Paul Doherty - The Waxman Murders

‘And afterwards?’ Corbett asked.

‘After that, Sir Hugh, I heard nothing about Hubert the Monk or anyone or anything connected with The Waxman .’

Corbett drummed his fingers on the table.

‘And so we come to Maubisson, Sir Walter. I understand that Paulents’ family landed at Dover on Monday. What happened next?’

‘I’d been preparing Maubisson, making sure all was safe and well. I ordered Wendover to bring in stores and goods.’

‘When did Wendover join your household?’ Corbett asked. ‘He has served at sea, hasn’t he?’

‘He has,’ Castledene agreed. ‘He’s a Canterbury man, a good soldier who has seen many years’ service both on the King’s ships and abroad. I cannot fault him.’

‘Except that he allowed four people to die at Maubisson and the bodyguard Servinus to escape.’

Castledene shrugged. ‘I cannot answer that, Sir Hugh, not at the moment.’

‘Let’s go back to Dover,’ Corbett continued remorselessly. ‘Paulents landed there; what happened next?’

‘He sent a message to me that he and his family were ill, so I told him I would meet him at Maubisson with a physician. I did so: Desroches accompanied me. He thought there was nothing wrong. He provided them with a little camomile to quieten the stomach and the other humours. Paulents’ wife was much taken with Desroches and begged him to stay with her, but he declined. After that, well, we left the manor, the guards were mounted, the rest you know.’

‘And Decontet’s murder?’ Corbett asked. ‘The afternoon when the messenger came to see you?’

‘I was in the Guildhall,’ Castledene replied. ‘I immediately went out with some of the city guards. I saw what you’ve heard; well, most of it. Sir Rauf lying in his chamber, the back of his head staved in, nearby a set of fire tongs coated in blood. His lady wife’s cloak was smeared with blood, napkins soaked in blood were found in her chamber. I had no choice, Sir Hugh. I had to arrest her.’

‘And did you investigate, Sir Walter, the question of the keys? How a man had had his brains smashed out in a locked chamber, the key being still upon his person? Or how bloody napkins were found in the chamber of the dead man’s wife? Again locked; only she and her dead husband had the keys?’

‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh.’ Castledene waved a hand before his face. ‘My mind was plagued by other worries. I was expecting Paulents. There was little love lost between Lady Adelicia and Sir Rauf, but that was their concern. What I have told you is the truth.’

Corbett did not believe that; he had more questions, but not for now. Sir Walter was exhausted, his face grey, his eyes red-rimmed. Once he’d been dismissed, Lady Adelicia swept in. Despite her haughty mien and arrogant air, she proved remarkably cooperative. She admitted that her husband had been impotent, at least when it came to normal intercourse. She referred to his ‘filthy’ practices, to which she had refused to consent, and talked openly of Wendover as her lover to take or leave at her whim. She spoke coldly, dispassionately, lip curling whenever she mentioned her husband’s name, those beautiful cornflower-blue eyes diamond hard. Corbett sensed this young woman’s hatred for her dead husband. At the same time he felt a deep sorrow for the rough manner in which her girlish illusions and dreams had been so abruptly and cruelly shattered. She admitted to knowing nothing about her husband’s mercantile interests or his secret business. Nor could she elaborate on what she had already said about seeing Sir Rauf on that summer’s evening dragging what she suspected was a corpse wrapped in sacking from the house into the garden. She shrugged prettily, conceding that her dead husband was a secretive man who’d kept close counsel, admitted visitors at all hours and taken them immediately to his chamber.

Listening to her carefully, Corbett concluded that Sir Rauf was not so much an honourable citizen but a merchant who meddled and dealt in matters of the dark, best hidden from anyone’s eyes, including his wife’s. As to Lechlade, Lady Adelicia was equally disparaging, dismissing him as an ale-sodden oaf, sottish in his behaviour and manner, who seemed totally unaware of what was happening around him. Lechlade was her husband’s serf, sent on this errand or that, with no life of his own. Perhaps she sensed Corbett’s sorrow at her situation, for she became more coy and flirtatious, so Corbett decided to change tack.

‘Did you murder your husband, Lady Adelicia?’

‘No, I did not. I could not. He was found with his skull smashed in a locked room; only he had a key and that was found on him.’

‘But the bloodstained napkins in your chamber? Only you and your husband had keys to that room. Did yours remain with you when you were closeted with Wendover at The Chequer of Hope? Your maid, Berengaria, could she have taken it?’

‘Sir Hugh, I am not as stupid as you think, or, indeed, as Berengaria might. I grew suspicious of what she did when I was with Wendover. I heard rumours that she would return to Sweetmead Manor, and saw marks of affection between her and Sir Rauf, but what did I care? What did it matter to me? Berengaria is a veritable minx; she lives on her wits and, given her life, I can hardly blame her. What’s more important is that she did not interfere with me or what I was doing. She did not take my key.’

‘Lady Adelicia, does the ship The Waxman mean anything to you?’

‘I have heard of it, Sir Hugh, and learnt what happened to its master, Blackstock, but no.’

‘And the bloody business at Maubisson?’ Corbett asked.

‘Again only what I’ve heard.’

‘And you claim total innocence of your husband’s death?’

‘Of course, Sir Hugh. I should be free. I object to being locked in a cell beneath the Guildhall. Surely that must not continue?’

Corbett clicked his tongue. ‘Lady Adelicia, you are enceinte. You were once a king’s ward. I’ll put you on oath. Providing you remain within this house under the custody of the city guards, you may stay here.’

The relief in the young woman’s eyes was obvious. Her lower lip quivered, tears brimmed, and she bowed her head, shoulders shaking slightly.

‘I am innocent, Sir Hugh. I hated my husband but so do many wives. I did not kill him, I swear to that.’

Lechlade came next. He was so drunk he could hardly repeat the words Parson Warfeld uttered and kept slipping off the stool. Ranulf found it amusing, and his shoulders began to shake until Corbett glared at him. Chanson came over and forced the man to sit properly. Lechlade leaned against the table, spittle drooling down his unshaven chin, and glared blearily at Corbett.

‘What do you want with poor Lechlade?’ he slurred. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong! I wasn’t always a servant, you know. I was a clerk myself once; I had prospects, but. .’ He shrugged. ‘I worked for a while for Sir Walter Castledene. I was dismissed for being drunk and Sir Rauf hired me. He paid me little, gave me a garret to sleep in and sent me here and there. Sir Hugh, I spend most of my days staring at the bottom of a tankard wishing it was full again.’

‘Do you know anything about The Waxman , Hubert the Monk or his half-brother Adam?’

Lechlade licked his lips and looked longingly over his shoulder at the door as if expecting Chanson to produce a tankard of frothing ale.

‘Master Lechlade, I asked you a question.’

Lechlade leaned across the table, his breath reeking of the herbs and veal Ranulf had cooked. ‘Sir Hugh,’ he slurred, eyes heavy, ‘of course I’ve heard of Blackstock and Hubert, but they really mean nothing to me, just chatter in the market square, feathers on a breeze, here today, gone tomorrow.’