Paul Doherty - The Waxman Murders

The assassin looked at the open door. He sprang to his feet, kicked a stool towards Corbett and raced across. He scrambled down the stairs, Corbett in pursuit. Another figure abruptly appeared in the doorway at the bottom, hood drawn back, a primed arbalest ready. The bolt was loosed and took the would-be assassin in the chest. He crumpled to his knees, then fell, crashing down the stairs.

Corbett lowered his own sword and dagger and hurried down the stairs towards Physician Desroches, who was already lowering his crossbow. Corbett, gasping for breath, turned the corpse of the assassin over, pulling back the hood and mask to reveal Lechlade’s ugly unshaven face. The man was dying, eyelids fluttering, blood bubbling between his lips. Corbett let him fall back and kicked him further down the stairs so that he landed at Physician Desroches’ feet.

‘Master Physician.’ Corbett walked down the stairs, sheathing both his sword and his dagger. He stretched out his hand. ‘I thank you. I owe you my life. Come.’ He gripped Desroches’ hand, making it clear he would accept no refusal. ‘You must come up for some wine. Fortify yourself, explain what happened.’ He waved Desroches up into his own chamber. The physician immediately went across to the bed and pulled back the sheet from the corpse Corbett had secretly taken from the mortuary house. He stared down at the pallid, pinched face of the beggar framed by a greasy mat of hair.

‘You dressed him in your clothes?’ Desroches declared, not turning round.

‘Of course. I begged the guest master. I knew the death house had the corpse of a beggar found frozen to death in the abbey grounds. The rest is as you see. Lechlade thought I was asleep, drunk, wits fuddled by wine, so he struck. And what brought you here, Master Physician?’

‘I watched Lechlade at your supper. He acted the drunk yet I always had my suspicions.’ Desroches flinched as the point of Corbett’s sword pricked deep into the back of his neck.

‘Turn round, Master Desroches, or, to be more precise, Hubert Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze. Turn round!’ Corbett ordered.

Desroches did so, his hand going towards the belt under his cloak.

‘Unbuckle it!’ Corbett stood back, sword still raised. ‘Let it fall to the ground and move over there.’

Desroches did so, sitting down on a stool. Corbett pulled another one across and picked up the primed arbalest, aiming it straight at Desroches’ chest.

‘Sir Hugh, you are making a mistake. I was watching Lechlade. I had had my suspicions for some time. I thought-’

‘No you didn’t,’ Corbett declared. ‘I too had my suspicions about Lechlade, but I also began to suspect that two killers were on the prowl, not one. Hubert Fitzurse, that is you, had an accomplice. What I believe, Master Hubert, is this. A gang of outlaws attacked your manor house many years ago and killed your parents. Decontet and Castledene were members of that coven. At Westminster you were visited by someone who told you that, a revelation which abruptly, very dramatically, changed your life. Your visitor was Lechlade. When I looked at the accounts for your parents’ manor, I came across a list of those old enough to pay tax: your father was one, your stepmother another; the rest were servants, except for one other individual, John Brocare. I believe Brocare and Lechlade are one and the same person. Somehow Brocare escaped, concealed himself and re-emerged as Lechlade. From what I understand, he was a relative of your father, perhaps a cousin? Anyway, he discovered what had actually happened that night and brought the news to you at Westminster. In a way it was like a messenger from God, wasn’t it? You learned that the very city which had helped you, men who were now its leading merchants and traders, had been involved in your parents’ death. You decided to forsake God, your king, your order and become a hunter of men. I would wager you hunted down surviving members of that murderous coven, and, apart from Castledene, they are now probably all dead. You also shared Lechlade’s startling revelation with your brother Adam, who, by then, had turned to a life of piracy. Little wonder that Adam Blackstock waged war on Castledene’s ships.

‘Then the Cloister Map emerged. Adam found it on one of Paulents’ ships. He seized that and sent a message to you. He had not only stolen the map; he may also have deciphered it correctly. You and he were to meet along the Orwell, near the ruined hermitage with its chapel dedicated to St Simon of the Rocks; that’s where you took your false name, isn’t it: Peter Desroches? Desroches is French for “of the rocks”, whilst you changed the name Simon to Peter, as happened in the Gospels, just in case anyone remarked on the coincidence that you bore the same name in French as the hermitage where Adam Blackstock used to meet Hubert the Monk. The rest of the story you know better than I do. Stonecrop betrayed your brother. The Waxman was intercepted, your brother killed and gibbeted. I can only imagine your rage, which cooled in to a deep desire for bloody revenge. You are a highly dangerous but very intelligent man, Master Hubert. It wouldn’t be hard for the likes of you, who has always hidden deep in the shadows, to change character, shape-shift as they say. You ceased being Hubert, the venator hominum , the former monk, and became Monsieur Peter Desroches of Gascony, who’d studied at this university and that. You had acquired enough wealth as Hubert to finance such a clever deception.’

Corbett paused and studied his adversary staring so coldly back at him, not a flicker of emotion in those hard eyes, no shift or twitch to his body; he sat perfectly composed, hands on his knees, scrutinising Corbett, searching for any weakness, any gap he might exploit.

‘You are skilled enough to forge letters of accreditation, official seals, to be a physician from this school or a scholar of the other. You could study and absorb medical treatises; as a venator you’d also become skilled in the treatment of wounds and ailments. You’d soon learn the knowledge, customs and mannerisms of a physician, be it the treatment of Chanson’s ulcers or the use of rats to test tainted food and drink. I suspect you’re a finer physician than many a genuine one. After all, as a boy you’d displayed a talent to mimic, to imitate. Anyway, you pretended to be the wealthy physician who had studied abroad.’ Corbett paused. ‘When I talked to you and Lechlade, both of you mentioned how you had been a physician in Canterbury for over three years, some time before The Waxman was intercepted, but of course that is not strictly true, is it? It is just over three years ago that The Waxman was captured. Only after that did you arrive in Canterbury with your wealth, knowledge, expertise and pleasant diplomatic ways. Castledene accepted you, and so did others.’

Corbett paused, shifting the arbalest for comfort’s sake.

‘Of course, you must ask why should they patronise you? Very easy.’ Corbett smiled. ‘Physicians are noted for their love of gold, their haughty ways, their insistence on protocol. You played your own lure like a hunter with his snare: the easy-going, charming, knowledgeable Desroches who, perhaps, charged less than the rest. Tactful, diplomatic, you wormed your way into people’s affections. You played the same affable physician for me, the man who didn’t like weapons, who found it difficult to mount a horse.’

Desroches snorted with laughter and flailed a hand, but his eyes remained watchful.

‘You acted the physician very well, both for our good mayor and for Sir Rauf Decontet,’ Corbett continued. ‘You were in Canterbury for two purposes: first to wreak revenge, and second to discover the whereabouts of the true Cloister Map. You bided your time. When Castledene told you about Paulents coming to Canterbury, you laid your plans. Your confidant and accomplice Lechlade played his part. He too had assumed a new identity, a new guise. He was the lumbering, lurching, foul-mouthed, drunken sot whom Sir Rauf tolerated because it cost him next to nothing. In fact Lechlade was as sharp-witted as you, and equally bent on revenge.’ Corbett paused. ‘I reflected: in the past Lechlade may have been a toper, but revenge sobered him up. He would keep you informed of what was going on, be it Lady Adelicia playing the two-backed beast with Wendover and, above all, the whereabouts of that map. I realised two killers must be involved. When Paulents landed at Dover, he was given a warning; at the same time Castledene was threatened in Canterbury. It is possible for one man to travel from Dover to Canterbury, but I concluded it more likely that two people were involved: you in Canterbury, Lechlade in Dover. Your accomplice would find it easy to slip away: his master was murdered, Lady Adelicia held fast in prison and Berengaria safely lodged with Parson Warfeld, so who would be bothered about that drunken oaf? I also suspect Lechlade interfered with the food and drink served to Paulents and his family at the Dover tavern. Nothing serious, just enough to agitate the belly, to worsen the symptoms of a rough sea crossing. Paulents left for Canterbury. Lechlade also swiftly returned to the city before the snows set in.’