Paul Doherty - The Waxman Murders

‘And yet,’ Corbett declared, ‘within hours Paulents and his family were brutally murdered. But how? That provokes further mystery. Paulents was not an old man; he was strong, so was his wife, his son, even the maid; yet no one resisted. No one raised the alarm. How could anyone have got in here and hanged all four without being detected?’

Corbett scratched his chin, trying to ignore the cold, prickling fear in his stomach. He felt heavy-eyed, repelled by the lurking menace of this desolate manor house, now reeking of a mysterious malevolence.

‘There’s Servinus,’ Castledene remarked, ‘the bodyguard: a tall, burly man, head all shaven, dressed in black leather and armed to the teeth.’

‘Did Paulents trust him?’

‘Yes, Servinus had worked for at least a year in his household: a Brandenburger, a mercenary who’d fought with the Teutonic knights. Servinus was sober and taciturn; he’d stare at you but hardly speak, a shadow who knew his place. He too had suffered from the rough crossing, complaining in broken English about the sea salt getting everywhere. He seemed pleased to be here, satisfied with this house, calling it a “donjon” — a place of safety.’

‘So where is he now?’ Corbett wondered aloud. ‘Is he the killer? Did he flee? But how? Why? A Brandenburger, a foreigner in Canterbury in the depth of winter, would find it difficult to hide.’ Corbett moved restlessly. ‘And how could he kill four people so silently and escape so easily from what he himself called a donjon?’

‘I have issued a description. .’ Castledene murmured, his voice trailing off.

‘Let’s return to the obvious,’ Corbett insisted. ‘We know that Blackstock had a half-brother. We know that you sailed down the Orwell to the Hermitage with Blackstock’s corpse dangling by the neck from the poop of The Caltrop . This must be Hubert’s vengeance. Paulents hanged his brother, so he has now hanged Paulents’ family.’

‘But why? I mean why now?’

Corbett shook his head, picked up the Cloister Map and stared at it. ‘I’ll try and decipher this, discover what the truth is. For the moment, let us return downstairs.’

They left the chamber, going down the rickety wooden staircase into the kitchen and buttery, then back into the hall. Parson Warfeld, a rubicund, smooth-faced man, was busy amongst the corpses. He’d brought a boy holding a taper and was now anointing the corpses with holy oil, dabbing their heads, eyes, lips, chests, hands and feet whilst he whispered the sacred words, urging the souls of the dead to go out and be greeted by the angels. Another man was sitting in the throne-like chair behind the dais. Castledene took Corbett over and introduced Peter Desroches, the city physician, former scholar of Salerno and Montpellier. Desroches was of medium height, thick-set, with blond hair neatly cropped above a pleasant, smiling face. He was dressed in a dark blue serge tunic gathered around his waist by a silver cord; precious rings winked on his fingers as did a bracelet about his wrist. He was clean-shaven, fresh-faced, eyes twinkling with amusement as he clasped Corbett’s hand.

‘I’ve heard of you, Sir Hugh. Your reputation precedes you.’

‘In what connection, sir?’

‘Oh, this and that.’ Desroches smiled. ‘I follow the affairs of the court most closely. One day I hope to obtain preferment there. Now this matter, it is heinous and hateful.’ He pushed back the chair and got to his feet. ‘Sir Hugh, all four were hanged. None of them resisted; there were no scuff marks, no signs of violence. And look at this.’

He led Corbett out of the hall into the small porch. Two of the city guards were sitting on the stone bench just inside the doorway, intently watching a rat scrabble around in a wire-mesh cage, its sharp little claws pattering on an empty wooden platter.

‘When I arrived,’ Desroches explained, ‘I asked one of the guards to catch a rat. I put it in the cage, and mixed a platter of every scrap from the different dishes, then laced it with wine and water. Paulents and his family ate and drank the same. Look, there’s no ill effect.’

‘So they weren’t poisoned or drugged.’

‘Precisely,’ the physician agreed. ‘Nothing at all.’ He crouched down, staring at the rat, a fat brown rodent with curling tail and aggressive snout. ‘So far, no signs of any poisoning.’ Desroches rose to his feet. ‘I have used this method before. If food is tainted or poisoned, the rat will soon manifest symptoms, but not here. Indeed,’ he lifted a finger portentously, ‘some people even maintain that a rat can smell tainted food and will avoid it. That is certainly not the case here.’

Corbett walked back into the hall. He stood just within the doorway, hands on his hips, and stared at the four corpses now hidden under blankets on the floor. He could make no sense of this. ‘Wendover,’ he called over his shoulder. The captain of the guard came hurrying up. ‘You were responsible for preparing Maubisson?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Wendover agreed quickly. ‘We began yesterday morning. Everything was ready as you see it now: kitchen provisions, buttery stores, rooms furnished, the walls adorned with hangings, braziers filled ready to be fired, the hearth cleaned, everything Sir Walter wanted.’

‘And then what?’ Corbett asked.

‘We left early yesterday,’ Wendover replied. ‘Everyone withdrew. I personally checked every chamber. There was no one here. We all gathered at the gateway, waiting for Sir Walter’s guests to arrive. They did so around midday. Sir Walter himself brought them here.’

‘And then what?’

‘Monsieur Desroches visited them.’

‘Master Physician,’ Corbett called, ‘would you join us here?’

Desroches walked over.

‘You met Paulents and his family here?’

‘Yes, that’s right, early in the afternoon. They complained of seasickness, of feeling hot and feverish. I didn’t know whether it was due to the dire conditions at sea or if they’d been infected by some contagion. I thought it best if they stayed here. Well,’ he amended, ‘Sir Walter and Paulents insisted on that, but they all seemed in good heart.’

‘They certainly recovered their appetites.’ Corbett gestured at the table. ‘They ate and drank well.’

‘As I said,’ Desroches smiled, ‘it may have just been the rigours of the journey. They seemed in good humour.’

‘And you noticed nothing untoward?’

‘Nothing at all,’ Desroches agreed. ‘I left shortly afterwards.’

Corbett crossed to the mantled hearth and stared down at the smouldering fire. Here was a manor, he reflected, closely guarded, its entrance, curtain wall, even the courtyard within the enclosure, all locked and barred. Little wonder: Paulents had realised he was in danger; he had been warned and threatened. And yet in one evening, he and his family had been massacred.

‘Sir Walter,’ Corbett called over his shoulder, ‘you are sure nothing is missing?’

‘Nothing at all,’ the merchant replied.

Corbett turned to Ranulf standing by the wall and gestured him over.

‘Let’s walk this house,’ he murmured. ‘There must be something.’

They left the rest and went up the stairs to the bedchambers ranged along the murky, freezing gallery. Corbett inspected each chamber carefully, both windows and doors, but soon recognised it was a fruitless search. He could find nothing out of place. He went back down, out into the courtyard, and stared at the guards milling around a fire, warming themselves. Why had Paulents been killed? Revenge? Certainly not for the manuscript. If Hubert was the killer, perhaps he did not need it. Corbett walked back into the hall, where Castledene and Desroches were in deep conversation.