Paul Doherty: Assassin in the Greenwood

'You speak true, Sir Hugh.' Friar Thomas spoke up. 'I remember that morning. Sir Peter came to Vechey's chamber wearing gloves. I am sure,' he concluded flatly, 'that those gloves, together with the poisoned napkin, disappeared into a fire.'

'And Lecroix?' Maigret asked.

'Oh, well, he had to die. There was always the risk he may have noticed something or Vechey may even have shared his suspicions with him. Now, do you remember, Sir Peter, I asked you why Lecroix should hang himself in the cellars? You said because the castle was under attack or because Lecroix may have been looking for more wine; after all, we did find a small wine cask smashed. Of course, I know different now. There was plenty of wine in the castle and the cellar with its secret trap doors and passageways would be the last place a man would go if he wanted to hide. Lecroix was not as stupid as he looked. He may have been searching for the secret passageway out of the castle. He may even have suspected the truth, following his master's death, and reached the conclusion that he might discover what the outlaws had taken. In other words, My Lord of Lincoln, if His Grace the King wishes to regain his taxes, I am sure they will be found somewhere in the cellars or secret passageways of this castle.' Corbett paused and stared at Branwood who had now regained his composure and glanced coolly back. 'The rest,' Corbett raised his eyes to the roof, 'was easy. We went into the forest but you had already sent orders ahead and led us into that ambush. The same is true of poor Gisborne.' Corbett smiled ruefully. 'All was confusion that day. I was leaving for Kirklees. You, Sir Peter, were ostensibly furious with Gisborne, hurrying about so no one could really know what you were doing. Naylor and Roteboeuf stayed to sustain the sham whilst you slipped down the tunnels, gathered the outlaws, and Gisborne blundered into your trap.' Corbett looked up at the Earl of Lincoln who sat fascinated by what he was hearing.

'My Lord, you doubted whether anyone in the castle could enter the forest and return. Nottingham is a small city. You are beyond its walls, even after riding through busy streets, in twenty minutes. Can you imagine how quickly it can be left by going down a secret passageway? Who knows? Perhaps we can find one of the tunnels. My reckoning is that after leaving the castle cellars Sir Peter could be in the heart of Sherwood, plan an ambush, carry it out and be back in the castle with an absence of only four or five hours. And who would notice? Sir Eustace, when he was alive, was a broken man, whilst there was always the ubiquitous Roteboeuf ready to say that Sir Peter had gone thither or hither. And, to complicate the mystery, sometimes Branwood would not go but send Naylor instead, just to muddy the waters a little further.'

Corbett sat down and looked around. He had never seen people so motionless, such a captive audience.

'My story is nearly done,' he remarked quietly. 'A clever scheme though flawed from the start. When I wrote down what had happened to me I began to detect a pattern.' Corbett ticked off the points on his fingers. 'First, the attack on the castle on my first day here. How did the outlaws know which room I was in? Secondly, that ambush in Sherwood Forest. At the time I dismissed it but hindsight makes wise men of us all. Wasn't it strange that none of us was hit by those arrows? Branwood and Naylor had to keep me safe because slaying the King's Commissioner would have been pushing matters a little too far.' Corbett stopped and stared down the table. He was sure Branwood was almost smiling. 'You'll hang!' he remarked. 'You are a traitor and a murderer, as are Naylor and Roteboeuf and anyone else who assisted.'

Corbett's sombre words had the desired effect. Roteboeuf, his face white and haggard, sprang to his feet, knocking the chair over. Lincoln's soldiers closed in.

'It's true!' he yelled.

'Shut up!' bellowed Branwood.

'Oh, for God's sake!' Roteboeuf struggled in the arms of the soldiers. 'Sir Hugh, I am a cleric. I claim benefit of clergy and will confess all, giving names and dates.' He stopped and stared beseechingly at Corbett.

'The King's mercy will be recommended,' he replied quietly.

'Shut up, you lying bastard!' Branwood yelled. 'You snivelling coward!'

Roteboeuf, however, heartened by Corbett's words, fell to his knees.

'It's true!' he sobbed. 'Branwood hated Robin Hood. He was obsessed with the outlaw. He found the tunnels leading from the castle. He, Naylor and myself used often to go down there. Sir Eustace never suspected anything. Then, late last autumn, just after the feast of All Saints, the letters came about Robin of Locksley leaving the King's armies in Scotland and Branwood drew up this scheme. We left the castle by a secret route, masked and hooded. Locksley's two companions were killed outright, we left Locksley himself for dead.' Roteboeuf licked his lips. 'We were hasty, frightened of being so close to Kirklees. We took his possessions, including his signet ring. At first Branwood contented himself with thinking the outlaw was dead. He forged letters to his steward under the stolen seal to obtain and sell Robin's few possessions at Locksley.'

Roteboeuf was about to continue when Naylor darted across the table, picked up a knife and, roaring with rage, tried to lunge at him. The knife was knocked from his hand. At Lincoln's command, Naylor's arms were pulled roughly behind his chair and tied together. Roteboeuf talked on. How Branwood had devised the scheme to pose as Robin Hood. How easy it had been to enter the forest and recruit the many outlaws there. How he and Naylor acted as spokesmen. How they had planned the attack on the tax-collectors and other such ambushes. How Sir Eustace at first did not notice anything but then became suspicious about a high-ranking traitor in the castle, whereupon Branwood decided to kill him.

'They killed others,' Roteboeuf sobbed. 'The only fly in the ointment was those fire arrows loosed on the thirteenth of every month. Branwood suspected that one of Robin's old companions knew the truth, so he dispensed ruthless justice to any amongst the outlaws who opposed him. He killed Vechey. Naylor killed Lecroix, Hecate, and the young man in the tavern, the Riddle Master; Sir Peter believed he was another spy. I swear this is the truth!' he cried, eyes wild. 'I will swear the same before the King's Justices!'

Lincoln got to his feet. 'Sir Peter Branwood, King's Under-Sheriff in Nottingham, I ask you solemnly, do you have any defence against these allegations?'

Branwood lifted his face from his hands. 'Defence?' he whispered. 'Defence, you silly, wine-sodden, old man! Against what? Killing an outlaw and doing what he did? After all, if the King can pardon Robin of Locksley and take him into his own chamber, why can't he pardon me?' He turned and glared at Corbett. 'It was worth it!' he snarled. 'I brought the outlaw down with his swagger, his Lincoln green and his love of the common man. I made two mistakes. No, three! I should have taken his head like I took that silly fool Gisborne's. I should have killed Roteboeuf. And above all, Corbett, I should have killed you!'

Lincoln strode down the table and beckoned to his soldiers.

'Make him stand up!'

The soldiers hustled Branwood to his feet. He spat defiantly at Lincoln who struck him across the face then dragged the chain of office from round his neck.

'Sir Peter Branwood, you are a thief, a murderer and a traitor! I arrest you for high treason, as I do you, John Naylor! As for you,' he glanced disdainfully at the kneeling, sobbing Roteboeuf, 'you will be detained until the King's pleasure is known. Sir Hugh.' He looked at Corbett. 'Sir Hugh

Corbett came round the table and stared at Branwood who looked defiant despite his dishevelled appearance and the burgeoning bruise where Lincoln had hit him.