Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

He led them back through the Judas gate and across the abbey grounds. Aelfric was at the back of the infirmary where a stout shed had been built against the wall. Corbett entered the Death House. Inside it was warm: braziers glowed in the darkness; the hooded candles gleamed and oil lamps threw shifting pools of light. The Death House contained five or six long tables. Hamo and Taverner’s corpses occupied two, and heavy canvas sheeting covered them both.

‘I came back from the chapter meeting,’ Aelfric explained taking a candle, ‘and I noticed the door to the Death House was off the latch. Sir Hugh, look at this!’

He pulled back the sheets covering Hamo and Taverner and lowered the candle to reveal a hideous ‘V’ mark branded into the forehead of each corpse.

‘God and his angels!’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘The assassin has a malevolence all his own. He has come back to claim the corpses — brand them as his own!’

‘How could it be done?’ Perditus whispered.

Corbett pointed to the brazier. ‘It would only take a few seconds. The branding iron would be heated, and then the forehead marked.’ He turned to a bucket of water just near the door. ‘The iron was probably cooled in that. The courtyard outside is quiet, so the assassin would hear if anyone was around.’

‘True,’ Aelfric agreed. ‘And very few people come here. It’s not till the bodies are formally laid out that the community gathers to pay its respects.’

Corbett pulled the sheets back over the bodies. He turned to find Aelfric, Dunstan and Perditus standing in the doorway. The dancing light made them look sinister, secretive.

‘I have had enough of the dead,’ Corbett murmured, brushing past them. ‘Brother Aelfric, there’s little I can do here, at least for the moment.’

Corbett went out. Night was falling and the snow was coating the ground with a white dust. The abbey was busy with monks hurrying about finishing their tasks. Smoke billowed out from the kitchens as well as the fragrant odours of cooking meat and baking pies. Corbett pulled up his hood and walked back to the guesthouse. Once he was back in his own chamber he secured the door, drawing across the bolt. He lit the candles and oil lamps. An extra brazier had been wheeled in. Corbett took a pair of bellows and fired the coals until they glowed hot and red. The chamber had a small mantel hearth but Corbett decided not to light the wood. He went across and checked the wine cups, jug and the platter of dried fruit, bread and cheese. He could detect nothing wrong with them. He eased off his boots and lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He could make no sense of what was happening. Thoughts and images jumbled in his mind. He idly wondered how Ranulf and Chanson were doing.

‘A killer prowls here,’ Corbett whispered to himself, ‘who enjoys what he does. He’s turned this abbey on its head — no longer a place of sanctuary and prayer but of fear and sudden death.’

But was it that in the first place? The more he learnt about Abbot Stephen, the more curious Corbett became. On the one hand a devout, learned monk; on the other, Abbot Stephen was a man full of uncertainty, even regret and remorse. Corbett’s eyes grew heavy. He drifted into sleep but was rudely awoken by a loud rapping at the door. He rolled off the bed, and picked up his sword belt which he had thrown onto the floor.

‘Who is it?’ he called.

‘Archdeacon Adrian. Sir Hugh, I need to speak to you.’

Corbett withdrew the bolts and the Archdeacon stamped into the room. Without a by-your-leave, he took off his cloak, wet with melting snow, went across and warmed his hands over the brazier.

‘Corbett, it’s snowing.’

‘I can see that.’

‘I need to travel back to London. I want to be away from St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh.’

‘Why?’ Corbett demanded.

‘Business, my court in London awaits. I see no point in delay.’

‘Oh, I see every point.’

Corbett sat on the bed. The Archdeacon turned. Are you frightened, Corbett wondered? Angry, or playing a game? The Archdeacon’s lip curled.

‘I need not take orders from you, Corbett!’

‘Oh yes you must!’ Corbett waved at the panniers stacked in the corner. ‘I carry the King’s commission!’

‘I am an ecclesiastic, a clerk in Holy Orders!’

‘I wouldn’t care if you were the Angel Gabriel. For all I know, Archdeacon Adrian, you could be the assassin.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ The Archdeacon went across, picked up a chair, turned it round and slumped down on it. ‘I’m no more guilty than you, Corbett. Indeed,’ he spluttered, ‘how do we know you’re not the assassin?’

‘I wasn’t here when the Abbot died.’

Corbett pulled the war belt across his lap and played with the dagger, pushing it in and out of its scabbard.

‘But you were here, Master Wallasby!’

‘Abbot Stephen was my friend, a colleague. You know the reason for my visit.’

‘You’re lying!’ Corbett pointed the dagger at his univited guest. ‘You weren’t Abbot Stephen’s friend, you were his rival, his opponent. Perhaps you resented his fame, and that’s why you devised this stratagem?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Master Taverner, Carrefour, or whatever he’s called, whose corpse lies stiffening in the Death House. You know he’s been branded?’

The Archdeacon swallowed hard and glanced at the door as if he regretted coming here.

‘If you hadn’t come, Master Wallasby, I would have sent for you. Now, let me see. You are an opponent of Abbot Stephen’s philosophy. You are a pragmatist, a lawyer. You don’t believe in elves and goblins, wood sprites or that the Powers of Hell can possess a man. You engaged Abbot Stephen in open debate. However, he proved to be a resourceful opponent with considerable evidence to justify what he did. Now, Archdeacon, you mentioned your court in London? In your role as a Judge of the Church you must have met the cunning man Carrefour, whom we now know as Taverner.’ Corbett paused. ‘You did know him, didn’t you? Master Wallasby, I don’t want to put you on oath. However, I am sure, if I searched the records of your court, I’d find reference to Taverner, that father of lies, being a constant visitor at your court.’

The Archdeacon was now visibly nervous.

‘Would you like some wine?’ Corbett offered. ‘Perhaps a piece of bread and cheese? No? Well, when I went through Master Taverner’s possessions I came across a small ledger, a journal he kept. More importantly, I discovered a licence to beg, as well as permission to go beyond the seas, both granted by your court. The licences were issued early in the autumn on the eve of the feast of St Matthew the Apostle. Now, correct me if I am wrong, Archdeacon, but I believe you gave Master Taverner both money and licences. He left on a ship from the Thames carrying supplies up the Eastern coast. Taverner secured his passage, landed and made his way to St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh. He really was a master of disguise, a deceitful schemer. He had been furnished with other letters and embellished his story with references to being seen by priests in London. Abbot Stephen accepted him as a bona fide appellant, desperate for spiritual help and comfort. Taverner proved equal to the task, and convinced Abbot Stephen that he was possessed. Abbot Stephen rose to the bait. He may have had doubts initially but these slowly crumbled away so he wrote to you and your Dominican friends in London.’

Corbett paused, went across and filled a goblet half full of wine and sipped the blood-red claret. Corbett smacked his lips.

‘You are sure, Archdeacon, you won’t join me? I could even warm you a posset cup?’

Wallasby stared back owl-eyed.