Paul Doherty - The Waxman Murders

‘Sir Walter?’

The merchant prince came over.

‘If Hubert has deciphered the manuscript,’ Corbett enquired, ‘why hasn’t he dug up the treasure? If he had, Hubert would be long gone.’

‘We don’t know if he even has the map,’ Castledene replied. ‘All we do know is that the original was somehow taken from The Waxman .’

‘Do you think these murders could be his revenge?’

‘I certainly do.’

‘Which means,’ Corbett laid his hand gently on Castledene’s shoulder, ‘that he also intends to take vengeance on you. Remember that, Sir Walter.’

Corbett made his farewells, promising Castledene he would join him at the Guildhall later that day to investigate the matter of Lady Adelicia Decontet. Physician Desroches also declared himself finished and offered to accompany Corbett as far as St Augustine’s before journeying on into the city. Corbett thanked him and pointed out that he would like Desroches to attend to Chanson, who had developed an ulcer on the inside of his leg. Desroches declared that Maubisson was, perhaps, not the best place for medical inspection or treatment. He could do that at the guesthouse in St Augustine’s. Corbett agreed and offered to pay, but Desroches shook his head.

‘Just give my good wishes to His Grace the King.’ The physician smiled. ‘Flatter my reputation and who knows what patronage I may gain? No, don’t mistake me, Sir Hugh,’ he laughed, ‘I am not one of these physicians who loves gold more than physic, but I never refuse a kind offer or an open door.’

Corbett glanced once more at the corpses and crossed himself. ‘Sir Walter,’ he called out, ‘I would like to carry out my own searches, just once more!’

Castledene shrugged. ‘Do so, Sir Hugh.’

Accompanied by Ranulf, Chanson and the city physician, Corbett revisited the cellar, the various chambers and galleries above the hall as well as the other wings of the house. He still could find nothing amiss. Assisted by his companions he especially checked windows, doors and shutters, ever vigilant for any sign of violence, yet there was none. Paulents’ baggage and that of his family was in their chambers. Beds had been prepared, water poured into lavarium bowls, goblets and cups left on tables. Paulents’ wife had already begun to unpack, laying out a triptych celebrating the life of St Anne as well as a tray of unguents, creams, oils and perfumes. Corbett felt he was in that twilight gallery between life and death. Silent chambers full of relics belonging to men and women snatched so violently from life. The preacher’s phrase: in media vitae sumus in morte — in the midst of life we are in death — echoed like a funeral bell through his mind. What horror had walked these galleries? What hideous plot had been devised and brought to fruition here?

Corbett and his two companions, together with Desroches, put on their cloaks and went outside, crossing the inner courtyard where the city guard had built their fire. The cobbles were still strewn with ash and scraps of food. They walked round the outside of the manor; the sky, still threatening more snow, hung grey and lowering. The wind was biting cold, even the ravens and crows had ceased their marauding to shelter in the nearby trees. In some places the snow was at least a foot deep. Corbett found that a help, because it made it plain that there was no evidence of intruders approaching or leaving by any window; the only noticeable disturbances were along the pathways leading up to the main and rear doors. During their walk Corbett was diverted by Desroches, who proved a genial companion, chatting about some of the mysterious deaths he’d examined in Canterbury as well as what he had seen during his military service in Gascony under Lord Bearn.

‘You are Canterbury born?’ Corbett asked as they went back to the stables.

‘Yes and no,’ Desroches replied. ‘My family originally came from Ospring to settle here. My father was a wine trader so he moved us all to Bordeaux. The years passed, and my parents returned to Canterbury, where they died. I was not the sharpest of scholars, but I managed to gain entrance to the medical schools and halls at Montpellier and Salerno. I journeyed around Europe, then returned to Gascony about ten years ago, when Philip of France was beginning to threaten the duchy. I did my military service, and really imagined myself as a soldier, but,’ he shook his head and shrugged, ‘so much death,’ he whispered, ‘the futility of it all!’ He paused, staring out across the snow-locked fields of Maubisson. ‘No one came here.’ He sighed. ‘If they had broken in, Paulents and his son would have resisted, the alarm would have been raised. And if the assassin was hiding here, sooner or later he would have to reveal himself. Again, the alarm would have been raised.’ He turned, rubbing his face to restore the warmth. ‘Sir Hugh, do you agree?’

Corbett shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he confessed. ‘I can find nothing!’

‘And Castledene?’ Desroches asked.

‘He is as mystified as I am. I think he’s told me the truth. Paulents brought something very special here, yet it wasn’t stolen. So the motive for the murder was pure revenge. You are a physician, Master Desroches; do you know anything about Blackstock, the privateer?’

The physician pulled a face and shook his head. ‘I’ve heard chatter about him and his half-brother Hubert, the former Benedictine. People claim Hubert is a truly evil man, someone who’s in love with death. Castledene has told me about what happened. You do know Sir Walter has been threatened by him, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze?’

‘And I wonder why?’ Corbett murmured. He paused and stared at the physician. ‘Do we have the full truth?’

Desroches simply shrugged. They made their way back to the stables. Desroches collected his palfrey and sumpter pony, which, as he joked, was his assistant, for it carried his pannier bag and small coffers full of the mysteries of physic.

‘You take no weapons?’ Corbett asked.

‘Never.’ Desroches swung himself into his saddle. ‘In the past I have; now I never will. The best treatment for disease, Master Corbett, is good health. If there are no wounds, there is no need for cures. I have seen enough violence, but if I’m attacked,’ Desroches stroked his horse’s neck, ‘I am a good rider on a fleet horse.’ He grinned. ‘Everything else I leave to chance. Moreover, I am well known in Canterbury. I treat the poor as well as the rich, and both in the main leave me well alone.’

They organised themselves and made their way out along the trackway between the trees down to the main gateway, past the guards and on to the road leading back to St Augustine’s. The thoroughfare was now busy with carts laden with produce making for the city markets. Progress was slow as carts became stuck or draught horses, their hogged manes frozen, skittered and slithered on the ice. Conversation was impossible. The freezing cold clung like a veil around them. The tips of Corbett’s ears were like ice and frost formed on his face, biting at the tip of his nose and stinging his lips. He thought of Leighton Hall, of a roaring fire, cups of posset, and Maeve sitting in the chair beside him, all peace and quiet. He tried to hide his discomfort by recalling the verses of a carol, but he could only reach the second line so he gave up, concentrating on the journey, watching his horse’s head bob, half listening to the sounds around him.

They turned off the thoroughfare and took the road leading down to the cavernous gateway of St Augustine’s Abbey. Desroches, to lighten the mood, began a pithy and humorous description of the ambitions of the present mitred abbot, Thomas de Fyndon, but the misty cold eventually silenced him, his witty remarks fading away. As he fell quiet, he kept reining in, pulling at the leads of his sumpter pony. Now and again he’d turn in the saddle and stare back. He seemed uneasy. Ranulf needed no such encouragement. He was highly nervous of the countryside swathed in white, with its gaunt trees, their black branches stretching out like tendrils over the strange noises echoing from the snow-caked gorse and brambles.