Paul Doherty - Assassin in the Greenwood

When he arrived back in the castle bailey, the corpses of the dead soldiers were being laid out on trestle tables to be washed for burial. Beside them women crouched and mourned over their dead. Meanwhile Naylor, assisted by cursing, sweating men-at-arms, brought out two pinewood coffins containing the remains of Sir Eustace and his servant Lecroix. Corbett stared round the bailey. There was no sign of Branwood and he wondered where Ranulf could be. He caught sight of Maigret sitting on a bench at the base of the castle keep, his long face turned to catch the morning sun, a wine cup in his hand, a plate of bread soaked in milk resting in his lap.

'You seem little perturbed,' Corbett remarked, sauntering over.

Maigret opened his eyes and glanced at the corpses being washed and loaded into the coffins.

'In the midst of life we are in death, Sir Hugh. Moreover, what can a physician do about the dead? Will you be on the battlements tonight?' he suddenly asked.

'Why?' Corbett asked, sitting down beside him.

'Well, today's the thirteenth. For the last few months on this date at midnight, the witching hour, three fire arrows are shot over the castle.'

'What?' Corbett exclaimed.

'I thought Branwood would have told you? On the thirteenth of each month, at midnight, three fire arrows light up the night sky.' Maigret shrugged. 'No one knows who does it or why.'

'How long has this been happening?'

'Oh, for six months at least.' Maigret's eyes hardened. He stared at the dark, closed face of the clerk, noting the beads of perspiration on his forehead. 'What do you really want, Corbett? You are a man of few words and yet you sought me out.'

Corbett smiled. I must be careful, he thought. Maigret had first struck him as a typical physician, self-absorbed and overweening, but the man possessed a subtle wit and a sharp intelligence. A possible murderer? he wondered.

'Before you ask, Sir Hugh,' Maigret murmured, 'I have nothing to do with this business. I am a widower who practises physic here in the castle and in the town. I go to church on Sundays and give three pounds of wax a month to my parish church so I will have a chancery priest sing ten thousand masses for my soul when I am dead. I know the properties of medicine but hold no poison. You are free to search my chambers or my house.'

'Sir,' Corbett replied, 'I thank you for your honesty and so I will be equally blunt back. If I was an assassin, where would I buy poison in Nottingham?'

Maigret looked surprised, then his eyes narrowed. 'You are a sharp one, Corbett. Too sharp for your own comfort. I hadn't thought of that. Of course.' The physician leaned forward, putting what was left of the milk sops down for the dogs to eat. 'The answer is simple. If I wanted to procure a noxious substance or some young girl needed to rid herself of a child still in the womb, then I'd go along to that old bitch Hecate. She owns a shop in a three-storied tenement in Mandrick Alley at the back of St Peter's church near Bridesmith Gate. You'll easily see it,' he continued. 'It stands opposite a tavern called The Pig in Glory where, if you have the right amount of silver, you can buy whatever you want.'

Corbett got to his feet.

'I suppose you are going there now?'

'Of course. And if you see my servant Ranulf…'

'I doubt it. He left the castle at least an hour ago, his hair prinked and curled, freshly shaven, as smart as Prince Frog going a-wooing.'

Corbett grinned. He would have words with young Ranulf, though that would have to wait. He ordered a surly ostler to saddle his horse again, snatched a quick ladle of water from one of the butts outside the kitchen and rode back into town. In the market place he hired a young urchin, scraggy-haired and dirty-faced, to take him to The Pig in Glory. The young rogue grinned from ear to ear in a black-toothed smile. Corbett, who had offered him a coin to lead him, had to double the fee to stop the urchin telling all and sundry that the sombre-faced clerk he was guiding was off to The Pig in Glory 'to get his whistle blown'. A phrase Corbett half-believed he understood, but decided not to query.

The area behind St Peter's was as dark and noisome as any web of alleyways in Southwark. Large timbered houses which had seen better days crowded in on each other, blocking out the light, turning the rubbish-filled streets into a warren of alleyways packed with every type of rogue under the sun. A few studied Corbett closely but were warned off by his sword and dagger whilst the young urchin proved to be as much a protector as a guide. They entered Mandrick Alley. Above them the higher stories of the houses nestled cheek by jowl. A few tinkers and journeymen sold bric-a-brac, pigeon flesh or the skins of rabbit from shabby stalls. The Pig in Glory stood in the centre of the street, a tawdry blue and gold sign swinging from the broad ale beam jutting out from its eaves. The door of the tavern was thronged with hucksters. A few whores in their shabby gowns and colourful wigs stood laughing with two soldiers from the castle garrison.

Corbett paid the boy his fee, promised him more if he guarded his horse and hammered on the door of the witch's house. He looked up; the windows of the upper stories were all shuttered whilst a small casement above the door was covered in grime and speckled with the corpses of long-dead flies. Corbett pounded again on the door, cursing softly because the knocking was beginning to attract the attention of customers from The Pig in Glory.

'Are you looking for Hecate?' a gap-toothed woman shrieked, her tawdry wig held in one hand whilst she scratched her bald pate.

Corbett turned, throwing back his cloak to show his sword and dagger.

'Yes, I am.'

He flicked a coin at her which she caught in her grimy paw.

Some of the other customers jostled her.

'You won't find her there!' another voice shouted.

Corbett leaned against the door as the crowd began to edge across towards him. Even the boy holding his horse looked frightened. Corbett quickly drew his sword and wished Ranulf was with him.

'I am Sir Hugh Corbett,' he called, 'King's Commissioner!' He glimpsed the soldiers skulking behind the rest. 'And you, sirs, belong to the castle garrison. Come forward!'

The rest of the crowd drew back. The two soldiers sheepishly shouldered their way through and stared dully at Corbett.

'Am I,' the clerk demanded, 'who I claim to be?' The soldiers nodded.

'Then, sirs, you are under my orders. Take a bench from that tavern and force that door off its hinges. Are you deaf?'

Corbett took a step forward. The two soldiers scampered back into the tavern and returned carrying a rough bench. A greasy-haired landlord came out to protest. Corbett told him to shut up and diverted the rest of the crowd by throwing a handful of coins on to the dirty cobbles. All resentment vanished like mist under the sun. Corbett stood back. The soldiers began ramming the bench against the door until it creaked, buckled and snapped back on its leather hinges.

'Stay outside!' he ordered.

He went down a dank, dimly lit passageway. The first entrance on the right led into the shop and Corbett gagged and swore at what he saw and smelt. The shop was tidy enough, nothing more than a chamber with shelves bearing jars of various sizes, small pouches and wooden boxes clasped and locked. But Hecate was also a skinner, a person skilled at removing the entrails of animals then stuffing them with herbs, turning them into mummified likenesses. A red-coated, glassy-eyed fox stared up at him from the floor. A rabbit, ears back, crouched in frozen stillness. The putrid smell came from the corpse of a small squirrel which lay on the table, its entrails spilling out from its slit stomach. Above these a mass of black flies buzzed.

Corbett left the shop and walked further along the passageway. He opened a small door to a chamber and gasped at the sheer luxury inside. It was like a young noblewoman's parlour. The walls were white-washed and covered in thick woollen cloths of various hues whilst polished gridirons stood under a small carved hearth. There were woollen carpets on the floor, silver candlesticks on the dark polished table, and a half-open cupboard revealed other precious cups and plate. The windows at the back were all glazed with tinted and coloured glass and the room smelt as sweet as a meadow on a summer's day. Two thin-stemmed wine cups stood on the table. Corbett stared around and went into the small buttery in the kitchen at the back of the house. The smell of corruption was stronger here. He pinched his nostrils. Not even his wife Maeve kept her scullery and kitchens so clean and neat yet the stench was terrible.