Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

‘Why did your brother,’ Corbett asked, changing tack abruptly, ‘call his foundation Sparrow Hall?’

‘It was my brother’s favourite quotation from the Gospels,’ Lady Mathilda explained. ‘Christ’s words about the Father knowing even when a sparrow fell to the earth, yet that each of us was worth more than many sparrows.’

‘He was also a student of the Venerable Bede,’ Appleston explained. ‘Particularly his Ecclesiastical History of the English People. Henry loved Bede’s story about the thane who compared a man’s life to a sparrow which flies into a hall, where there’s light and warmth, before continuing his flight out into the cold darkness.’ Appleston smiled. ‘I only met Sir Henry a few months before he died: he often took comfort from that story.’

‘Did Ascham spend a great deal of time in the library in the days before his death?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes, yes he did,’ Tripham replied. ‘But what book he was looking for or reading none of us knew.’

‘I’d like to go down there,’ Corbett declared. ‘Is that possible?’

Tripham agreed and servants were sent to light candles. When they returned, the Vice-Regent ordered them to bring wine to the library. He rose, with Corbett and the rest following him out into the passageway. The library was across the garden, at the far side of the Hall. It was a long, spacious room with wooden wainscoting, and gold and silver stars delicately painted on the white plaster above. Shelves, at right angles to the wall, were ranged on either side, with tables and stools between and a long writing table down the centre. The air was sweet and smelt of pure beeswax, parchment and leather. Corbett sniffed appreciatively and exclaimed in surprise at how many books, manuscripts and folios the library held.

‘Oh, we have most of the great works here,’ Lady Mathilda declared proudly. ‘My brother, God rest him, was a bibliophile: his books, as well as his private papers, are kept here. He also bought extensively both at home and abroad.’

Corbett was about to question the source of such wealth but remembered just in time: Sir Henry Braose, like many who had supported the King against de Montfort, had received lavish rewards from the Crown, including the revenues and lands of de Montfort’s adherents. No wonder the Braoses had been cursed here in Oxford, where there had been much support for the dead earl.

The rest of the Masters, rather unsteady on their feet, leaned against the tables or sat on stools as Corbett walked the full length of the library. He admired its books, shelves and coffers, its two ornately carved lecterns, as well as the fresco on the far wall, which depicted a scene from the Apocalypse where the Angel opened the Great Book for St John to read. Corbett came back into the centre of the room and studied the faint, dark stains on the floor.

‘This is where Ascham was found?’

‘No, as soon as we opened the door, we could see him lying just before the table there.’

‘And where was the parchment?’

Tripham pointed to a place near the table. ‘It was lying there as if Ascham had pushed it away from him.’

‘We tried to clean the blood away,’ Appleston explained. ‘Passerel was to hire special polishers.’

Corbett studied the blood stains in the centre of the room and beside the table.

‘So,’ Corbett said, ‘it looks as if Ascham crawled along the floor to get to something at the table?’

‘There were also blood stains on the table,’ Tripham explained. ‘As if Ascham had dragged himself up. Why, Sir Hugh?’

Corbett walked on down the library, past the table to the shuttered window at the far end.

‘And this was locked and barred?’

‘Yes,’ Churchley agreed. ‘I remember it was.’

‘And the window behind it was locked?’

‘I think so,’ Tripham replied. ‘Why, Sir Hugh?’

Corbett lifted the bar across the shutters. It swung down easily and he noticed how well oiled it was. He pulled back the shutters; the lattice window behind was large. Corbett lifted the catch, opened it and stared out on to the moon-washed garden: the air was thick with the sweet smell of roses. He peered around: the window was low, anyone who stood in the garden bed beneath could look in and be hidden by the hedgerow which stood about a yard away. Corbett closed the window: he brought the shutters back with a bang, and the bar immediately fell into place.

‘Should the window have been closed and the shutters barred?’ he asked. ‘I mean, it was a summer’s evening. Wouldn’t Ascham need both light and air?’

‘I was in the garden,’ Churchley spoke up. ‘Early in the afternoon. The window was shuttered then. I don’t think,’ he added, ‘that Ascham wanted anyone to see what he was doing.’

‘Of course,’ Corbett murmured. ‘That is why the door was bolted and locked.’ He glanced at Tripham. ‘There was no mistaking that, was there?’

‘No,’ Tripham replied. ‘You can inspect it yourself. We had to fashion new bolts and a lock as well as re-hang the leather hinges.’

Corbett walked back to the door. Tripham had told him the truth: the bolts, hinges and lock were all new. He returned to the blood stains, studied them carefully and edged his way along the table back to the window. Now and again, he could see faint flecks.

‘What are you looking for, Sir Hugh?’

‘I am trying to imagine how Ascham died. How he could be struck by a quarrel when both the door and the windows of the library were sealed and where he stood when it happened.’

‘And?’

‘Well, there are two logical conclusions. First, someone was in the library with him who managed to conceal himself here and leave afterwards.’

‘Nonsense!’ Tripham declared. ‘The chamber was searched. Not even a mouse could get in or out.’

‘Well then-’ Corbett was about to continue but paused as a servant entered carrying a tray of wine cups. These were distributed, and Corbett took a sip from his. Once the servants had left, Corbett pointed to the window.

‘In which case, if only one conclusion remains, that, logically, must be the correct one.’

‘But the window was closed,’ Lady Mathilda spoke up. ‘Ascham was secretive. He’d locked and bolted the door. He wouldn’t leave the window open!’

‘Ascham was searching for something,’ Corbett replied, ‘that would unmask the Bellman. He came in and locked and bolted both door and window. However,’ Corbett continued, ‘what he didn’t know was that his murderer was hunting him. Late that summer afternoon-’ Corbett pointed to the table ‘-Ascham was probably seated here studying some manuscript or book, a matter I’ll return to. He hears a rap on the window. Deep in his studies, Ascham probably thinks it’s someone trying to get his attention. He pulls back the shutters and opens the window. The person he has been hunting is standing there, a small arbalest in his hand. The quarrel is loosed. Ascham staggers back, naturally he wanted to reach the door. He collapses and the assassin throws in his contemptuous note.’

‘But who closed the window and shutters?’ Tripham exclaimed. ‘And how could the assassin have counted on not being seen?’

‘Outside that window,’ Corbett replied, ‘there’s a small garden bed, screened off from the rest of the garden by a hedgerow?’

‘Of course,’ Norreys spoke up excitedly from where he sat on a stool leaning against the shelves. ‘The assassin would simply have to come out into the garden, walk at a crouch between the wall and bushes, then tap on the window.’

‘But how were the window shutters closed afterwards?’ Tripham insisted.

‘Ascham himself might have done that,’ Corbett replied. ‘To protect himself further from the assassin. However, I have examined the shutter and noted that the bar has been freshly oiled. What the assassin probably did was pull the shutters closed from the outside, with such force the bar simply slid back into place. Consequently, when you came into the library, you’d see the bar down and conclude the window behind also had its catch in place.’