Paul Doherty: Song of a Dark Angel

'I smelled it,' Corbett replied, 'yesterday, when I was attacked in the Hermitage. It's a fragrant perfume' – he smiled thinly – 'that I have always associated with you.'

'For Heaven's sake!' Gurney shouted. 'Are you implying that my wife attacked you?'

'No, Sir Simon. I simply said I smelled her perfume.'

'It means the same thing,' Catchpole grunted from down the table.

Father Augustine, seated beside Alice, looked askance. 'Are you saying Lady Alice was in the Hermitage?' he demanded.

Corbett sighed in exasperation. 'Lady Alice, has any of your perfume ever been stolen?' 'Of course not!'

'How is it kept?' Corbett asked.

'As small sachets of wool, linen or velvet soaked in the fragrance. For Heaven's sake, Hugh!'

'Have you ever given any of it away?' Corbett insisted.

Alice's fingers flew to her lips as the memory came back to her. 'Why yes, I did! Some time ago. Do you remember, Master Fourbour, I went to your shop? Your wife looked so pale and cheerless that I felt sorry for her. Poor thing! God rest her! I was talking to her and she remarked how fragrant my perfume was. I gave her some sachets. She put them in her purse.'

Fourbour's face, usually pasty-coloured, had now gone deathly white.

'I remember that, Lady Alice,' he stammered. 'But, for God's sake, sir,' – he glared at Corbett – 'what are you implying?'

'I am implying nothing,' Corbett replied. 'I was just clearing up a small puzzle. You see, the perfume was carried by Mistress Fourbour's murderer. Wasn't it, Father?'

The priest's hands gripped the table. He looked suddenly more gaunt. His eyes never left those of Corbett. 'What are you saying?'

'Let me tell you a story,' Corbett said, 'which began before any of us were born. A king tries to take his treasure trove across the Wash. A traitor called Holcombe steals some of the treasure. He rides away to share the ill-gotten gains with his brother-in-law, Alan of the Marsh, who is the steward of the then lord of the manor here, Sir Richard Gurney. Alan knows the wastes of Norfolk – he knows where men, horses, even treasure, can be hidden. He is also a smuggler, so he knows the secret ways out of the kingdom. But something goes wrong – Holcombe is tracked down, executed and ignominiously buried.' Corbett gave Gurney a half smile – a sign that he would not betray his secrets.

'Alan of the Marsh, too, dies, but not before bequeathing a precious object to the sisters of the Holy Cross.' It was, he told himself, at least the partial truth. 'King John,' he went on, 'dies a short while later in Newark. The treasure is lost and the two perpetrators had met their just fate. The years passed and both the treasure and its thieves become the subject of legend.' He stopped and looked across the table at Father Augustine. 'Now, Alan of the Marsh was a local man, but Holcombe hailed from Bishop's Lynn. Before his capture, but after he had stolen the treasure, he returned to his family home. He must have chattered. His family became aware that he was a robber, being hunted by the Gurneys who later captured and killed him. The stories about his daring robbery entered into family legend and were passed on from one generation to another. Now, about forty years ago, the Holcombe family in Bishop's Lynn died out in the male line. But there was a daughter. She married.' Corbett caught his lower lip between his teeth. 'Father Augustine, what is your surname?'

'Norringham!' the priest spat back.

Corbett sipped from his wine cup. 'Norringham,' he repeated. 'So it was a man called Norringham whom the Holcombe daughter married. Now, I conjecture that this Norringham died young, leaving a baby, who grew into an intelligent young boy whose mind became full of stories about his mother's ancestor, John Holcombe, and King John's treasure. This boy, called Augustine, became a priest. He served, I suggest, as a curate in Bishop's Lynn, probably at St Margaret's, before being moved to Swaffham.'

Corbett had very little evidence, and no proof, for any of this. The priest's silence, his failure to deny any of these allegations, seemed, though, to confirm them and Corbett was encouraged.

'Now,' he continued, 'whilst this priest was a curate in Bishop's Lynn he fell in love with a young, headstrong girl called Amelia Culpeper-' He turned to the baker. 'Yes, Master Fourbour, your future wife. The girl became pregnant, but the child later died. Now Amelia Fourbour never told anyone about her lover. Why should she? Perhaps she knew it was impossible from the start? How could a priest break his vows to marry her? Moreover, she could make no accusation without publicizing her own shame. Who knows, perhaps she loved this man to distraction and could not bear to do anything that might hurt him.' He stared at Father Augustine and this time the priest's eyes did falter.

'Hugh,' Gurney interrupted. 'Are you sure of what you are saying? What proof do you have of this?'

'I have proof,' Selditch intervened, his fat, normally cheery face now solemn. 'Proof of a sort. When Father Augustine came here, he discovered my love of antiquities. He questioned me closely about the history of Hunstanton and Mortlake. I thought he had similar antiquarian tastes to my own, but as soon as I had passed on everything I had learned, he lost interest.'

'Oh, I have stronger proof than that,' Corbett said. 'Amelia was a secretive, devious woman. Only once did she let her guard slip. She made for herself, on a heart-shaped scrap of parchment, one of those keepsakes so popular with lovers – you know the kind, where the lovers' initials are combined. But, to preserve her secret, Amelia made of her keepsake a kind of puzzle. Her own initials, A.C., for Amelia Culpeper, she concealed as the first letters of the words Amor Currit. Those of her lover, A.H., were hidden in the words Amor Haesitat. They stand for Augustine Holcombe. Although, Father, your real name was Augustine Norringham, you are prouder of the Holcombe side of the family tree. The Holcombes have a more interesting history – perhaps a grander one. You undoubtedly told Amelia all about it.' He looked again at the priest. 'And perhaps she thought that amor haesitat aptly described your behaviour towards her.' Father Augustine bowed his head.

'Now time went on,' Corbett continued. 'You became parish priest at Swaffham, near enough to Hunstanton and Mortlake to do something about the dreams and stories you had grown up on. You visited the convent of the Holy Cross, serving there as a chaplain during the summer months. The sisters were pleased and old Father Ethelred was only too glad to have someone to help out. You saw and used their chalice and remembered all the stories you had been told. You realized that the cup was very old and very precious.'

The priest raised his head then, malice blazing in his eyes.

'You are very clever, Sir Hugh,' he murmured. 'But you tell a preposterous story. Are you going to say that I murdered Amelia Fourbour? Have you forgotten that no signs or marks were found around the scaffold?'

'I have not forgotten,' Corbett replied. 'But let me carry on with the story. You were a priest in Swaffham – a royal town, a busy place, where the income was good, the benefices rich. So why come to Hunstanton, to a poor fishing village? Had you done something disgraceful? I doubt it. I think that you petitioned the Bishop of Norwich for Hunstanton and that he was only too willing to give such a lonely little parish to someone so keen to take it on. So you come to Hunstanton. You make enquiries of Master Selditch. You make friends with Dame Cecily and learn all you can from her. You go through the parish records, looking for references to Holcombe and his accomplice, Alan of the Marsh. You had your own pool of knowledge, from what your mother had told you. You leave flowers at the scaffold on which your ancestor was hanged – a small gesture of respect to someone who was going to make you very rich.'