Paul Doherty - The Waxman Murders

Corbett rose, went over to the coffer and took out the map he’d so carefully studied. He tapped it against his hand. He had no proof, just a suspicion, but he truly believed that this was not the genuine map. He had studied every secret cipher used in Europe, be it by the Papal Chancery or that of Philip Le Bel of France. Sooner or later he could prove that old adage of the schools, that if a problem exists, so must a solution; it is only a matter of time. Yet with this one. . He placed the document back in the coffer and returned to his chancery desk.

Corbett heard the faint singing of the monastic choir as they chanted the first psalms of Lauds. One verse caught his attention: ‘It is he who will free you from the snare of the fowler who seeks to destroy you. He will conceal you beneath his pinions and under his wings you will find refuge. You will not fear the terror of the night nor the arrow which flies by day, nor the plague that haunts the darkness, nor the scourge which devastates the noon-tide.’

‘I hope so,’ Corbett murmured. ‘I pray so.’

He was tempted to go down and share in the comfort of that holy place. Instead he promised himself that when the bells rang for the Jesus Mass he would join the good brothers; until then he must confront the evils which beset him.

Tertio: Decontet . Sir Rauf was undoubtedly a miser, a secret supporter of pirates and privateers, an unscrupulous man with no thought for the morrow except for how much money he might make. Lady Adelicia, his young bride, certainly hated him and he had replied in kind. Little wonder she had found comfort with Wendover. Decontet may have also been a killer, responsible for Stonecrop’s death and his hasty burial in that desolate garden. However, did such matters have any bearing on the events of that fateful Thursday afternoon? Lady Adelicia had left for the city with Berengaria. Once her mistress had been ensconced in Wendover’s chamber, Berengaria had hastened back for her own meeting with Sir Rauf, who paid her good silver for certain sexual favours. Did Lady Adelicia know about that? She had indicated that perhaps she did, calling Berengaria a minx. Corbett recalled arrangements mentioned as he left Sweetmead the previous evening. How Lechlade would stay with Lady Adelicia, but that Berengaria had murmured something about remaining with her possessions at Parson Warfeld’s house for the time being. Undoubtedly Berengaria was a sharp-witted, ruthless young woman, but on that particular day she had failed to meet Sir Rauf and so returned to Canterbury. Physician Desroches had then arrived; unable to arouse Sir Rauf, he’d waited until Lechlade had come down, roughly wakened from his drunken stupor. Desroches had sent for Parson Warfeld and the chancery door had been forced. Lady Adelicia had arrived, followed by Castledene. Questions were asked about the blood on her cloak and those gore-soaked napkins found in her bedchamber. She was arrested as the perpetrator yet the mystery still remained. How had someone entered a locked chamber, shattered Sir Rauf’s skull and then escaped? Why wasn’t there any sign of a struggle? How did the assassin, if it was not Lady Adelicia, go up to her chamber, drop the bloodstained napkin on the floor and hide more behind the bolsters? How could anyone do that without a key to her chamber? There were only two keys, one definitely held by Lady Adelicia and the other by Sir Rauf. Nevertheless, Warfeld and Desroches had been quite explicit: when the doors to both chambers had been either forced or opened, that precious keyring was still on Sir Rauf’s belt. Had another key been fashioned? Corbett shook his head. Such locks were unique, the work of a craftsman, and any attempt to replicate their keys would arouse deep suspicion.

Quatro: Les Hommes Joyeuses and Griskin . Now Corbett wrote more slowly. Griskin had been a good spy, an able man who took careful precautions to protect himself. He’d disguised himself as a leper and travelled up into Suffolk, searching out those legends about the lost treasure. He had reported to the Gleeman that he had discovered scraps of information, and made a mysterious reference to St Simon of the Rocks, but what did he mean? Griskin had later been trapped, murdered and gibbeted, probably by Hubert the Monk, which in turn meant that he had discovered something about that elusive hunter of men. What was it? Yet this begged another question. How had Hubert discovered the truth about Griskin? Was it through his own sharp wits, or had Griskin been betrayed? Had he been seen in the company of Les Hommes Joyeuses and someone reported this to Hubert? If that was the case, there was a traitor amongst Les Hommes Joyeuses. Could it be the Gleeman?

Quinto: The Waxman and Hubert the Monk . Who was Hubert? Where was he? Were he and Servinus one and the same? How could he move so quickly? Delivering warnings in both Canterbury and Dover? Following them through the woods when Corbett had returned with Desroches and Ranulf from Maubisson to St Augustine’s? Who had attacked Corbett in the cloisters? Desroches had been in the refectory downstairs, but Parson Warfeld? And the others? Who had come to St Augustine’s yesterday with that poisoned wine?

Everything pointed to The Waxman , the Suffolk treasure, the Cloister Map and Hubert’s desire for vengeance as the hideous roots of this murderous affair. Yet was all this a false lure? Indeed, was Hubert even still alive? Was someone else using the past to conceal their own devious plot? Virtually everyone had some connection with The Waxman , including Warfeld. And what about Berengaria? And the Lady Adelicia, who could so innocently flutter her eyelids and deny any knowledge of her husband’s doings? And Castledene? What was the truth there?

Corbett sat reflecting. The chanting had now stopped and a bell boomed out announcing that the Jesus or Morrow Mass was about to begin. He hastily finished dressing, took his war belt and clasped it on, then threw a cloak over his shoulders, pulling up its hood to protect his head. He left and locked his chamber and went downstairs. The light was greying now. Here and there lay brothers were busy in the yard, opening stores; one was sawing wood, another drawing water. Corbett hurried into the tangled labyrinth of abbey buildings, down chilly, stone-hollow passageways, across frozen-carpeted gardens and eventually in by the Galilee Porch to the abbey church. The monks were now leaving their stalls. Corbett decided to attend Mass not at the high altar but in one of the chantry chapels along the transept, a comfortable place, its floor covered with turkey rugs, whilst chafing dishes in each corner spluttered warmth. He knelt on the prie-dieu and nodded at the old monk who came shuffling in to celebrate his Mass. Corbett leaned against the hard rest and watched the celebrant begin the mysteries, trying to school himself by concentrating on the crucifix above the altar. Once the Mass was finished and Corbett had made his thanks, he went into the Lady Chapel and lit three tapers for Maeve and his two children. He was about to leave through the main porch when he heard his name called. The guest master came hurrying down the church, the sleeves of his gown flapping like the wings of a bird, sandalled feet slapping against the paved floor.

‘Sir Hugh,’ he gasped, ‘Sir Hugh, thank goodness I have found you! I have something to show you, the rats!’ And before Corbett could ask him any questions, the guest master hurried from the church, leading him from the sacred precincts into a small cobbled yard. There he opened the door to an outhouse which reeked of rotting hay. On a broken stool stretched a piece of sacking bearing the bloated corpses of four rats, bellies distended, paws rigid, jaws open to display sharp protuberant teeth.