Paul Doherty - The Waxman Murders

‘Found them this morning,’ the guest master declared, ‘dead as nails. I put down the bread and cheese as you asked, soaked in that wine.’ He sighed dramatically. ‘Sir Hugh, someone meant to do you a great mischief.’

‘Well they didn’t!’ Corbett took a silver piece from his purse and, grasping the old man’s hand, pushed it into his palm. ‘It’s our secret, Brother. You mustn’t tell anyone until we’ve gone. I also ask you to be most prudent in what food and drinks are served.’

‘Are you sure?’ The old monk’s eyes wrinkled in puzzlement. ‘Sir Hugh, you are in great danger, here in our abbey. It is a scandal! Father Abbot would be horrified.’

‘Father Abbot won’t be,’ Corbett smiled, ‘because Father Abbot won’t be told. Now, Brother, I have another favour to ask, a great favour. A magister once taught here, Master of the Scholars, Brother Fulbert? Is he still here? Can I talk to him?’

‘Brother Fulbert, of course, he’s an Ancient One. Come, I’ll take you to him. He is an early riser, always has been.’ And he led Corbett off again down a maze of stone galleries, past brothers busy about their daily tasks. The abbey was now preparing for Christmas; wheelbarrows full of greenery stood around, berries blood red against the green holly. Yule logs were being hewed, Christmas candles placed in window embrasures, and the air was full of the swirling odours and fragrances of the various rooms and chambers of the abbey. Cooking smells from the kitchens mingled with those of dry leather and parchment from the scriptorium. Incense swirled the smell of oil lamps, whilst the perfumed gusts from the bathhouse mixed with the tang of compost some lay brothers were piling around the rose bushes, their roots recently cleared of snow. Here and there groups of monks stood gossiping, overlooked by stone-faced statues.

At last they reached a two-storey house enclosed by its own garden. The guest master gestured Corbett in, the raised door latch jarring noisily in such a quiet place. He led Corbett up some wooden stairs, along a polished gallery, and knocked on a door.

‘Come in,’ a voice shouted. ‘You are always welcome, you know that.’

Inside Brother Fulbert was seated at a table, shoulders shaking with laughter as he read a manuscript, peering closely at it, moving his finger slowly along the line of words. He did not look up as Corbett and the guest master entered, but continued chuckling to himself, intent on the manuscript. The cell was comfortable, well heated by the charcoal dish, whilst warm-coloured cloths against the wall and thick floor rugs fended off the chill from the freezing flag-stones. The chamber was littered with manuscripts, spilling out from opened coffers. There was a book on a lectern, another opened on the half-made bed.

‘Brother Fulbert?’ The guest master leaned over the table.

The old monk glanced up. He had lank white hair which framed a pointed face, deeply lined and furrowed, though the eyes were bright as those of a robin redbreast. He nodded at his fellow monk and looked questioningly at Corbett. The guest master hastily made the introductions, and Brother Fulbert told Corbett to fetch a stool from the corner and sit opposite him as if he were a scholar from the schools. The guest master hastily retreated, closing the door firmly behind him.

‘Well, well, well.’ Fulbert rested his elbow on the table. ‘So you are the King’s man, the clerk? I heard about your arrival.’ He examined the ring on Corbett’s left hand. ‘Senior Clerk in the Chancery of the Secret Seal. I was a royal clerk once, until I found my calling after I entered the halls of Oxford. I met people who’d witnessed the Great Revolt there, when the black banners were raised and scholars fought running battles with the townspeople. I’d love to go back to Oxford, Sir Hugh.’ He sighed. ‘It has changed, but there again, I suspect the hidden flame still glows. Do you remember the old saying of the schools? “If that which was there has not left, it must, therefore, still be there.”’

Corbett smiled in agreement.

Fulbert looked down once more at the manuscript, sighed again and pushed it away. He leaned across the table as if he was a conspirator. ‘Sir Hugh, don’t tell anybody, but I am reading a copy of Abelard’s Sic et Non . You know it?’

Corbett nodded.

‘What does it say?’ Fulbert’s head darted forward.

‘About two hundred years ago Abelard took the teachings of theologians and showed how they contradicted each other. His thesis was not well received by the Church, particularly by Bernard of Clairvaux, and led to fierce debate between scholars. .’

‘So it did, so it did,’ Brother Fulbert agreed. ‘And the papacy condemned it,’ he smiled mischievously, ‘which is why I like to read it. But you haven’t come to hear an old hoary-head chatter on.’

Corbett asked about Hubert. Fulbert immediately remembered him, nodding in agreement as Corbett described that young man’s life.

‘I am sad to hear the news. Hubert Fitzurse. .’ Fulbert gathered his thoughts. ‘He was a born scholar, a very pleasant young man. He was mature beyond his years, objective, dispassionate, hungry for knowledge as a cat for cream. Oh yes, I remember him well. When he concentrated, be it on a subtle treatise of mathematics or the intricacies of construing a Latin passage, he would give it his full attention.’ Fulbert held up a bony finger. ‘Hubert had the skill to become absorbed in whatever he was doing. He would move from one extreme to another in the blink of an eye. He was well disciplined but also an excellent mimic. He would watch and ape people’s gestures and mannerisms: the way they walked, talked, how they held their heads, how they ate or sat. He was often a great source of amusement for his comrades, but not in an unpleasant way, Sir Hugh. He enjoyed a penchant for making others laugh, but never cruelly, whilst he was always ready to poke fun at himself. More than that,’ Brother Fulbert’s gaze strayed back to the manuscript on the table before him, ‘I cannot say. If you ever meet him, Sir Hugh, give him my good wishes and prayers.’

Corbett thanked the old man and went down the stairs into the yard. The guest master had left, so he stood for a while peering up at the sky, hoping the sun might appear. The air was not so cold; it had lost that stinging, sharp, knife-edged cut to it. Corbett stared around. He must remember to be careful; parts of this abbey were lonely and deserted, the ideal place for an assassin to prowl. Was Hubert, that hunter of men, now pursuing him? Did he wish to kill Corbett as an act of revenge against the King, who’d played his own part in the destruction of Adam Blackstock and The Waxman ? Or did he only mean to distract and frighten Corbett until this business was finished?

Corbett clenched his fist. Perhaps that was it. Hubert realised time was short, the opportunity to wreak his revenge brief. The clerk walked slowly across the yard. If he could only discover what had truly happened at Maubisson, bring it under the rigour of his logic. He paused, recalling what Brother Fulbert had said: If that which was there has not left, it must, therefore, still be there . Servinus! Corbett punched his thigh. Of course, no one had seen Servinus leave! The prospect of him escaping undetected was virtually impossible. Moreover, he was a foreigner, a mercenary; even in a city like Canterbury, visited by pilgrims, people would notice him. Castledene had his spies out, so why had they not found him?

‘Because he never left Maubisson!’ Corbett murmured. He quickened his pace, certain that the dark shadows and recesses of that forbidding mansion still held the secret of Servinus.

He intended to go back to the guesthouse, rouse Ranulf and Chanson and ride straight to Maubisson; then he thought of poor Griskin, his naked cadaver hanging from the gallows above those deserted mudflats. No, first he’d visit Les Hommes Joyeuses. He pulled up his hood, took directions from one of the brothers and found himself on the same path he’d taken the day before, leading past ice-bound fields towards St Pancras’ church and its old priest’s house. By the time he arrived there the entire company were busy. Having broken their fast, they had now laid out the stage with its backdrop, ready to exploit a dry day to rehearse their play. People milled about. Corbett studied the scenery and marvelled at its skill to evoke the imagination. One painting, crudely done, showed the Gaderene demoniac in green satin being led on a gilt chain by his father dressed in yellow taffeta. Next to this were further scenes from the life of Christ: a blind man and his servant garbed in red and grey satin; beside them a paralytic in orange; the Apostles climbing the Mount of Humility towards Jesus, who stood resplendent in robes of velvet, crimson satin, damask and taffeta. At the far end of the backdrop was a vivid vision of hell, depicted as a soaring rock crowned with an ever-burning tower belching globules of black smoke from which Lucifer’s head and body projected. The demon vomited flames of fire whilst holding in his hands writhing serpents and vipers. Corbett studied this then moved over to where the troupe was gathered around the Gleeman, who was standing on an upturned barrel, a piece of parchment in his hand.