Paul Doherty - Corpse Candle

Wallasby cleared his throat and shuffled his feet.

‘Where’s the crime in that, Sir Hugh? There’s many a man I don’t like, be they clerk or priest.’

Corbett smiled thinly.

‘You were trying to disgrace him, I know, under the guise of scholarship and academic friendship. You, Aelfric — infirmarian and a member of the Abbot’s Concilium at St Martin’s — you were Wallasby’s spy. You corresponded secretly and told him when Taverner had arrived and about Abbot Stephen’s reaction. You also supplied our cunning man with the necessary powders and potions to assist in his mummery. Is that why Abbot Stephen died? Because he turned the tables on you? Does this account for the arrow in Taverner’s heart? Because your well-laid plots and schemes went awry?’ Corbett banged his fist on the table. ‘The truth, Brother!’

Aelfric looked as if he was going to faint: without a by your leave he went and sat on a chair against the wall and put his face in his hands.

‘ Peccavi! Peccavi !’ he intoned, striking his breast. ‘I have sinned and sinned again!’

‘Oh, don’t be so weak!’ Wallasby snarled.

‘Be quiet!’ Aelfric hissed. ‘It was your plan! Sir Hugh, you are correct. Abbot Stephen would not be moved on the matter of the guesthouse. Above all, he would not allow us to search for a holy relic. Like others on the Concilium, I dreamt of St Martin’s being a second Glastonbury, a shrine to rival Walsingham or even Canterbury. It wasn’t just the guesthouse. . it was the shrine, the pilgrims. .’

‘Of course,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘And, where there’s a shrine, miracles occur. And where miracles flourish there has to be a physician to attest to their worthiness, not to mention a hospital well furnished with beds and the best medicines. You were all dreaming of greatness, weren’t you?’

‘Archdeacon Wallasby was born in these parts,’ the infirmarian continued, staring at the floor. ‘Seven months ago he came here, supposedly visiting his family, and the plot was laid. I corresponded with him. The rest you’ve surmised. Taverner arrived at St Martin’s and I supplied him with the necessary potions and powders. I also wrote to Wallasby, using our own code, informing him that Abbot Stephen was much impressed. I didn’t mean any harm.’ The infirmarian wiped tears from his eyes. ‘I know I have sinned. Trickery was perpetrated. It would have broken Abbot Stephen’s heart and he didn’t deserve that. I was almost relieved when Taverner turned the tables. He said he would act the part through and not disgrace our Abbot’s name.’ The infirmarian spread his hands. ‘What could I do? The hunter had become the hunted. Taverner said if I told the truth, I’d be disgraced. How could I continue as infirmarian without the trust of Father Abbot? But I had nothing to do with Taverner’s murder, I swear. I have confessed my sin. I was going to let matters take their course until the. .’

‘Until these murders began,’ Ranulf interrupted.

‘Yes,’ the infirmarian muttered. ‘Wallasby here wanted to get away. He needed a secure passage along the lanes so I went to Brother Dunstan, and Scaribrick was advised to let him pass.’

‘Sir,’ Corbett pointed at Wallasby, ‘I have told you once and I will tell you for the last time: you will remain here until my investigations are finished!’

‘I am a clerk in Holy Orders!’ Wallasby bellowed.

Ranulf made to rise.

‘Lay a hand on me,’ Wallasby threatened, ‘and I’ll have you excommunicated from St Paul’s Cross!’ He walked to the door and paused, his hand on the latch. ‘I am no assassin, Corbett,’ he jibed over his shoulder.

‘Yes, you are, Archdeacon. You are a man of deep malice. You intended to kill the Abbot’s spirit, turn him into a laughing stock. Tell me,’ Corbett got to his feet, ‘why was it you hated Abbot Stephen so much?’

He knew Wallasby couldn’t resist the opportunity. The Archdeacon leaned against the door, face contorted with anger and hate.

‘I met Daubigny at the cathedral schools,’ he replied. ‘Even as a boy he was cynical and mocking, quick of wit, nimble of foot.’ Wallasby walked forward. ‘He didn’t believe in anything, Corbett: in God or his Church. He often mocked the priests and yet,’ he paused, ‘everywhere he went he won friends. He and Harcourt were like peas in a pod. A man like Daubigny should have been brought to book, but instead he became a knight banneret, friend, counsellor and confidant of the King, a soldier and self-proclaimed scholar. And, when he wanted to. .’ Wallasby snapped his fingers, ‘he abruptly converted, became a man of God, a monk. But not your lowly lay brother — oh, not Daubigny! — he not only rose to become Abbot of a great monastery but a scholar, a theologian, an exorcist. In truth, he was a hypocrite!’

‘Can’t a man change?’ Corbett asked. ‘Doesn’t Christ preach conversion, repentance?’

‘ Cacullus non facit monachum : the cowl doesn’t make the monk,’ Wallasby retorted. ‘The rat does not change its coat. Yes, I admit I plotted against Daubigny, and I would have proved the truth about him, if Taverner hadn’t turned.’

‘Tell me,’ Corbett went back and sat in his chair, ‘have you ever heard of Heloise Argenteuil?’

‘The name means something,’ Wallasby replied, ‘but I cannot say more.’

The Archdeacon bowed mockingly at Ranulf.

‘And I must congratulate you. The news of your meeting with Scaribrick is all over the abbey. Sir, you have done more to impose the King’s writ than a dozen sheriff’s posses. At least, when I do depart this place, I’ll be safe.’

And, spinning on his heel, Wallasby left the room, slamming the door behind him.

‘No, you stay,’ Corbett gestured as Aelfric started to rise. ‘I have the further question. What if Abbot Stephen had agreed that the guesthouse could be built?’

‘We would have all rejoiced.’

‘Then let me take another path. If he continued to refuse,’ Corbett measured his words carefully, ‘could it have led to murder?’

Aelfric shook his head. ‘Not murder, Sir Hugh, but perhaps something just as heinous: hate, resentment, curses. You see, we met with Abbot Stephen as a group and, when we did, followed the Rule of St Benedict: our discussions had to be amicable, in the true spirit of Christ.’

‘But individually?’ Corbett interrupted.

‘God forgive us,’ Brother Aelfric breathed. ‘We all went our separate paths. You’ve discovered mine.’

‘And the rest?’

Aelfric shook his head. ‘As a group we were bound by holy obedience but I cannot speak for what happened in the souls of my brothers. Now, Sir Hugh, I must go.’

Once the infirmarian was gone, Corbett sighed and stood looking out of the window.

‘No one is fully truthful,’ he murmured. ‘You do realise that, Ranulf? Wallasby, Aelfric, Cuthbert — they are still not telling us what we really want to know!’

‘Can’t we use force?’

‘Against a monk, or an archdeacon? Secretly the King would agree. Publicly, we’d spend weeks cooling our heels in the Tower. I think we’ve exhausted everything.’

‘Are we to leave?’

‘No. The library won’t yield any secrets, Archdeacon Wallasby hides behind his hate and his holy orders, whilst the monks use their vows as a knight would a shield. Lady Margaret Harcourt is polite and courteous whilst the Watcher by the Gates spins his own tale.’

‘So, we come back to Abbot Stephen?’ Ranulf asked.

‘His manuscripts yield nothing,’ Corbett replied. ‘He did not say or do anything to provide a key to all these mysteries. All that remains is the burial mound in Bloody Meadow. Snow or not, come frost or hail, tomorrow, Ranulf, I intend to open and search that burial mound.’