Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

‘Not a blade of grass,’ Corbett murmured, looking at Ranulf. ‘Or a leaf. Nothing! I don’t think these men were killed where they were found.’

Ranulf picked up one piece of hose and examined the worn woollen threads.

‘Look, Master.’ Ranulf pointed to the small, grain-like pebbles caught there.

‘We have the same here.’ Corbett pointed to another pair of faded, bottle-green hose. He then examined the boots: again there was no mud or anything to indicate the beggars had been killed in a field or wood.

‘Put them back,’ Corbett ordered.

He helped Ranulf do so, and Bullock came out.

‘You are finished?’

‘Yes.’

The Sheriff kicked the box back into the store room and slammed the door shut.

‘Well, Sir Hugh, what do you think?’

‘I suspect,’ Corbett replied, ‘that these men were not killed in some Satanic rite. I doubt if they were lured out on to some desolate heath or lonely field: they were killed here in Oxford. Perhaps in some street or alleyway?’

‘But why?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Perhaps for pleasure,’ Corbett replied. ‘Some sick soul who liked to see an old man beg for his life before he is killed? That’s why they were chosen. Who’d ever miss a beggar?’

‘Sheer malice?’ Bullock exclaimed. ‘A simple lust for killing.’

‘Something like that,’ Corbett replied. ‘A devil’s hunt. Someone who goes out into the streets at night, chooses his victim and stalks him like you would a rabbit or a pheasant.’

‘Yet no one has heard or seen anything,’ Bullock retorted.

‘Think of all the lonely places in the city,’ Corbett replied. ‘There’s the old Jewish cemetery, not to mention the great open spaces of common land.’

‘But what happened to the blood?’ Ranulf asked.

‘We have had summer rains, which couid have washed it away,’ Corbett replied.

‘But, if that’s the case,’ Bullock intervened, ‘why weren’t the corpses left where they were killed? Why does the assassin risk capture by taking them outside the city and leaving the heads tied to the branches of some trees?’

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. ‘But, Sir Walter — ’ he extended his hand ‘- from now on, Sparrow Hall is to be guarded every night until this business is finished.’

The Sheriff agreed and Corbett and Ranulf left.

‘Have you told the Lady Maeve that Maltote’s dead?’ Ranulf asked as they made their way along an alleyway to Broad Street.

‘Yes, I have,’ Corbett murmured. He stopped and stared up at the blue sky between the row of houses. ‘I am sorry, Ranulf. I am deeply sorry that Maltote’s dead but I will grieve for him when this is over and his killer is punished.’ He rubbed the side of his face. ‘His corpse will be sent out to some abbey for embalming and then back to Leighton. There’s an old yew tree in the graveyard. He can be buried beneath that.’ Corbett walked on. ‘What puzzles me now,’ he continued, ‘are the deaths of these beggar men. I always thought Ap Thomas was responsible.’

Ranulf was about to reply when he heard a sound behind him. The alleyway was a lonely, narrow thoroughfare and he heard the slither of a boot. He grabbed Corbett, dragging him towards the wall, and as he did so, something smacked into the side of a house where it jutted out a bit further along. Ranulf peered up the alleyway — nothing, though he noticed a cat leap across as if it had been disturbed. Then he glimpsed a dark shape move out of a doorway, and an arm being brought back and again he pulled Corbett aside. Once more there was the smack of a stone hitting a wall deeper down the alleyway.

Ranulf pulled out his dagger and edged forwards but, by the time he’d reached the place he’d glimpsed the figure, there was nothing except the sound of the faint patter of feet down the narrow runnel which led off the alleyway. Ranulf crouched and picked up some small, well-smoothed pebbles. Corbett came up.

‘Slingshot,’ Ranulf explained, getting to his feet with one of the pebbles in his hand. He threw the pebble up and caught it, allowing it to smack against the palm of his hand. ‘If one of these had caught us, Master …?’

‘Would it have killed?’ Corbett asked.

‘I’ve seen it happen,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Have you forgotten the bible story: David slaying Goliath?’

‘No,’ Corbett replied, taking the pebble from Ranulf’s hand. ‘I have also seen boys at sowing time, following their fathers, armed with a slingshot to drive away the marauding crows.’ He stared down the narrow, darkened runnel. ‘And that’s how the Bellman regards me,’ he continued. ‘A noisy, interfering crow that should be brought down.’

They continued on their way. Corbett paused where the jutting wall of a derelict house had stopped the first pebble: he noticed how the slingshot had pierced deep into the plaster.

‘That’s it!’ he declared. ‘Unless we have to go out, Ranulf, we’d best stay indoors.’

‘It could have been Bullock,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘He knew we had left the castle.’

‘Aye,’ Corbett replied. ‘Or the Bellman. Or, indeed, one of Ap Thomas’s friends.’

Corbett was relieved to reach Carfax, crossing the busy thoroughfare, shouldering his way past the crowds; he kept one hand on his wallet, the other on his dagger, wary of the pickpockets who clustered there. Ranulf followed behind. Now and again he’d turn, standing on tiptoe to look over the crowd but he could glimpse no one who appeared to be following them. They reached the hostelry, entering by the rear entrance because the front was thronged with scholars and Corbett wanted to avoid any confrontation over Ap Thomas. Norreys was in the yard, standing by the well, cleaning out some casks.

‘Ah Sir Hugh.’ He came over. He smiled but his eyes looked anxious, his face haggard and white. ‘The news about Ap Thomas’s arrest is now all over Oxford,’ he stammered. ‘Master Tripham and his colleagues have asked to meet you in the library.’ Norreys wiped his hands on his leather apron. ‘They asked if you’d be so kind as to go across immediately?’

‘We noticed the scholars in the lane,’ Corbett remarked. ‘So we decided to come this way.’

‘Oh, there’ll be no trouble,’ Norreys explained. ‘Ap Thomas and his henchmen were not well liked. They are now more a source of laughter than anything else.’ He returned to the cask he was cleaning, put the lid firmly back on, hammering in the wooden pegs. He took off his apron. ‘I’ll fetch my cloak and follow you.’

Corbett walked through the hostelry. This time he found the atmosphere much lighter and the scholars more respectful, the bachelors and commons standing aside as he passed. They crossed the lane to the hall where a servitor ushered them into the library. A short while later they were joined by Tripham, Master Barnett, Churchley and Appleston. Dame Mathilda came in last, her black polished cane tapping the floor, her head held as regally as a queen’s. Ranulf watched as Moth helped her into the high chair at the top of the library table; he then glanced curiously at Corbett who seemed to be lost in a reverie. Norreys came over, huffing and puffing, wiping his hands on his gown. Tripham told them to take their seats.

‘I would offer you some wine, Sir Hugh, but,’ he added sardonically, ‘Master Churchley has told us how wary you would be of eating or drinking anything here.’

‘I think the same applies to all of you,’ Corbett replied. ‘There’s no rhyme nor reason for the deaths of Ascham or Passerel. Or, indeed, that of my good servant Maltote. The Bellman strikes when he wishes, not just to safeguard himself but to heap insult upon injury. You asked to see me?’

‘I…’ Tripham stammered. ‘We would like to protest — the Sheriff has informed us that Sparrow Hall is to be placed under curfew from dusk till dawn. Is that really necessary?’