mother’s death? You’re brutal. Fink bruises you, but he is knocked to the ground. Clarice, terrified, is next. She too is struck. Both lie stunned. You carry out your next grisly task. You mark their foreheads, then decapitate them. The love chamber is now awash with blood. You place the heads in a leather sack, hasten back down the stairs and out into the streets. Disguised, you walk back to St Botulph’s, where you carry out the charade I described before.’ Corbett paused. ‘I wondered why the severed heads were placed in the baptismal font. I realise now. When someone enters the Church, they’re baptised, initiated into the Community of the Faithful. You were rejecting that, weren’t you? You wanted to desecrate everything you believed in. The heads are tossed there and you go into the sacristy to wait for Master Fleschner. A busy day, priest. You must have been satisfied. You’d almost finished your task; only the woman Beatrice remained.’

‘Master clerk.’ Parson John’s voice was almost a drawl. Corbett noticed how he brushed his mouth with his fingers. ‘You were attacked in St Botulph’s.’ He sniffed. ‘Are you blaming me for that? I have no war dog. Skilled I may be with a battleaxe or sword, but-’

‘Who said you used a battleaxe?’ Corbett asked.

‘Skilled I may be,’ Parson John almost smiled, ‘but an abarlest, a war dog?’

‘Hush now!’ Ranulf used his hand to force the priest to look at him. ‘Parson John, across the river in Southwark, around the Sanctuary at Westminster or out near White Friars I could hire killers by the dozen. That’s what you did. It’s easily done, in some darkened shadowy corner, coins exchanged. .’

‘You gave the assassin my name and description,’ Corbett accused. ‘You told him I resided at Westminster. He waited there and followed me to St Botulph’s and struck when he could. Poor Griffyths, a soldier doing his duty, was killed and sent unshriven to God. You did the same to Fleschner. He never suspected that the lamb he was tending was really a ravenous wolf. He took you back to the priest’s house. You wanted a goblet of wine with an opiate to help you sleep. You drank nothing of the sort. Fleschner left and you followed him down to Queenshithe. You attacked him in some filthy alleyway, knocked him on the head, marked him with your murderous sign and hanged him from a street bracket. You are very good at acting the frightened, cowed priest, alienated from his father, not knowing what was happening. You knew everything. You’re a redoubtable man, Parson John. A killer, but still redoubtable, ruthless and ferocious.You missed your calling. I’ve served with the likes of you in Wales and along the Northern March. God knows,’ he whispered, ‘you had cause enough to turn, but why follow the same path as your father, as Waldene and Hubert the Monk?’

‘I’m still asking for evidence, Sir Hugh.’ Parson John slipped down in the chair, stretching as if he were listening to a good story. ‘And even if you collect enough evidence, I’m still a priest, I’ll claim benefit of clergy.’ Again he passed his hand before his mouth. Corbett looked down. The chain had been broken, beads lay scattered in the priest’s lap. Parson John followed his gaze. ‘Oh, don’t worry, clerk, I have already decided my way. I know what you are going to say. The King would never put me on trial. He wouldn’t want such a scandal voiced the length and breadth of his kingdom. As for being a priest, that wouldn’t save me from some filthy dungeon, walled up, living on bread and water, to become the plaything of gaolers, or committed to a lonely monastery and the vicious spite of its father abbot. No, no.’ He gestured over his shoulder at Ranulf. ‘Or taken into custody by some royal bully-boy, to be harassed and tortured. After all, there’s my name, isn’t there? I like to be called Parson John, but I’d be hated as the son of Evesham, a murderer like my father.’