Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

Churchley nodded; his eyes narrowed as he studied Corbett afresh. ‘No one ever thought of examining that!’ he exclaimed.

‘I also suspect,’ Corbett added, ‘that the assassin later locked the window; just in case anyone did come back to search — it would be a small matter.’

‘So, you are implying,’ Churchley asked, ‘that the assassin deliberately greased the shutter bar?’

‘Of course. So that, when he pulled it from outside, the bar would drop down again. Watch.’

Corbett went and opened the shutters, tilting the bar back. He then closed one side and slammed the other: as soon as the shutters met, the raised bar fell into place.

‘As pure as logic,’ Appleston breathed.

‘Did any of you think of looking for what Ascham was studying?’ Corbett asked.

‘I did,’ Lady Mathilda stepped forward, resting on her cane. ‘I did, master clerk. There was a book, a folio or manuscript on the table but, when I returned the following morning, it was gone.’ She gestured round the library. ‘And God knows where or what it could have been.’

Corbett studied each of the Masters: which one of them was the royal spy? Surely, a man of learning and sharp intelligence would have noticed something amiss?

‘How do you know?’ Churchley paused and looked at Langton who abruptly belched and patted his stomach. ‘How do you know,’ he continued, ‘that Ascham went to the window?’

‘Because there are faint flecks of blood on the floor.’ Corbett replied. ‘Only small drops from when the crossbow bolt took him in the chest. Ascham would turn and hurry away from the window, but then he’d collapse. As he did so, Ascham must have noticed the small scroll the assassin had tossed through the window before closing it. He dragged himself to the table, grasped the piece of manuscript and began to write out his dying message which,’ Corbett sighed, ‘does seem to point the finger of accusation at poor Passerel.’

‘And you have no explanation of that, have you?’ Tripham accused.

‘No, I-’

Corbett’s reply was broken off as Langton rose to his feet, his face taut and pale. He dropped the cup, clutching his stomach. He staggered towards Corbett, his mouth opening and shutting.

‘Oh, sweet Jesu!’ he gasped. ‘Oh, Christ have mercy!’

He crashed into the table and then fell to his knees, both hands still clutching his belly. Corbett hurried towards him. Langton convulsed on the floor, his face purple as he gasped for air. Corbett tried to turn him over. All around was confusion, the others pushing and shoving. Langton gave one final convulsion, a deep shudder. He sighed, and his head fell sideways, eyes open, a dribble of spittle running out of the corner of his mouth. Corbett placed the man’s head gently on the floor. He tried to close the eyes but this was impossible. He stared up at the ring of faces, searching vainly for any clue or glimpse of satisfaction on the part of the unknown assassin. Churchley elbowed his way through. He knelt down beside the corpse, looking for the blood beat in Langton’s neck and wrist.

‘Lord have mercy!’ he whispered. ‘He’s dead! Langton is dead!’

The rest drew away. Corbett saw Lady Mathilda raise her cup to her lips.

‘Don’t drink!’ he shouted. ‘All of you, put your cups down!’ He tapped Churchley on the shoulder. ‘Was Langton an ill man?’

‘He suffered from stomach trouble,’ the fellow replied. ‘But nothing serious. I gave him some medicine. I don’t know if he-’

Corbett undid the pouch on the dead man’s belt. He drew out a square piece of parchment and handed this to Churchley. He searched again but, apart from some coins and a broken quill, found nothing.

‘This is yours.’ Churchley handed the parchment back. ‘It bears your name.’

Corbett took the piece of vellum, a neat square about four inches long, the corners expertly gathered and sealed with a blob of red wax. It bore his name, ‘Sir Hugh Corbett’, but he recognised the same clerkly hand that was behind the Bellman’s proclamations. He stood up, leaving the rest to gather round Langton’s corpse. Corbett broke the seal. The words written inside seemed to leap up in their cry of defiance.

‘The Bellman greets Corbett the King’s crow: the royal lap dog. The Bellman asks what the crow does in Oxford? The crow should be careful where he pecks and where he flies. This follower of carrion, this hunter of bloody morsels has been warned. Do not tarry long in the fields of Oxford or your beak may be bent, your claws broken, your wings pinioned, to be despatched back dead to your royal master. Signed ‘the Bellman’.

Corbett hid his fear and passed the proclamation around. Ranulf swore. Maltote, who could barely read, asked what it was? Lady Mathilda’s fingers went to her lips, and the rest of the Masters seemed to sober up.

‘This is treason,’ Ranulf hissed. ‘This is treason against the King’s clerk and against the Crown itself!’

‘It’s murder,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Horrible murder. Bring the cups here, all of you!’

They scurried about until all the cups were on the table in front of him: it was difficult to tell which had been Langton’s. Corbett and Ranulf, assisted by Churchley, sniffed tentatively at each. All bore the juicy fragrance of sweet wine except one: Corbett held it up to his nose and caught a sharp, acrid smell.

‘What is it?’ He passed the cup to Churchley who sniffed it, swilling it around.

‘White arsenic,’ he finally declared. ‘Only arsenic has that tang, particularly white arsenic: it is deadly in its effect.’

‘Wouldn’t Langton have tasted it?’

‘Perhaps,’ Churchley replied. ‘But, there again, if his palate was sweetened by what we have eaten and drunk, he might dismiss it.’

‘But how did it get there?’ Barnett bellowed. ‘Master Alfred.’ He grasped Tripham’s arm. ‘Are we to be poisoned in our beds?’

Lady Mathilda snapped her fingers and gestured to Master Moth who, throughout it all, had stood silently near the door. She made those strange, bird-like gestures and Moth hurried off. He returned accompanied by two sleepy-eyed servitors who had arranged the library and brought the wine down. Somehow the news of Langton’s death had already begun to spread and the servitors crept like mice into the library. Tripham interrogated them but their mumbled replies shed no light on what had happened.

‘Master Tripham,’ one of them wailed, ‘we filled the wine and put the goblets on a tray.’

Corbett dismissed them. ‘Did any of you see someone playing with the cups, moving them about?’ he asked the rest.

‘No,’ Barnett replied on behalf of them all. ‘I was next to Langton all the time.’ His voice faltered as he realised the implications of what he had said. ‘I did nothing!’ he gasped. ‘I would not do such a thing!’

‘Was Langton holding his cup all the time?’ Corbett asked.

Churchley flailed his hands. ‘Like the rest,’ he whispered, ‘he probably put it down on the table and then picked it up.’

‘But what I can’t understand,’ Barnett declared, ‘is why Langton should be carrying a message to you, Sir Hugh, from the Bellman?’

‘I know.’ Corbett sat on a stool, ‘Master Alfred Tripham. Bring the servants back, and have the corpse removed! The rest of you stay!’

The Vice-Regent hurried off. He returned with four servants carrying a sheet and Langton’s corpse was placed in it. Tripham told them to take it to the corpse house at the far side of the garden.

Corbett sat, head bowed. How could this have happened? He closed his eyes. Think! Think! Why did Langton have a letter addressed to me in his wallet? If Langton hadn’t died, would he have handed it over, and would he have been able to tell me who the writer was. The Bellman must have been taking a huge risk. What would have happened if Langton had suddenly handed it across during the meal or afterwards? And how did the poisoner know which cup to taint? He opened his eyes. Langton’s corpse had now been removed. The rest were looking at him strangely.