Paul Doherty - Song of a Dark Angel

Corbett patted him gently on the arm.

'Sir Simon, I'm not your judge,' he said. 'Gilbert may well be guilty and if he is he should hang for that terrible crime. But he may be able to help us. You have dungeons?'

Gurney nodded.

'Then take him to them, but make him comfortable.'

Gurney agreed and they clattered into the yard.

Alice and her maids hurried out and Gurney hastily explained what had happened. Alice led them into the hall and the kitchen boys brought in stoups of ale, bread, cheese and salted bacon. Monck was already sitting before the fire with a heavy-eyed Ranulf and Maltote. He seemed a little calmer than the night before and listened patiently while Corbett described what had happened in the village.

'You will question Gilbert?'

Corbett nodded.

'Good!'

'But shouldn't you do so?' Corbett asked. 'Surely Marina's death is linked to the Pastoureaux? She was a member of their community.'

'No, no.' Monck shook his head and played with the pommel of his dagger. 'You deal with Gilbert.'

Corbett hid his annoyance. 'Tell me, where is Lickspittle buried?'

'In the village cemetery.'.

'Did he leave any effects?'

'Yes, some papers, geegaws, daggers, swords, the clothes he died in. Selditch prepared the corpse, though that was done hurriedly enough. A decapitated body is not something to linger over.'

'May I look at these effects?' Corbett asked.

'In time.' Monck got to his feet. 'Now I am busy with the venerable sisters of the Holy Cross convent.' He patted Corbett patronizingly on the shoulders. 'You take care of the rustics, Corbett. Leave other matters to me.' He walked out of the hall.

Corbett winked at Ranulf and Maltote. 'And how are my lively lads?'

Ranulf groaned. 'Too much wine, too little water,' he said. 'It's Maltote's fault – he invited Catchpole to a drinking contest.' He stopped speaking as Catchpole himself came into the hall.

'Sir Hugh, the prisoner is in the dungeons.' The old soldier grinned. 'It's a long time since we had a prisoner.' 'Is he comfortable?'

'Aye, but fearful of being hanged.' Catchpole smiled. 'But, there again, aren't we all?'

Corbett finished his ale and walked out to the courtyard. He watched as Monck mounted his horse and galloped out through the gates. Corbett went back up to his own chamber and took a special key from his saddlebag.

'Every self-respecting housebreaker has one, Master,' Ranulf had once explained. 'All locks are similar and this key fits most.'

Corbett hastened down the gallery towards Monck's room. He slipped the key into the lock. It turned easily.

'Well,' Corbett said to himself, 'Ranulf was right.'

He opened the door and stared around the chamber. The stools were precisely positioned around the table, the blankets neatly arranged on the bed. Monck's tidy mind, Corbett thought. Monck's saddlebags lay tidily under the window, but they were securely strapped and buckled. Corbett went across to the small table beside the bed. A thick beeswax candle stood there and the wax had dripped down, forming a brittle crust on the table.

'I wonder?' Corbett whispered to himself.

Monck might be a strange character but he was still a clerk. Perhaps he, like Corbett, would sit in his bed late at night poring over parchments, scribbling notes on his writing tray. Corbett knelt, felt beneath the bed and smiled in triumph as his fingers caught hold of three pieces of parchment.

He pulled them out carefully and sat on the edge of the bed to study them. The first appeared to be a list of precious objects. Corbett examined it closely; these items were not mere baubles but silver plate, cups, even a cope. It was difficult to decipher the writing because Monck had used many of the personal abbreviations so beloved of chancery clerks. Corbett put the list on the bed and studied the second piece of parchment. At first he could make no sense of the strange lines drawn on it. He smoothed the parchment out and then realized he was looking at a crude map of the Hunstanton area. It was very similar to the one he had drawn. He traced with his fingers the coastline of the Wash, as drawn by Monck, and found the crosses that marked Holy Cross convent, Hunstanton village, Mortlake Manor, the gallows and the Hermitage. It was more detailed than his own map and covered a wider area, including Swaffham, the area around the Wash and the river Nene. It was here that Monck had done the most scribbling, with dotted lines criss-crossing each other. On the third piece of parchment was a crude drawing of the coastline and a sketch of a cog under sail.

Corbett tried to memorize every detail of all three parchments before pushing them back under the bed. He got up and, making sure everything was in its place, walked across and looked out through the unshuttered window which, like his, overlooked a grey, sullen sea.

Whatever brought you here, Monck, he thought, it's not the Pastoureaux!

He left the chamber, locking it securely behind him, and went down to the others sitting in the hall.

'Sir Simon, may I see the prisoner now?' he asked.

Gurney nodded. 'Catchpole will take you down. Selditch is already with him.'

Catchpole escorted Corbett along a passageway which ran by the kitchen. He stopped before a metal-studded door, opened it and revealed steps leading down into a cavernous darkness relieved only by the flickering light of a few sconce torches. At the bottom of the steps was a long passageway hewn out of the rock. Corbett touched the wall in surprise. Catchpole, leading the way, stopped. 'Didn't you know, Sir Hugh, that Mortlake Manor is built on a warren of passageways and tunnels? It used to be a ferry point for those who wanted to travel across the Wash.' He pointed to the ceiling. 'Some people say the Romans had a watch tower here with a beacon to guide their ships. After that the Saxons, then old Duke William of Normandy built a keep. You should talk to physician Selditch, he knows the history of the place. But, come.'

They continued down the narrow sloping passage. Corbett felt a flicker of panic and tried to control his breathing. Maeve and Ranulf always teased him about his horror of enclosed spaces. At last Catchpole stopped before a heavy timber door with a small grille at the top. He unlocked it and mockingly ushered Corbett through.

The dungeon was no more than a bare, cavernous storeroom, though Gurney had tried to make his prisoner comfortable. Gilbert was sitting on the edge of a cot bed with Selditch on a stool opposite him. The physician was washing the prisoner's face with a mixture of water and wine and applying an unguent to the large bruise around his eyes. A small, three-branched candelabra provided a pool of light. Gilbert hardly looked up but stared morosely at the rush-covered floor whilst Selditch, busy with his medicines and potions, mumbled a greeting. At last he finished.

'There!' He smiled at Corbett. 'No real injury, some bruising on his chest and legs. But he'll live to stand trial.'

'They murdered my mother!' Gilbert muttered.

'They say,' Corbett replied quietly, 'that you murdered the girl.'

Selditch got to his feet. 'I'll wait for you outside, Sir Hugh.'

Corbett nodded, sat on the stool and waited for the physician to close the door behind him. 'Gilbert!' he ordered. 'Look at me!'

The young man lifted his podgy, slack face and rubbed his wavering, watery eyes. Could this man, Corbett wondered, clumsy, slightly dim-witted, catch and murder the young fawn-like Marina? He closed his eyes – an idea had occurred to him but it flickered like a weak flame and he lost the thread. Something about Marina being out on the moors? Corbett stared down at his hands. Yes, that was it! Marina was a local girl. She knew the area well. If she was threatened, why not try and return to the Hermitage? Or had she gone to meet, not her father in the village, but someone from the manor? The visitors – the Prioress and Father Augustine – had, obviously, been abroad that night. Selditch had arrived late at table. But anyone could have left the manor – Catchpole had mentioned underground passages. Had someone used one of them to slip out of the manor?