Paul Doherty - Song of a Dark Angel

'I didn't murder the girl,' Gilbert mumbled.

Corbett pointed to the scratches on the man's hands and wrists as well as the few on his face.

'Where did you get these?'

'When I was running away, the brambles tore at me.' 'And what about the amber necklace found in your house?'

Gilbert shook his head blankly. He stared unblinkingly at Corbett.

'I wouldn't hurt Marina. Gilbert loves Marina. All Gilbert wanted to do was stroke her soft hair.'

Corbett studied the young man. You are no murderer, he reflected, but you are someone's catspaw.

'Gilbert, the necklace was found in your hut.'

'Somebody put it there.'

'And Marina refused to meet you.'

'No, she didn't.'

Corbett's head snapped up. 'What?'

The young man smiled so slyly that Corbett had to pinch himself. Perhaps Gilbert was more intelligent, more cunning than he had thought.

'You met Marina?'

'Yes, at our usual place, the old oak on the moors. Marina met me twice. I put something there. When we were young we used to play there. Marina, me and Blanche.'

'The reeve's daughter?'

'Yes, the reeve's daughter.' Gilbert suddenly grasped Corbett's knee. 'Why did they kill Mother? Is she really dead? Will she go to heaven?'

Corbett gently removed the man's hand; it felt weak, slack.

'Are you in good health, Gilbert?' he asked.

'Will Mother be in heaven?'

'Yes, of course, she died with her face towards God. But, Gilbert, are you injured? Your hands are weak.'

'They have always been,' the young man replied. 'Mother said it was because of my birth. I am not as strong as I look. That's why Marina always trusted me.' Gilbert drew himself up and smiled. 'That's why I took the package to the old oak.'

'The package?' Corbett asked.

'Well, yes, a small letter, a scroll. A pedlar brought it from Bishop's Lynn. It had Marina's name on it because I read the markings. Every day I took it to the oak tree. Marina didn't come.' He smiled. 'But I did talk to her when I went to the Hermitage, even though they refused to let me. I told her I had a present for her.'

Gilbert's jaw fell slack. Corbett looked around the room. A jug of wine stood in the corner. He filled a battered cup and thrust it into Gilbert's hand.

Gilbert gulped some wine and went on, 'Marina came to the oak and I gave it to her.'

'The package?'

'Well, as I said, it was really a small scroll.' 'Did you know what was in it?'

'No, Marina put the scroll beneath her robe, kissed me on the cheek and left.'

'And you don't know what was in it?' 'No, Master, I don't. Will I hang?'

Corbett got to his feet and patted the prisoner on the shoulder.

'Don't worry, Gilbert, you won't hang. Someone will, but you won't. However, it's best if you stay here for your own protection.'

Corbett hammered on the door. Catchpole and Selditch were waiting for him. They went back along the passage, up the steps and back into the hall. Corbett tried to draw Selditch into conversation about the history of the house but the physician became strangely evasive. He shrugged, fluttered ink-stained fingers and refused to meet Corbett's eye. Corbett strode impatiently away to look for Gurney. He found him in his writing chamber. Gurney looked up as he strode in.

'I want the baker brought here,' Corbett said without preamble. 'Fourbour?'

Corbett drummed his fingers on the desk. 'Yes, and Robert the reeve also. I want to question them.' 'Why?'

'Because, Sir Simon, none of these mysteries will be solved until honest answers are given to honest questions!'

By noon Fourbour and the reeve were at Mortlake Manor. Corbett saw the baker first. Brushing aside the man's protests at being taken from his work, Corbett waved him to a stool in the corner of the great hall arid sat opposite. He studied the man's silver hair and pasty skin, which made it look as though the baker had been tinted by the flour he used. Fourbour was small and thin, with darting eyes and a flickering tongue. A muscle high in his cheek twitched nervously.

'I want to talk to you about the death of your wife,' Corbett said brusquely.

Fourbour's nervousness increased.

'Her name was Amelia?'

'Yes,' Fourbour whispered.

'And how long had you been married?'

'Six years. She was ten years my junior.' The man's eyes filled with tears. 'She was very pretty, Sir Hugh.' His eyes flitted round the empty hall. 'But she was never at home in Hunstanton.'

'Where did she come from?'

'She was a miller's daughter from Bishop's Lynn. I used to go there to buy my flour. Her maiden name was Culpeper.'

Corbett glanced away. A miller in a place like Bishop's Lynn would be very prosperous. Why had he allowed his daughter to marry a village baker? Fourbour seemed to read Corbett's mind.

'Amelia had been involved in scandal. She became pregnant, but the child died.' The words came out in a rush.

'And you asked for her hand in marriage?'

'Yes, yes, I did. Her father was only too pleased. He bestowed a large dowry and Amelia did not object. At first our marriage was happy but, about eighteen months, ago-' Fourbour pushed his fingers through his thinning hair. 'Yes, I think it was then, Amelia became secretive and unhappy. She would go for long walks or ride out on the moors. I would object but she said the villagers didn't like her, she had to get away.'

'Do you know where she went?'

'Sometimes, I think, as far as Holy Cross convent.'

'Didn't she have any friends?'

'No, not really. On May Day and Holy Days she tried to join the rest of the women on the green, but they always ignored her. The same was true when she went to church.' Fourbour licked his dry lips. 'Amelia said she used to be jostled.'

'Did she see the priest?'

'Twice. But Amelia said she didn't like Father Augustine. She found him rather cold.'

Corbctt nodded understandingly. 'And the evening your wife was killed?'

Fourbour rubbed his face in his hands. 'Amelia had been agitated,' he replied slowly. 'Just before dusk she saddled our horse and said she would ride out on the moor.' The baker's voice broke. 'The horse came back by itself. I and my apprentices went out to search. We found her there, hanging from a rope that had been thickly coated with pitch. Lord knows, it was black as soot out here. If it hadn't been for the white of her face, we wouldn't have glimpsed her. One of my apprentices saw her first. He saw her hanging. I said not to approach her. I just couldn't believe it.'

'Didn't you want to cut your wife's body down?'

Fourbour looked away.

'I couldn't,' he stuttered. 'I just went cold. One of the apprentices ran to Mortlake Manor. Sir Simon, the physician and that strange man, Monck, came. Monck carried a torch. He and the physician went forward. Monck searched the ground beneath the scaffold then remounted his horse to cut Amelia free. Afterwards he said there was no sign of any other hoof marks or boot prints.'

Fourbour paused. He seemed to be thinking. 'The next morning,' he said at last, 'the headless body of his servant was found on the beach. At first, I thought the deaths were connected.'

'Did you?' Corbett asked. 'Why?'

'Oh, because they happened at the same time.'

Corbett touched the man gently on the back of his hand. It felt like a sliver of ice.

'They were murdered, Master Fourbour. Cerdic Lickspittle and your wife were murdered. Do you know why?'

The man shook his head.

'Can you tell me anything which would explain your wife's death?'

Again the shake of the head.

'Or who rode your wife's horse back to the outskirts of the village?'

'I don't know,' Fourbour whispered. 'The villagers who saw it thought it was Amelia, but the night was dark and the rider wore a cloak.'