Paul Doherty - The Magician

‘He always liked that,’ he whispered.

‘Liked what?’ Sir Edmund asked.

‘He loved the smell of herbs and spices.’ Corbett went over and placed the torch in a holder on the wall. ‘Very precise, was Louis. He loved the smell of spring and summer; his clothes, his chamber, his books, his manuscripts always had that faint smell of flowers and herbs.’

Corbett noticed the manuscripts piled high on the window, the candle pricket, the wax formed thick around the base, the clothes hanging from the peg. The curtains on the small poster bed were drawn and, on the far side, stood the lavarium, with napkins neatly folded next to a precious bar of sweet-smelling soap in a little copper dish.

Corbett heard voices from below. Father Andrew had arrived, busily intoning the prayers for the dead as he anointed the corpse. Ranulf came up the steps.

‘What happened, do you think?’ Sir Edmund sat down on the chair next to the bed. He glanced quickly at Corbett.

‘Another accident?’

‘That is for me to decide.’ De Craon spoke up, standing in the shadows. ‘I’m cut to the heart that my colleague is dead.’

‘No, sir,’ Corbett snapped. ‘Louis may have been a member of your retinue but he was my friend and this castle is under the direct governance of the King of England. Sir Edmund,’ Corbett called over his shoulder whilst holding de Craon’s gaze, ‘I would like to examine both the chamber and Monsieur Crotoy’s corpse. Is his death an accident, misadventure, or is there some other cause?’

‘I’ll delay the meal,’ Sir Edmund sighed. ‘Monsieur de Craon, Sir Hugh is right. This is the King’s castle, he has the right to act as coroner.’

‘Then I will stay and help him.’

Corbett didn’t object, and the Constable’s men cleared the stairwell below, bringing back the broken door so as to block some of the cold night air. Corbett had every candle and torch lit and scrupulously began his search. He and Ranulf carefully examined the chamber, de Craon keeping close to the table, watching them sift through various manuscripts, loudly objecting when Ranulf picked up a piece of parchment to study it more closely. Yet they could find nothing significant. Crotoy’s corpse, now laid out under a sheet at the foot of the steps, bore no mark other than the wound to the head, which was definitely the result of hitting the hard ground at the foot of the steps. Corbett fought back the memories of walking arm in arm with that clever scholar through Christchurch Meadows, or the orchards down by the Iffley Stream, or sitting in a tavern on the corner of Turl Street.

‘Master,’ Ranulf murmured, ‘look at his boot.’

Corbett did so; the heel on the right boot was loose.

‘He tripped,’ Ranulf explained. ‘The heel of the boot was loose, or his foot may have become caught in his cloak. He fell, bruising his head against the ground.’

‘But would that kill him?’ Corbett wondered. He returned to scrutinising the corpse, and lifting it up by the shoulders noticed how the head hung slightly to one side.

‘I’ve seen the same before,’ Ranulf muttered, ‘when a man has broken his neck.’

They stood aside as the castle leech arrived. He also inspected the wound to the head and, pulling up Crotoy’s thick woollen cotehardie, pointed to the light bruising to the right of the dead man’s chest and similar marks on his right arm and shoulder. He then examined the neck, moving the head slightly between his hands.

‘An unfortunate accident,’ he sighed, getting to his feet. He pointed to the door at the top of the steps. ‘Monsieur Crotoy locked the door behind him, his cloak over his shoulder. He became confused, his boot may have slipped, his other foot caught in the cloak. Those steps are steep and sharp, and they bruised his body as he fell, but he died of a broken neck.’

Corbett glanced up. De Craon stood in the doorway above, staring impassively down at him.

‘Sir Hugh.’ Corbett looked over his shoulder. Bolingbroke was calling from outside. ‘Sir Hugh, can I help?’

‘Tell him to wait for me in my chamber,’ Corbett whispered to Ranulf. He climbed the steps. The Frenchman didn’t stand aside. ‘Monsieur?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugh?’

‘Your colleague died of an unfortunate accident.’

‘So it seems.’ De Craon’s eyes held Corbett’s. ‘I lay no blame on Sir Edmund or you. Crotoy should have been more careful, shouldn’t he? I say the same to Vervins, who likes to stand on the parapet walk and stare out across your bleak countryside.’ De Craon lifted a hand. ‘What more can you do, Sir Hugh? Louis’ death will be mourned by his daughter, his colleagues, and by my Grace, his master.’ His eyebrows rose. ‘Perhaps it was my mistake,’ he continued silkily. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have chosen these old men and brought them to this cold castle. Well now, Sir Hugh, if you have finished, there are things I and my retainers must do.’

‘Crotoy had a copy of Friar Roger’s work, the Opus Tertium ?’

‘Yes, yes, he did.’

‘I would like to see it.’

De Craon went back into the chamber and came back with a leather-bound book. He thrust this into Corbett’s hand, ‘Better still, borrow it for a while. You can return it tomorrow when we meet.’

Corbett thanked him and went carefully down the steps where Ranulf was waiting.

‘Sir Hugh.’ Corbett stopped and turned. De Craon was halfway down the steps. The English clerk did not like his look, the smirking eyes. ‘Sir Hugh,’ de Craon’s words came like a hiss, ‘don’t grieve yourself. Accidents happen, we should all take great care.’

‘Was it an accident?’ Ranulf asked as soon as they were back in the chamber.

Corbett, slouched in a chair, kicked his boots off, vowing he must control his temper. He’d already had words with Ranulf; now he felt like grasping his sword, running back to the tower and confronting de Craon.

‘Oh, he is a clever viper,’ he snapped. He closed his eyes. ‘A clever viper,’ he repeated. ‘Ranulf, bear with me. The steps to the old tower lead up to a heavy wooden door, which was locked. There’s a small passageway beyond, no windows or gaps either side; the second set of steps are sharp-edged and steep. They lead up to Louis’ chamber and another heavy oaken door. Louis had locked that just before he fell. To the left of that inner door there is a passageway, a small stairwell, now filled with fallen masonry, I must examine that again. Inside the chamber everything is in order. So,’ he straightened up, ‘according to all the evidence, Louis doused the candles, made sure everything was safe, picked up his keys and cloak, went out of his chamber, locked the door and fell to his death.’

‘It must have been so,’ Ranulf declared. ‘I asked Sir Edmund, there’s no other key to any door. Louis himself asked the same of the Constable and received assurances that that was the case.’

‘Is that so?’ Corbett murmured. ‘Then it shows Louis was anxious, fearful.’

‘What other explanation is there?’ Bolingbroke picked up a stool and sat next to Corbett, spreading his hands to describe the passageway between the two doors. ‘Louis must have been by himself. He had both keys in a pouch on his belt, Sir Hugh, it’s a matter of logic; there’s no other key to that chamber or to the outside door. He must have locked the door behind him, and was going down to open the other one when he slipped and fell, smashing his head and breaking his neck.’

‘I would agree,’ Ranulf added. ‘Crotoy, by his own admission, was wary. He wouldn’t allow anyone into his chamber unless he felt safe.’

Corbett remained silent. According to every item of evidence, Louis Crotoy had slipped, an unfortunate accident. Reason told him that, but his heart said different. He couldn’t accept that those two French masters had come to Corfe and died by misadventure. Of course it looked suspicious, yet even if foul play was hinted at, it would surely be laid at the door of the perfidious English, rather than the wily schemes of the French court.