Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

‘So, naturally, his murder was ill received by many in the hostelry?’

‘That’s why they turned their anger against poor Passerel,’ Churchley replied. ‘He was their scapegoat.’

‘Scapegoat?’

Tripham put his hands up his sleeves and leaned on the table.

‘We know Passerel was innocent,’ he replied. ‘Ascham must have been killed when Passerel was miles away from Sparrow Hall. Ah, well!’ Tripham got to his feet. ‘And as for poor Appleston, surely it’s not treason to study de Montfort’s theories? After all-’ he smiled thinly ‘- even the King himself has taken them as his own.’ He gestured at Appleston. ‘Come, let us dine together, I am sure Sir Hugh has other matters to pursue.’

‘Oh, one other thing, Master Tripham?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugh?’

‘You talked about secrets. What is yours?’

‘Oh, that’s quite simple, master clerk. I did not like Sir Henry Braose, either his arrogance or his scrupulous doubts just before death. Nor do I like his waspish sister who should never have been allowed to stay at this Hall.’

‘And Barnett?’ Corbett asked.

‘Ask him yourself!’ Tripham snapped. ‘Barnett has his own demons.’

Tripham opened the door, ushered Appleston out and slammed it behind him.

Corbett sighed and stared round the library. He remembered why he had come and went along the shelves looking for a Latin lexicon. At last he found one near the librarian’s table. He pulled it out, sat down and found the place but groaned in disappointment. ‘Passera’ was one of the Latin words for sparrow. Was that what Ascham had been trying to write? Was his death connected with Sparrow Hall itself? Or perhaps the dead bursar had simply been scrawling a passage in his own name? Corbett put his chin in his hands. His eye caught the small box of implements the librarian must have used. He pulled this over and went through the tawdry contents: a soft piece of samite, probably used as a duster, quills, ink-horn, pumice stone and small, silken finger-caps which Ascham would have used to turn pages. On a stone shelf beyond the desk, Corbett glimpsed a leather-bound ledger. He took and opened this: it was a record of which books had been borrowed from the shelves. Corbett searched for Ascham’s name but there was nothing: the dead archivist probably had no need to borrow books from the room he constantly worked in.

Corbett closed the ledger, put the lexicon away and left the Hall.

The lane was now thronged with scholars and their hangers-on making their way down to the last lectures of the day. Corbett glanced across and glimpsed Barnett: the pompous Master was standing at the top of the alleyway talking animatedly to the same beggar Corbett had met. The clerk stepped back into a doorway and watched Barnett hand a coin over. The beggar fairly jumped with glee. Barnett leaned down and whispered in the man’s ear; the fellow nodded and pushed himself off in his barrow. Corbett waited for the master to cross the lane and stepped out to block his path. Barnett seemed to ignore him but Corbett held his ground.

‘You are well, Master?’

‘Yes I am, clerk.’

‘You seem out of sorts?’

‘I do not like to be snooped and pried upon.’

‘Master Barnett,’ Corbett spread his hands, ‘I merely watch you do good works, helping the lame, feeding the hungry…’

‘Get out of my way!’ Barnett snapped and, pushing by, opened the door to Sparrow Hall.

Corbett let him go and returned to his own chamber in the hostelry. He could tell, as soon as he opened the door, that someone had been there though, when he looked, nothing was missing. Corbett sat down at his table. He felt hungry but decided to wait until the evening to eat. He knew Ranulf and Maltote would soon return. He took out his quill and ink-horn and wrote a short letter to Maeve. He told her about his arrival in Oxford; how good it was to return to the place where he had studied as a youth, how both the city and University had changed. His quill sped across the page, telling her the usual lies he always told whenever he was in danger. At the end he wrote a short message for Eleanor, forming huge, round letters. He put the quill down and closed his eyes. At Leighton, Maeve would be in the kitchen supervising the maids for the evening meal or perhaps in the chancery office studying accounts or talking to bailiffs. And Eleanor? She would just have finished her afternoon sleep. Corbett heard a sound in the passage outside. He opened his eyes, quickly folded the letter and began to seal it. There was a knock on the door and Maltote and Ranulf came in.

‘I thought you’d be joining us?’ Maltote asked as he sat on the bed.

‘I said I might do. I am not too hungry yet.’

‘Then we should dine before we leave.’

‘Leave?’ Corbett asked.

‘Tonight,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Maltote and I believe that our good friend David Ap Thomas and his henchmen will be leaving the city after dark.’

‘How do you know?’

Ranulf grinned. ‘This hostelry is a rabbit warren. You can hide in nooks and crannies and, when you are deep in the shadows, it is wonderful what you overhear.’

‘You are sure?’

‘As sure as I am that Maltote can ride a horse.’

Corbett handed the letter to Maltote. ‘Then take this to Master Sheriff at the castle and ask him to send it to Lady Maeve at Leighton. Tell him I need his help and assistance on an urgent matter.’

Maltote put his boots on, grabbed his cloak and hobbled off. Corbett then told Ranulf what he had discovered on his visit to Sparrow Hall.

‘Do you think Barnett,’ Ranulf asked, ‘is involved in the death of these beggars? I mean, he is a wealthy, flabby Master of the schools. Such men are not usually famous for their alms giving?’

‘Perhaps. But what about Appleston and our Vice-Regent? Either man could be the Bellman. There again, the same could be said of our good friend David Ap Thomas.’

‘What does concern me, Master,’ Ranulf said, ‘is the one question to which there appears to be no answer. Oxford is full of clerks — ’ he grinned ‘- such as ourselves, and scholars and students. Some of them come from abroad where their lords and rulers are the enemies of our King. Others come from the Scottish march or Wales and have no great love either for our sovereign lord. There must be many who would love to be the Bellman?’

‘And?’

‘So why does the Bellman identify himself as living at Sparrow Hall?’

Corbett shook his head. ‘I can’t really answer that except to say the Bellman must hate the Hall.’

‘Another question,’ Ranulf continued, ‘is that although we know the King is beside himself with fury at the Bellman’s appearance, who else really cares about his proclamations?’ Ranulf spread his hands. ‘I agree that there must be people in Oxford, as there are in Cambridge or in Shrewsbury, who’d follow any madcap rebel but — today, forty years after de Montfort’s death — what does the Bellman hope to achieve?’

‘Are you saying that the King should just leave it alone?’

‘In a way, yes,’ Ranulf replied.

Corbett chewed the corner of his mouth.

‘I hear what you say, Ranulf. It might be that the King was first advised that the antics of the Bellman were merely some scholar’s prank and so that’s why the murders took place. There was no real reason for them otherwise. How do we know Ascham or Passerel suspected the Bellman’s identity? Perhaps he just killed them, as in some game of hazard, to raise the odds so that the King was forced to take notice? But again the question is, why?’

Ranulf got to his feet. ‘I’m going across to the Hall,’ he declared. ‘Maltote will be some time hobbling to the castle and back. And, talking of hazard, I’ll wager that he stops at the Sheriffs stables to have a look at the horses.’