Paul Doherty: Song of a Dark Angel

Corbett and Ranulf took the skeleton out and placed it in a long, wooden box they found in the sacristy. They sealed the lid and, preceded by a trembling prioress, carried the coffin out into the deserted cemetery. In a small outhouse Ranulf found a pick and shovel. A shallow grave was dug and the coffin lowered. Once it was finished, Dame Cecily gave Corbett her solemn word that, at an appropriate time, a cross would be erected there and Masses sung for Alan's soul.

'The poor bugger will need it!' Ranulf whispered as they went back to the stable yard to collect their horses.

Corbett paused. 'I wonder!' he exclaimed.

'Wonder about what, Master – the chalice?'

Corbett grinned. 'No, let the convent keep that. I am wondering about the priest, Father James, and Alan of the Marsh's involvement in his disappearance.'

Ranulf kicked the ground with the toe of his boot.

'I don't know; there's a deeper mystery here. I still think we should take that cup.'

Corbett laughed softly. 'It's a chalice, Ranulf, a sacred vessel. It is where it should be! Edward would only give it to Surrey. Now come, let's go!'

They found Maltote warming himself in the smithy. He demanded to know why they had been so long. Ranulf shook his head, raising a finger to his lips as a sign for silence until they had left the convent.

Once out on the moors, Corbett halted and looked back at the convent.

'Nothing,' he murmured, 'is what it seems to be. Who would guess that a house dedicated to prayer and God's work could harbour such dreadful secrets?'

'We have done some good,' Ranulf replied with a smile. 'We have exorcized a ghost, discovered the truth and given that arrogant woman a lesson she'll never forget as long as she lives!'

And, as Corbett urged them on, Ranulf pulled back to whisper to Maltote what they had discovered at the convent. Corbett rode ahead, lost in his own thoughts. He didn't take the path back to the manor but rode to the cliff top. He paused for a while, staring down at the beach, watching the waves sweep in and recalled how he had nearly met his death there. He sat, letting the spray-soaked wind whip his face and hair whilst brooding on what he had learnt.

'Master, where to now?' Ranulf called. 'What do we do next?'

Corbett stared down at the grey mass of heaving sea.

'Master,' Ranulf persisted. 'Is it finished? Do you know where the rest of the treasure is?'

Corbett turned his horse's head and winked at them.

'It's beneath our noses,' he replied cryptically. 'Right beneath our noses and has been all the time. But, come, it's back to Mortlake Manor. We have to trap a murderer!'

He spurred his horse into a gallop across the moor, on to the path skirting the village and into Mortlake Manor.

Once there Corbett became infuriatingly absent-minded. He went to the buttery for something to eat and drink and then back to his chamber. He took out pumice stone, ink horn and quill and a small roll of parchment and began to write furiously, listing everything he knew. He refused to answer Ranulf's questions. Now and again he would look up, stare into space and tap the quill against his cheek. He'd make some exclamation and go back to his writing. Only once did he break off, to ask Ranulf to bring to him the dead Cerdic's shirt. He scrutinized this, muttered to himself and went back to his writing. Ranulf had seen him like this before.

'Old Master Long Face is in one of his moods – he's as miserable as sin,' he whispered to Maltote. 'He is setting his traps.'

At last Corbett was finished. He rose and stretched, trying to force the cramp from his tired back.

'What now, Master, what now?' Ranulf asked.

'Go down to the hall. Give Sir Simon my regards. Tell him that I would like to dine tonight with him and his wife. He is to invite those who attended our first dinner here.' He paused. 'And one extra guest.'

'Who?'

'Fourbour the baker.' Corbett went across to the table and poured himself half a goblet of wine. 'And tell Sir Simon we'll be leaving tomorrow. I'll sleep for a while. The arrangements will take some time. Just make sure that Sir Simon does what I ask.'

Corbett drained the wine cup, lay down on the bed and fell asleep. It was dark when Ranulf woke him.

'It's late,' Ranulf whispered. 'The meal will commence within an hour. You'd best prepare.'

Corbett swung himself off the bed and groaned as the wound on his head made him wince.

'Ranulf, make sure you are armed!'

Corbett got ready slowly, then he and his companions went down to the hall.

The great table had already been prepared. Sir Simon and Alice were sitting in their chairs before the fire. They plied him with questions – what was the matter? Why was he leaving so ^abruptly? – but he returned no answers. He sat toying with the ring on his finger and staring into the fire.

'Has Monck's corpse been removed?' he asked.

It was Alice who replied. 'Yes, it's been taken to the village church; Father Augustine will sing the requiem tomorrow. Though perhaps it would be best if Monck was buried here.'

'I think so,' Corbett said. 'He had no family and my Lord of Surrey is not mindful of such things.'

'When will you leave, Hugh?' Alice asked.

'Early tomorrow morning, I hope,' Corbett replied. He smiled thinly. 'Perhaps I'll stay for Monck's requiem Mass. I'll make arrangements with Father Augustine. He is coming here tonight, is he not?'

'Of course. And Fourbour the baker.'

Selditch came bustling in, chattering about a patient he'd been treating in the village. Father Augustine arrived next, looking rather angry at being summoned from what he called his 'onerous duties'. He refused to sit but stood by the hearth.

'The gossips are busy in the village,' he said.

'Sir Simon, I suggest that the prisoners be removed as quickly as possible. Poor Robert the reeve!' He glared at Corbett. 'Everyone knows the truth. We should have kept the girl here.'

'I have no authority to do that,' Corbett replied. 'And what future is there for her here? The gossips would kill her, if not physically then at least spiritually. You know that, Father.'

The priest was about to object but at that moment the steward called them to dinner. They took their places at the table. The atmosphere was stilted and tense, and became even more so when Fourbour hurried into the hall, apologizing profusely for being late.

Gurney ushered him into his seat, Father Augustine said grace and the meal was served. The Gurneys were puzzled, rather frightened. Catchpole, who had swaggered in after grace had been said, sat stony-faced. Selditch was secretive, Fourbour tense and fearful. Father Augustine still showed his vexation at being summoned to the manor. Corbett toyed with his food until Gurney could tolerate the atmosphere no longer. He banged his wine cup on the table and glared down at the clerk.

'Hugh, you asked us all here. Give us your reasons.' 'He asked us!' Father Augustine exclaimed. 'What is all this?'

'I thought you'd be interested in what I have to say,' Corbett replied. 'First, I know who has been responsible for all the murders.'

'The Pastoureaux, surely?' Fourbour bleated.

Corbett smiled grimly and shook his head. 'Oh no,' he said, 'that's just vicious rumour.' He rolled a crumb back and forth on the table top. 'More importantly, I think I have found the lost treasure of King John.'

Corbett's hearers sat dumbstruck, eyes staring, mouths gaping. Selditch was the first to recover. 'Where is it?'

'I will tell you that later,' Corbett replied. 'This is preposterous!' Gurney exploded. 'Where, Corbett?' Selditch repeated. 'Where, for God's sake?'

'Certain questions first,' Corbett said. 'Lady Alice, your perfume?'

'What about it, Hugh? What on earth has that got to do with…?' Her voice trailed off.