Paul Doherty - Song of a Dark Angel

'Maltote can stay here,' Corbett decided. 'Ranulf, we'll go down to the Guildhall.'

'What are we looking for, Master?'

'First, the roll of electors. I want to see if there's a Holcombe still alive in Bishop's Lynn.' 'And what else?'

'A miller known as Culpeper, whose daughter was recently murdered in Hunstanton.'

They left the tavern, leaving instructions for Maltote, and went up St Nicholas Street along to the Guildhall, which stood opposite the soaring towers of St Margaret's church. A beadle tried to stop them. Corbett explained who they were and, within minutes, an officious alderman was offering him every assistance.

'Yes, yes,' the man muttered, his face full of importance. 'We have tax rolls, electors' rolls, subsidy rolls. If there is a Holcombe, these will tell you.'

'And the miller known as Culpeper?'

'Oh, he's well known. But you won't find him at his mill.' The alderman pointed to the great fat hour candle burning on its stand. 'He'll be down at the quayside, near the custom house, supervising the barges taking flour downstream.'

Corbett left Ranulf to scrutinize the tax rolls.

'Don't forget the goldsmith, Edward Orifab,' he added, then walked down Purfleet Street towards the quayside. He found the city very noisy after the silence of Mortlake Manor. Bishop's Lynn was reminiscent of London, with its narrow alleyways, overhanging houses and the shouts of traders from behind their stalls and gaudily painted booths. The cries of children, as they skipped between the crashing carts, vied with the neighing of horses and the shouts of drovers, whilst the rank smells from the open sewer did nothing to dull the haggling and bartering round the busy market stalls. The taverns and alehouses were doing a roaring trade as this was market day. The peasants from the outlying villages were thronging in to sell their produce and buy provisions before the snows fell and the roads closed.

The weather had turned fine. The skies were cloud-free, though the lanes and alleyways were still soaked from the previous day's rain. Corbett had to watch where he stepped as he struggled through the crowd down to Purfleet quayside. At last he reached the riverside. The wharves were packed with a tangle of shipping – small herring boats, fishing smacks, merchant ships and even a great belly-bottomed cog belonging to the Hanse. The air was thick with the smell of salt, fish and spices and the quayside thronged with carters, port officials, merchants and sailors. Traders stood offering a wide range of goods, from ribbons to hot pies – Corbett found their shouting and talking in different dialects and tongues confusing. At last he espied a port official dressed in his brown fustian robe and carrying a white wand of office. After more deliberations, Corbett was eventually directed to the Green Wyvern tavern next to the custom house, where Culpeper and other members of his guild met to do business. In its taproom Corbett found Culpeper, a thick-set, burly man with watery eyes and vein-streaked face. He was already deep in his cups, chattering to his fellows. Corbett had to shout to make himself heard.

'You had a daughter, Amelia?'

Culpeper sobered up. He put his tankard down and pushed his face close to Corbett's. 'What is that to you?'

Corbett explained who he was and Culpeper rose drunkenly to his feet.

'I've drunk enough,' he muttered. 'And this is not the place to talk.'

He led Corbett back out on to the quayside and into the timber custom house. The miller slumped down on a wooden bench just inside the entrance and gestured at Corbett to do the same.

'I know it's early,' he slurred, 'but it's market day and the price of flour has risen.' He gazed bleary-eyed at Corbett. 'A man has to reward himself, as well as forget the past.'

'What have you to forget, Master Culpeper?'

'A daughter named Amelia. She was our only child. I lavished everything upon her – finery, trinkets, clothes – nothing was too good for her. But she was headstrong.' Culpeper turned away to wipe the tears from his cheeks. 'I went to Hunstanton, you know, to bring her body back. Her mother wanted that. Now we have locked away the past and I let it be.'

'Do you know why she was murdered?'

'God knows! Or at least he pretends to. Who would hurt poor Amelia, eh, Master Corbett? What a death, to be strung up like a rat on that lonely, horrible gibbet!'

'Why did you let her go to Hunstanton?'

The man blew out fumes of ale and placed his fat hands on his thighs.

'I had no choice. Amelia was finished here. A laughing stock, a shame to her family! Somebody once called her "used goods". Can you imagine that, eh, Master Corbett? A lovely girl being discarded like a piece of dirty cloth?'

Corbett remained silent. He could guess what was coming. No miller was popular because no miller was poor. Such a tradesman always provoked envy amongst those who had to buy his products.

'Amelia became pregnant,' Culpeper explained. 'What, oh, some ten, twelve years ago.'

'And the father?'

'We never knew. Never once did Amelia talk about him.' 'You honestly never knew?'

'No, it was always a great secret. You know the games young, lovelorn women play? She would say she was visiting friends or relations.' Culpeper blinked. 'Anyway, Amelia became pregnant, but she told no one about the father. The child was born, but died within days. Amelia became listless. She had not only lost her child but the man she loved. All she would say was that something had ended which could never continue.' Culpeper wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. 'The years passed. Amelia never referred to her love and he certainly made no attempt to communicate with her. Now, Master Fourbour was a constant visitor to our mill to buy flour for his bakery in Hunstanton. He knew about Amelia's past but offered his hand in marriage. She, surprisingly, accepted. I don't know why.' He shrugged. 'The rest you know.'

'Was Amelia happy with her husband?'

'Sir, Amelia was never happy. Fourbour loved her and I think she tolerated him. And, before you ask, she never gave any indication of the tragedy which befell her. Only recently, when going through certain belongings she had left behind, I found a piece of parchment in a small, velvet pouch. Here, you can look for yourself.' Culpeper fumbled in his wallet. He took out a small, dark-blue velvet bag and gave it to Corbett. 'I always carry it around with me.' His voice became choked. 'It's the only memento I have.'

Corbett undid the pouch. The parchment was a mere scrap, cut in the shape of a heart. On it was written Amor Haesitat above Amor Currit. The four capital letters were heavily emphasized.

'Love hesitates,' Corbett translated softly. 'Love hastens.'

'Do you know what it means, Sir Hugh?'

Corbett smiled compassionately at the miller.

'It's one of those keepsakes, Master Culpeper, loved by the young and those still in love. But it is also a puzzle.'

'You can keep it,' Culpeper murmured. He grasped Corbett's hand. 'Keep it!' he urged. He paused as two officials entered, chattering noisily as they went up the wooden, spiral staircase.

'Find her killer!' Culpeper pleaded. 'Bring him to justice. Let him hang like my poor Amelia!'

Culpeper put his face in his hands. Corbett patted him gently on the shoulder and sat till he regained his composure.

'Master Culpeper, does the name Alan of the Marsh mean anything to you?'

The miller shook his head.

'Or Holcombe?'

'No, Sir Hugh, why?'

'Nothing. You have heard of the Pastoureaux at Hunstanton?'

'Oh, yes, they come here.' 'Who do?'

'The Pastoureaux or, at least, their leader, Master Joseph. He comes to buy supplies, and sometimes negotiates with captains about his young men and women who wish to travel to the Holy Land. I often see him near the custom house.'