Paul Doherty - The Waxman Murders

‘You gave them some physic?’

‘I mixed a little camomile in a jug of wine when we met.’ Desroches smiled. ‘Both Castledene and I drank cups from the same jug.’

‘And the bodyguard Servinus?’ Corbett continued.

Desroches lifted his hands. ‘What can I tell you, Sir Hugh? He was dressed in black leather, slightly fastidious, a professional soldier, harsh-faced with a balding head. Very much like Wendover; a man who gloried in the camp and the clash of armour. Paulents’ wife seemed rather sweet on him. He certainly acted the part of the valorous warrior.’

‘So you think he was a fighter?’ Corbett asked.

‘He would certainly have given a good account of himself in any attack.’

‘Do you think he could be guilty of murder?’

‘Sir Hugh, I cannot answer that. I mean-’ Desroches was about to continue when suddenly a raucous shouting broke out. The door was flung open and Castledene burst into the chamber.

‘Sir Hugh, you must come! A man has been killed!’

Corbett ordered Ranulf to stay while he and Chanson, followed by Desroches, went out into the icy passageway. Castledene led them through the back of the house and outside. It was bitingly cold and a ring of torches glowed at the far end of the garden. Wendover came hurrying up.

‘Sir Hugh, one of our city guards has been killed.’

Desroches hastened ahead. Corbett followed and reached the group of men gathered round the corpse sprawled face down in the snow. Desroches glanced up, shaking his head.

‘Dead!’ He pointed to the heavy crossbow quarrel embedded deep between the man’s shoulder blades. ‘A fatal wound.’ He turned the corpse over.

As Corbett stared down at the victim — a young man, sandy-haired, his eyes staring unseeingly, his face slightly unshaven and pockmarked — he noticed something amiss: the guard wasn’t wearing the ordinary liveried cloak, but a light blue one usually worn by Wendover.

‘What happened?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oseric, that’s his name.’ One of the men spoke up. ‘He’d been with us only a few months.’

‘What happened?’ Corbett insisted.

‘He went out to relieve himself,’ the man replied. ‘He was in a hurry so he took Wendover’s cloak. He was gone for some time. We were all in the buttery, drinking and chatting. I became concerned.’

Corbett snapped his fingers, ordering the torch-bearers to move closer to the speaker. The man, small and squat, glared angrily at him.

‘Why should someone kill one of us?’ he asked.

Corbett shook his head and stared round the snow-covered garden, the bushes and trees, the high curtain wall. Once again the Angel of Death had swept in, soft and silent, invisible yet menacing, like some formidable hawk floating over the fields of this world, keen to grasp a living soul in its greedy claws. But why now? How? Who had guided it in, selected its prey? He walked back towards the rear door and noticed the shuttered windows on either side; he tried both of these but they held fast.

‘Sir Hugh, what is happening here?’ Castledene came hurrying up.

Corbett turned. ‘Sir Walter, I do not know. What I suspect is that the assassin thought he was killing Wendover; instead poor Oseric met his death, but how?’ He gestured at the back of the house. ‘I can’t say.’

‘Is it true?’

Corbett turned. Wendover stood dancing from foot to foot, his blue cloak now draped over one arm.

‘I am not sure,’ Corbett replied. ‘He was wearing your cloak and he was killed. You know as much as I do, Master Wendover.’ He took a step forward. ‘Or do you know something more?’

Wendover, crestfallen, shook his head.

‘Then I suggest you and your companions look to Oseric’s corpse.’

Wendover glared at Corbett, swung the torn cloak round his shoulders and stamped off.

‘Sir Hugh?’

‘Yes, Sir Walter.’

‘The manuscript you took from Paulents’ coffer: have you broken the cipher?’

Corbett walked over to him. ‘No, Sir Walter, I have not. Indeed, I deeply suspect it is a farrago of nonsense.’ He rubbed his arms, increasingly aware of how raw and biting the night had turned, then led Castledene back into the house and summoned Desroches to join them. Once inside the chancery chamber, Corbett warmed his hands in front of the fire.

‘I have questioned enough. We shall return to Maubisson. I know,’ he straightened up, ‘the hour is late, but you, Sir Walter, and you, Master Desroches, must accompany me. We’ll walk that manor house again. Wendover will accompany us. We’ll see if there is anything we have missed.’

Corbett issued instructions for the city guard to be placed around Sweetmead. He informed Lady Adelicia, who received him icily, that she would not be returning to the Guildhall, but that she would remain under house arrest and not leave without his written permission. She agreed coolly. He also added that Berengaria and Lechlade could stay with her if they wished. He then thanked Parson Warfeld, and a short while later, hooded and cowled, cloaks wrapped firmly about them, they led their horses out of Sweetmead and took the road back into the city. It was bone-chillingly cold, black as a malkin. The bells of the city were calling for evening Vespers, booming like a death knell through the darkness.

Once out of Sweetmead, Ranulf rode in front. Castledene urged his horse forward, its hooves slithering on the freezing ground, and tugged at Corbett’s cloak.

‘We’ll not go through the city,’ he advised, ‘but take the road to the postern gate and down Warslock Lane. It will be easier.’

Corbett agreed. In the end it was a strange journey. The horses were nervous and slithered on the ice. A piercing breeze blew under a cloud-free sky. Dark shapes came and went: tinkers and chapmen, carters travelling back into the countryside. The occasional torch shuddered in the dark. Here and there a lantern glowed, casting its reflection on banks of snow or pools of frozen water. They had to pull aside to quieten their horses as a group of Crutched Friars, led by a crucifer, processed by with two biers on their shoulders carrying the corpses of beggars found frozen near Schepescotes mill. The air became strangely sweet with the fragrance of incense. The awesome words of the funeral dirge, ‘My soul is longing for the Lord, more than the watchman for daybreak’, rolled through the air like a sombre tambour beat and caught an echo in Corbett’s mind. He longed for daybreak; not just for a fresh new day, but for an end to this frozen darkness around him, the sense of menace and the spine-chilling dread and fear which cloaked the mysteries now gripping him fast in their vice-like grip. He wanted to be home, to be with Maeve. He took a deep breath and blinked his watering eyes.

‘Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,’ he muttered, and forced himself to hum the tune of a Goliard song, ‘ Fas et nefas ambulant ’. He waited until the funeral cortege had disappeared into the gloom, then, much to the surprise of his companions, burst into song. Ranulf decided to accompany him. The Latin words of the merry chant rang out like a challenge to the darkness about them. When they had finished, Corbett felt more settled and calm. They were now following a secure path, cleared by the constant traffic around the city walls. Castledene pointed out certain buildings: St Mary Northgate to their right, and in the far distance to their left, the dark mass of St Gregory’s priory.

At last, after an hour’s ride, they reached Maubisson. Its gates, walls and grounds were still patrolled by the city guard. Doors and window shutters had been sealed with the insignia of the city. These were now broken and opened. Castledene ordered Wendover to go into the house to light torches, lamps and candles as well as rekindle fires in the hearth. Inside it was winter-cold and dank. Corbett walked into the ill-lit hall. He still found it a harrowing place. Even though the corpses had been removed to a nearby church, his eyes were drawn to those grim iron brackets fastened to the wall, those terrible branches which had sprouted such gruesome fruit. He shook himself from the hideous reverie and ordered his companions to search the manor. Accompanied by Chanson, he carried out his own search, whilst Ranulf followed the others, vigilant for anything untoward. They found nothing.