Paul Doherty - The Waxman Murders

Corbett closed the missal, gave it back to Ranulf and sat back in his chair, plotting how he was to trap his killer. He idly wondered about Wendover. Perhaps they should have warned him, but what could be done? The Hours of Divine Office were rung; Corbett ignored them, fully intent on constructing his hypothesis before developing it, searching for proof. Only once did he pause in his study, putting on his boots and cloak to go down into the freezing night to join the good brothers in singing Compline. By then Ranulf and Chanson were fast asleep. Corbett returned and continued working through the night. Afterwards he sat warming his hands over the brazier, eyes heavy with sleep but still determined on forcing this problem to a solution, its logical conclusion? Sometimes he acted as a judge confronting an assassin, presenting him or her with the evidence. This was different; it was all so tenuous. He’d built this house on shifting sands. Would it withstand a storm of protests and counteraccusation? Yet if he failed, perhaps he would never get a second opportunity.

Corbett pushed the chair back and, taking his cloak, wrapped it about him and lay down on the bed, staring at the wall, wondering what to do. He recalled the corpse of that beggar man being brought in, then a verse from a psalm he’d sung at Compline, about God inviting all men, saint and sinner alike, to a banquet. Perhaps he should do that? He muttered a short prayer and, thinking of Maeve, fell into a deep sleep.

Wendover, captain of the city guard of Canterbury, was fully determined to put as much distance between himself and his native city as possible. He was a very frightened man. He recognised that his liaison with Lady Adelicia would eventually cost him his post, once that prying clerk had finished his business. Sir Walter Castledene had made that very clear. Wendover would be asked certain questions, and if his replies were not acceptable, he would be summarily dismissed, his indenture with the city council torn up. He would become another landless man wandering the streets and alleyways of Canterbury, desperate for employment, and if he fell, what a fall! Wendover, with his bullying ways, had made many enemies in the city. Once his disgrace became public, all hands would turn against him, and he could expect little mercy or compassion. Lady Adelicia would have nothing to do with him. She had used him and that was the end of it, so where else could he turn? Moreover, he realised that Lady Adelicia suspected he was a thief, filching this item or that, the occasional coin from her purse as she slept after their lovemaking here in The Chequer of Hope. Might he be arrested and interrogated? Wendover was truly terrified by a further nameless fear, a deep sense of dread which made him drink more than usual. Every time he left The Chequer of Hope he would look over his shoulder, certain someone was watching him. He had decided to flee. The previous evening he’d packed his saddle bags with every possession, taking his pouches of paltry coins from their hiding place. As soon as day broke and the city gates were opened, he collected his horse from its stable and made his way towards Westgate. He’d go to London; he had relatives there who might shelter him whilst he secured fresh employment.

Once on the Whitstable Road, Wendover grew more relaxed. He joined other people who, despite the weather, were determined on their own journeys. The travellers crossed the Stour, making their way towards St Dunstan’s church. Here Wendover decided to leave the main thoroughfare, following country lanes through the trees which would eventually take him on to the London road and safety. He was surprised at how quickly and easily he’d managed to escape, and his confidence grew; he had sword and dagger strapped to his war belt, a purse of coins hidden away, his saddle bags bulging. He comforted himself that he would soon find fresh employment. He let his horse make its way carefully along the woodland path, since the wine and ale he’d drunk the night before had made him mawmsy. Abruptly his horse paused and whinnied, hooves scrabbling on the ice. Wendover looked up in alarm, but it was too late. The stark, black-garbed figure standing in the middle of the trackway, arbalest raised, had already taken aim, and the barbed quarrel whirred through the air, hitting Wendover in the shoulder. He screamed at the hideous pain, his horse kicking under him, and then he fainted, crashing from the saddle.

When Wendover regained consciousness, he believed he was already in hell rather than on the road to it. The pain in his left shoulder was excruciating. He stared down in horror at the red-black wound, the feathers of the quarrel still sticking out. He felt faint and tasted the iron tang of blood at the back of his throat. He was also freezing. He’d been stripped of every item of clothing and now sat astride his horse, hands tied behind his back, feet fastened under the animal’s withers. Someone was holding the reins. Wendover blinked and strained against the thick, coarse noose around his neck. The figure turned. Wendover moaned in disbelief at the black hood, the mask, the slits for eyes, nose and mouth. He cursed his own stupidity; he must have been followed from Canterbury. He smelt a faint perfume. Biting his lip against the waves of pain which swept through him, Wendover stared round. His saddle bags had been emptied, his clothes cut to shreds.

‘Mercy!’ he whispered.

The figure remained impassive, patting the horse gently along its neck.

‘Mercy, Master Wendover, mercy for you? You were there when my brother was hanged. I have no mercy. You may buy your life for a price. I’ll cut the ropes and let you go if you give me the Cloister Map stolen from Sir Rauf.’

‘I haven’t got it!’ Wendover pleaded. He winced as the horse moved; the pain in his left shoulder was unbearable. He was now fully aware of the cutting cold, the snow falling from the branches above him, the winter wind nipping at his flesh.

‘The Cloister Map?’ the voice insisted.

Wendover swallowed on the blood at the back of his throat. ‘I haven’t got it, God is my witness I haven’t, but I could-’

‘No you couldn’t,’ the voice interrupted. ‘You’re a coward, Wendover. Ah well.’ The figure stepped back. Wendover was sure he recognised that voice. ‘I must go on my way and so must you.’ The nightmare figure passed Wendover, smacked the horse on the rump and stood for a while, watching Wendover kick and struggle until the naked figure hung still, twirling slightly on the end of that coarse hempen rope. Only then did Hubert Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze, slip silently away, leaving the horror hanging behind him.

Corbett sat in the guesthouse refectory. He’d risen early, washed, dressed and attended Lauds, followed by the Jesus Mass. Afterwards he’d strolled round the abbey as if studying the different styles of architecture. In truth he was calming his own mind, reaffirming the conclusions he’d reached the previous evening. He returned to the refectory to break his fast, and Chanson and Ranulf joined him. They were just about to leave when Sir Walter Castledene arrived with a retinue of city guards. The mayor bustled into the refectory, taking off his gloves and throwing his cloak back as he told Corbett the news. How a group of stick-gatherers had gone out to collect kindling and had found Wendover’s naked corpse hanging from an elm tree on a woodland path leading to the London road, his possessions strewn all around, saddle bags ripped open, clothes shredded, his horse foraging for grass.

Corbett gestured for Castledene to sit, but the mayor shook his head and beckoned Corbett away from the rest towards the door of the refectory.

‘Whoever it is,’ Castledene drew close, peering at Corbett whilst wiping the sweat from his face, ‘is also hunting us, Sir Hugh. What is to be done?’