Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

‘And the corpses round Oxford?’

Bullock shrugged. ‘You know as much as I do, Sir Hugh. Poor men; heads taken off and strung up by their hair to a tree. I have had my men out. They’ve scoured the woods and fields. There’s something going on.’ He paused and scratched the mole on his right cheek. ‘Oxford is a curious place, Sir Hugh. In the churches they sing the Salve Regina and venerate the Body of Christ. At night, in the taverns, they lose their souls in wine and debauchery. Beyond the walls, in the lonely places — well, to cut a long story short, on the Banbury road my men talked to a forester. He led them to a glade deep in the trees. There’s a rock, a huge boulder, as if Satan himself thrust it up from hell. Someone had used it as an altar; there were marks of fire, blood-stains and, in the branch of a tree, an animal’s skull.’

‘Warlocks?’ Corbett asked.

‘Wizards, warlocks, and witches?’ Bullock sniffed. ‘That’s all there was. The local peasants or farmers are innocent: they’ve neither the time nor the energy for such nonsense.’

‘And you think it’s connected to these deaths?’

‘Possibly.’ Bullock wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘I’d love to find the killer. I hope it’s some arrogant popinjay of a student. By the way, another corpse was brought in this morning: an old simpleton called Senex. He was found like the others-’ Bullock smiled grimly ‘-with one exception: the old man’s hand was tightly clenched. When I prised the fingers open, I found dirt, pebbles and, more importantly, a button.’

‘A button?’ Ranulf queried.

‘Yes, of metal, embossed with a sparrow, the escutcheon of Sparrow Hall. What is more,’ Bullock continued, ‘as you know, Sir Hugh, these buttons are only worn on the gowns of Masters or certain rich scholars. Most of the rest are clothed in nothing better than sacking.’

‘So, what do you think?’ Corbett asked.

Bullock got to his feet. ‘My view is that there is a coven of warlocks in the hall who follow the Lords of the Gibbet. The deaths of these old beggars are linked to some loathsome practices but I have no proof or evidence. The old man may have picked the button up whilst he was being hunted or, in his death struggle, plucked it from someone’s coat. However, his is not the only corpse we have this morning.’ Bullock slurped from his wine goblet. ‘An evening ago, just before Vespers, William Passerel the bursar was hounded from Sparrow Hall by a mob of students. It’s common knowledge that Ascham, who was well loved, wrote most of Passerel’s name on a scrap of parchment as he lay dying in the library. Now Passerel fled, and took sanctuary in St Michael’s Church. Father Vincent, the parish priest, gave him sanctuary, food and drink. The mob dispersed, but later on, someone entered the church and left a flagon of wine and a cup near the rood screen door. Passerel drank it; but it contained an infusion of poison. He died almost immediately.’

‘How do you know that?’ Corbett asked.

‘St Michael’s has an anchorite, a mad, old woman called Magdalena. She saw the person steal into the church, a mere shadow. She glimpsed Passerel drinking and then heard his death screams.’ Bullock moved to the door. ‘Come on, I’ll take you down to the corpse chamber!’

The Sheriff led them down, out of the gate house, across a still busy yard. They went down a long, narrow staircase which led into the cellar and dungeons of the castle. It was as black as night, only occasional pitch torches provided pools of dancing light. Bullock took them along the dank, musty passageway, round a corner to a room at the far end. He pushed the door open, and they were assaulted by the sour air inside; fetid, soggy straw covered the floor. The squat, tallow candles and smelly oil lamps placed on ledges gave the vaulted room a macabre atmosphere. As Corbett’s eyes grew accustomed to the light, he saw two tables, like those found in a slaughterhouse, on each of which lay a corpse. One was covered by a sheet, bare feet protruding beneath: the other was naked except for a loin cloth; the man bending over it was dressed like a monk in a cowl and gown. He didn’t look up as they entered but kept dabbing at the corpse’s face with a cloth.

‘Good day, Hamell!’

The man turned, pulling back his hood, and leaned against the table. His face was a cadaverous yellow, long like that of a horse, with mournful eyes and slobbering mouth. His upper lip was covered by a straggly moustache, cut unevenly at one end. He gazed blearily at the Sheriff.

‘This is Hamell, our castle leech.’

‘And a drunken sot,’ Ranulf whispered.

‘I’m not drunk.’ Hamell staggered towards them. ‘I’ve just taken a little cordial. This is a filthy business.’ He breathed strong ale fumes in Corbett’s face. ‘You’ve come to claim the corpse?’

‘He’s the King’s clerk,’ Bullock explained.

‘Oh, Lord save us!’ Hamell slurred. ‘So the King wants the body, does he?’ He staggered back towards the corpse, the wet rag still clutched in his hand. ‘Dead as a doornail, this one is.’

‘What caused it?’ Corbett asked, coming up behind him.

‘I’m not a physician,’ Hamell slurred.

He pointed to the purple scratches on the man’s stomach, chest and neck: the face was a liverish hue, the eyes popping, the mouth half-open, the swollen tongue thrust out.

‘He consumed deadly nightshade,’ Hamell explained. ‘I’ve seen cases before — people who have taken it accidentally.’ He gestured at Corbett to go to the other side of the table. ‘But the face and swollen tongue — ’ he pointed to the discoloration of the skin ‘- means he drank a lot. It’s easily done,’ he added. ‘Particularly if it’s stirred into strong wine.’

‘And there are no other wounds?’ Corbett asked. ‘Or marks?’

‘Some scratches,’ Hamell explained.

‘And the other corpse?’ Corbett asked.

Hamell turned and pulled back the sheet. Corbett flinched. Ranulf cursed and Maltote was promptly sick in the corner. Senex’s corpse was a dull white like the underbelly of a stale cod but it was the head, severed from the bloody neck, and placed beneath one of the arms, which rendered the whole scene ghastly.

‘I haven’t sewn it back yet,’ Hamell explained cheerily. ‘I always do that.’

Bullock, hand to his mouth, also turned away.

‘And make sure you do it properly this time,’ he growled. ‘Last time, you were so drunk, you sewed it on back to front!’

Corbett looked at the severed neck and the dark blood encrusted there, and recognised the sheer cut of a sharp axe brought down with great force.

‘Cover it up!’ he ordered.

Hamell did so.

‘What was found in his hand?’

The leech pointed to the side of the table. Corbett, bringing a candle closer, carefully scrutinised the dirty pebbles, then picked up the brass button, the shape of a sparrow clearly etched on it.

‘Can I keep it?’ he asked.

Bullock agreed. Corbett examined Senex’s hands: the cold, chapped fingers and the jagged, dirty nails. He noticed the palm of the right hand was much dirtier than that of the left. He then examined the knees, remarking how grubby they were.

‘He must have been crouching,’ Corbett explained. ‘Kneeling on soil or dirt. His killer stood over him. He brought the axe back, and that’s probably when the button fell off. Poor Senex, scrabbling about, clutched it even as the axe fell.’ Corbett put the button into his pouch. ‘Ah well, God knows, Master Sheriff, I have seen enough!’

They left the chamber. Maltote had now composed himself, though his face was as white as a ghost. They walked back up into the castle bailey. The serjeant who had accosted Corbett was waiting for them.