Paul Doherty - The Devil's Hunt

Lady Mathilda didn’t even bother to acknowledge the question.

‘We can never prove that,’ Corbett replied. ‘But I am convinced that his murder was a sentence carried out against a man who had dared to question and plan changes at Sparrow Hall.’

Corbett was about to continue when there was a knock on the door. He nodded at Ranulf to open it, and Tripham came in.

‘Sir Hugh, is there anything wrong?’

‘Yes and no,’ Corbett replied. ‘Master Alfred, I would prefer it if you stayed downtairs. Oh, and if Master Moth returns, detain him on some pretext.’

Tripham was about to protest but Corbett held up his hand.

‘Master Alfred, I shall not be long. I promise you!’

Ranulf locked the door behind him. Lady Mathilda made to rise but Corbett stretched across and pressed her back in the chair.

‘I think it’s best if you stay where you are. God knows what this room holds; knife, crossbow, poison? There’s plenty of poison, isn’t there, in Sparrow Hall? And it was not difficult for you to gain access to Master Churchley’s stores as, of course, you’ve got a key to every chamber.’

‘I have listened, Sir Hugh.’ Lady Mathilda breathed in deeply.

Corbett marvelled at her poise and equanimity.

‘I have listened to your story but you have still offered no proof.’

‘I shall come to the evidence soon enough,’ Corbett replied. ‘You are like all the assassins I have met, Lady Mathilda — arrogant, locked in hatred, full of contempt for me. Hence the mocking messages, the rotting corpse of a crow.’ He pointed a finger at her. ‘Now and again, you made small mistakes: like snatching your fingers away when I attempted to kiss your hand lest I notice the ink-stains, or feeling safe to drink your wine just after Langton had died from drinking his poisoned wine. Moreover, you, amongst all those at Sparrow Hall, seemed the least perturbed by Norreys’s killings.’

‘I am of that disposition, Sir Hugh,’ Lady Mathilda interrupted.

‘Oh, I am sure you are. You really believed you would not be caught. If you felt threatened you’d remove me, like your assassin Moth killed Maltote. What did it matter? Anything to fuel the King’s rage or suspicion. Nevertheless, you took precautions: the Bellman’s days seemed numbered so you killed Master Appleston so that he took the blame.’ For the first time Lady Mathilda’s lower lip trembled. ‘You really didn’t want to do that, did you?’ Corbett asked. ‘Appleston was a symbol of your brother’s magnanimity, his generosity of spirit. But someone had to take the blame. So, late last night, you and Master Moth paid him a visit with a jug of wine, the best claret from Bordeaux. Appleston would sit and talk. He then fell into a deep sleep and you and Master Moth held the bolster over his face, pressing down firmly. Appleston, drugged, unable to resist, gave up his life as easily as the others. Afterwards, with the door locked, you left enough evidence to make anyone think Appleston was the Bellman, then you disappeared back to your chamber.’

‘If,’ Lady Mathilda retorted, ‘that did happen, how can you prove it?’

‘Appleston had retired to bed. He was planning to go to the schools the following morning — he left out fresh robes. He also had a sore on his lip and when you pressed the bolster into his face, you touched the scab and made it bleed. You then turned the bolsters over and put the stained one beneath the others. In trying to depict Appleston as a suicide, you made a dreadful mistake.’

‘Very shrewd,’ Lady Mathilda taunted. ‘But where’s the real proof? The evidence for the Justices?’

‘You have heard some of it.’

‘Mere bird droppings!’ Lady Mathilda scoffed. ‘You can peck and poke to your heart’s content, Master Crow, but you’ll find no juicy tidbits.’

‘Oh, I haven’t started yet,’ Corbett replied, looking round the room. ‘I’ll have you imprisoned in the cellar, Lady Mathilda. Then I and Master Bullock will go through this chamber.’ He smiled into Lady Mathilda’s face. ‘We’ll eventually find the evidence we need: pen, ink, parchment. Oh, and I forgot to tell you, the anchorite at St Michael’s Church, the one you wished you’d dealt with-’ Corbett stared boldly lest she detected he was lying. ‘The anchorite saw Master Moth go into the church with the poisoned wine.’

Lady Mathilda brought back her head. ‘It was too dark! Black as night. How could she see anybody in that gloom?’

‘Who said the anchorite was in her cell?’ Corbett lied. ‘She was just within the doorway. She gave me a description which fits Master Moth. She then recalled,’ Corbett continued remorselessly, ‘the same person pinning the Bellman’s proclamations to the door of St Michael’s Church.’

‘You are lying!’

‘I’m not.’ Corbett drew in his breath for his greatest lie. ‘You see the night Moth went to St Michael’s, he dropped the mallet. Magdalena, hearing the sound, came down from her cell above the porch. She peered through a crack and saw him: the same dark hood and cowl, that boyish, innocent face.’ Corbett rose to his feet to ease the cramp in his legs. ‘I shall tell you what will happen now, Lady Mathilda: I’ll go before the Royal Justices and provide them with the same evidence I have laid before you. They may not issue a warrant for your arrest but they’ll certainly be interested in Master Moth.’ He sat back in his chair. Ranulf was still staring at Lady Mathilda with the same fixed look. ‘You know the mind of the King,’ Corbett continued. ‘He’ll show no mercy. Master Moth will be taken downriver to the Tower and into its dark, dank dungeons. The King’s torturers will be instructed to apply their finest arts.’

‘He’s a deaf mute!’ Lady Mathilda cried.

‘He is an intelligent and malicious young man,’ Corbett retorted. ‘And your accomplice in murder.’

‘He killed Maltote,’ Ranulf declared, stepping forward. ‘He killed my friend. You have my word, Lady Mathilda, that I will join the King’s torturers. They’ll question and question until Master Moth agrees to tell the truth.’

‘Do you want that to happen to Master Moth?’ Corbett asked quietly.

Now Lady Mathilda bowed her head. ‘I’d forgotten about that,’ she murmured. ‘I’d forgotten about Master Moth.’ Lady Mathilda glanced up. ‘What would happen if I told you what I know?’

‘I am sure that the King would be merciful,’ Corbett replied, ignoring Ranulf’s black looks.

Lady Mathilda pulled up the cuffs of her sleeves. She leaned back in her chair, turning sideways to stare into the cold ash of the fire hearth.

‘Put not your trust in princes, Master Corbett,’ she began. ‘Forty years ago, I, and my brother Henry, were scholars here in Oxford. My father, a merchant, hired a master and I joined Henry in his studies. The years passed and Henry became a clerk at the royal court.’ She smiled grimly. ‘Something like yourself, Sir Hugh. I went with him. The old king was still alive but Prince Edward and my brother became firm friends. Then came the civil war with de Montfort threatening to tear the kingdom apart. Many of the court left to join him but my brother and I held fast. I went into London to spy for the King’. She turned in the chair. ‘I risked my life and gave my body so the King could learn the secrets of his enemies. I listened to conversations, picking up information, for who would believe that the pretty little courtesan in the corner thought about anything but wine and silken robes? My brother stayed with the King. He was instrumental in organising Edward’s escape and was always in the thick of the fight. After the war-’ Lady Mathilda waved her hand. ‘Oh, you know Edward. He showered us with gifts, anything we wanted: manors, fields, granges and treasures.’ She looked at Corbett squarely. ‘Brother Henry became sick of the bloodshed and the carnage. He didn’t want to spend his life in some manor house, hunting, fishing and stuffing himself with food and wine. He had this vision of an Oxford college, a Hall of learning. What Henry wanted, so did I. I loved him, Corbett.’ She glanced at Ranulf. ‘I had more passion, Red Hair, in my little finger than you have in your entire body.’