Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

‘Just fools playing,’ Corbett retorted. ‘They were born foolish and they’ll die foolish!’

‘Are we to eat?’ Maltote asked.

‘Not here,’ Corbett said. ‘Ranulf, take Maltote, explain what has happened and how careful he has to be. Go to Turl Lane, where there’s a tavern, the Grey Goose. I might meet you there after I’ve visited the Hall.’

They went downstairs into the lane. A whore, her face painted so white the plaster was cracking, flounced by, shaking her dirty, tattered skirts at them. In one hand she held her red wig, in the other a pet weasel tied by a piece of string wrapped round her wrist. She grinned at them in a display of yellow, cracked teeth but then turned, cursing in a string of filthy oaths, as a dog came out of an alleyway snapping and snarling at her pet. Whilst Ranulf and Maltote helped to drive it away, Corbett crossed and knocked at the door of Sparrow Hall. A servitor let him in. Corbett explained why he was there and the man took him upstairs to Churchley’s chamber. Master Aylric was sitting at his desk beneath an open window, watching the flame of a candle burn lower. He rose as Corbett entered, hiding his irritation beneath a false smile.

‘How does fire burn?’ he asked, grasping Corbett’s hand. ‘Why does wax burn quicker? Why is it more amenable to fire than wood or iron?’

‘It depends on its properties,’ Corbett replied, quoting from Aristotle.

‘Yes, but why?’ Churchley asked, waving him to a stool.

‘It’s about natural properties I have come.’ Corbett abruptly changed the conversation. ‘Master Aylric,’ he continued. ‘You are a physician?’

‘Yes, but I’m more of a student of the natural world,’ Churchley teased back, his narrow face becoming suspicious.

‘But you dispense physic here?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘And you have a dispensary? A store of herbs and potions?’

‘Of course,’ came the guarded reply. ‘It’s further down the passageway, but it’s under lock and key.’

‘I’ll come to the point,’ Corbett said briskly. ‘If you wished to poison someone, Master Aylric — it’s a question, not an accusation — you wouldn’t, surely, buy it from an apothecary in the city?’

Churchley shook his head. ‘That could be traced,’ he replied. ‘One would be remembered. I buy from an apothecary in Hog Lane,’ he explained, ‘and all my purchases are carefully noted.’

‘You never gather the herbs yourself?’

‘In Oxford?’ Churchley scoffed. ‘Oh, you might find some camomile out in Christchurch Meadows but, Sir Hugh, I am a busy Master. I am not some old woman who spends her days browsing in the woods like a cow.’

‘Exactly,’ Corbett replied. ‘And the same goes for the assassin who killed Passerel and Langton.’

Churchley sat back in his chair. ‘I follow your drift, Sir Hugh. You think the poisons were taken from the dispensary here, yet that would be noticed. The poisons are all held in jars carefully measured. It’s not that we expect to be poisoned in our beds,’ he continued, ‘but a substance like white arsenic is costly. Come, I’ll show you.’

He took a bunch of keys from a hook on the wall and led Corbett to a door further down the gallery. He unlocked it and they went in. The room was dark. Churchley struck a tinder and lit the six-branched candelabra on the small table. The air was thick with different smells, some fragrant, others acrid. Three walls of the chamber were covered in shelves. Each bore different pots, cups or jars with its own contents carefully marked. On the left were herbs: sponge-cap, sweet violet, thyme, hazelwitch, water grass, even some basil, but others, on the right, Corbett recognised as more deadly potions such as henbane and belladonna. Churchley took down a jar, an earthenware pot with a lid. The tag pasted to its side showed it to be white arsenic. Churchley put on a pair of soft kid gloves lying on the table. He took off the stopper and held the pot up against the candlelight. Corbett noted how the jar was measured in half ounces.

‘You see,’ Churchley explained. ‘There are eight and a half ounces here.’ He opened a calf-skin tome lying on the table. ‘Sometimes it is dispensed,’ he continued, ‘in very small doses for stomach complaints and I have given some to Norreys as it can be used as a powerful astringent for cleansing. But as you see, eight and a half ounces still remain.’

Corbett picked up the pot and sniffed.

‘Be careful,’ Churchley warned. ‘Those skilled in herbal lore say it should be handled wisely.’

Corbett sifted through the pot, noticing how the powder at the top seemed finer than that lying underneath. Churchley handed him a horn spoon and Corbett shook some of the fine chalk-like substance into it. Churchley stopped his protests and watched quietly, his face rather worried.

‘You are thinking the same as I,’ Corbett murmured. He scooped some of the powder on to the spoon. ‘Master Churchley, I assure you, I am not skilled in physic.’ Corbett held the powder up to his nose. ‘But I think this is finely ground chalk or flour and no more deadly.’

Churchley almost snatched the spoon out of his hand and, plucking up courage, he dabbed at the powder and put some on the tip of his tongue. He then took a rag and wiped his mouth.

‘It’s finely ground flour!’ he exclaimed.

‘Who keeps the keys?’ Corbett asked.

‘Well, I do,’ Churchley replied in a fluster. ‘But, Sir Hugh, surely you do not suspect me?’ He stepped out of the pool of light, as if he wished to hide in the shadows. ‘There could be other keys,’ he explained. ‘And this is Sparrow Hall, we don’t bolt and lock all our chambers. Ascham was an exception in that. Anyone could come into my chamber and take the keys. The Hall is often deserted.’ His words came out in a rush.

‘Someone came here,’ Corbett replied, putting the spoon back on the table, ‘and removed enough white arsenic to kill poor Langton. Someone who knew your system, Master Churchley.’

‘Well, everybody does,’ the man gabbled.

‘He filled the jar with powder,’ Corbett explained.

‘But who?’

Corbett wiped his fingers on his cloak.

‘I don’t know, Master Churchley.’ He waved round the room. ‘But God knows what else is missing.’ He stepped up close and saw the fear in Churchley’s eyes. ‘But I ask myself what else, Master Aylric, has been taken?’ Corbett turned and walked to the door. ‘If I was a Master of Sparrow Hall,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘I would be very careful what I ate and drank.’

A worried Churchley locked the door of the store room and followed Corbett down the gallery.

‘Sir Hugh,’ he wailed. ‘Are you saying we are all in danger?’

‘Yes, yes, I am. I would strongly advise that you scrupulously search to see if any more powders are missing.’

Corbett paused at the top of the stairs. ‘Who is acting as bursar after Passerel’s death?’

‘Well, I am.’

‘Is it possible to sift through Ascham’s and Passerel’s belongings?’

Churchley pulled a face.

‘I need to,’ Corbett persisted. ‘God knows, man, all our lives are at risk. I might find something there.’

Churchley, grumbling under his breath and anxious to get back to his herbs, led Corbett downstairs. They passed the small dining hall to the rear of the building. Churchley unlocked the door and led Corbett into a store room, a large vaulted chamber full of barrels with sheaves of parchment, ink, and vellum ranged along the shelves; further back stood buckets of sea coal and tuns of malmsey, wine and ale.

Churchley took Corbett over to a far corner. He unclasped two great chests.

‘Passerel’s and Ascham’s possessions are here,’ he declared. ‘They had no relatives — or none to speak of. Once their wills have been approved by Chancery, I suppose all these items will be inherited by the college.’