Paul Doherty: Assassin in the Greenwood

'Am I the King?' Edward roared. 'To be made a mockery of in my own kingdom? You will go north, Corbett, you understand? You will go to bloody Nottingham and see Robin Hood hang!'

So Corbett had come to Nottingham. He bore the King's message of angry disapproval to the sheriff Sir Eustace Vechey but, on his arrival at the castle, discovered Vechey had been poisoned in his own chamber.

'Tell me again,' Corbett said, breaking free from his reverie, 'how Sir Eustace died.'

'Sir Eustace,' Branwood began slowly, 'was in the blackest pit of depression. On Wednesday evening he dined here in the hall. He hardly spoke. He ate sparingly though he drank well. At last he got to his feet, said he was retiring early and, followed by Lecroix his manservant, took a goblet of wine up to his chamber. Vechey slept in a great four-poster bed, Lecroix on a pallet in a corner of the same chamber.'

'Was there any food in the room?'

Branwood made a face. 'A little. A plate of sweetmeats, and of course the cup of wine. However, when Vechey's corpse was discovered, Physician Maigret tasted both the sweetmeats and what was left of the wine. Both were found to be harmless.'

'Did anyone visit him in the night?'

'No. Vechey locked his chamber door, leaving the key in the lock. Two soldiers stood guard outside, Vechey's personal retainers. No one came near that chamber.'

'You talked of secret passageways?'

'Oh, they may exist under the castle but Sir Eustace's chamber is on the floor above. Not even a rat could squeeze in there.'

'And the windows?'

'As here, mere arrow slits.'

'So,' mused Corbett, 'a man is poisoned in a locked chamber. No one entered, no one could force their way through a window and there are no secret passageways. And you say he only ate and drank what you did?'

Branwood snorted. 'Even better. He made myself, Lecroix, and Physician Maigret taste everything before he did. You see, Sir Eustace had nightmares about Robin Hood. He believed the outlaw wanted him dead, if not by an arrow or dagger then by poison.'

Corbett shook his head and went back to the table.

'So this man leaves the table in good health. He takes a goblet of wine upstairs, perhaps eats a sweetmeat, yet neither of these was tainted?'

'Yes,' Branwood said softly. 'Go to the chamber yourself, Master Clerk. Naturally Sir Eustace's corpse has been removed, but on my orders and those of Physician Maigret, nothing else. The wine and sweetmeats – everything is still there.'

'I would like to question the servant Lecroix.'

'He will be found for you but is surely not responsible,' Branwood explained. 'Lecroix is simple-minded and deeply loved his master.'

Ranulf-atte-Newgate spoke up clearly, tired of the way Naylor was glaring at him. 'But you said, Sir Peter, that Lecroix slept in the same chamber. Surely Sir Eustace Vechey's death throes would have woken him?'

Branwood shrugged. 'Vechey had drunk deep, as had Lecroix. The fellow sleeps like a log. And according to Physician Maigret, certain noxious potions can kill quietly and swiftly.'

Corbett rubbed his face and walked over to the window, drawn there by a clamour from the castle bailey below. He stared down at the small crowd of retainers who had gathered round a makeshift execution platform on which a red-masked headsman was standing. Corbett stood transfixed as a man was hustled up the steps, hands bound behind his back. His head was thrust down on the block, the axe rose, glinting in the sunlight, and fell with a loud thud. Corbett flinched and looked away as hot blood spurted in a curving arc. 'Master, what is it?'

Ranulf and Maltote left the table and peered over Corbett's shoulder.

'See,' Ranulf whispered to Maltote, 'the eyes still flutter and the lips are moving.'

The round-faced Maltote, who could not stand the sight of blood, his or anyone else's, briskly walked away, praying not to faint. Corbett looked at the sheriff.

'A bloody business, Sir Peter?'

'No, a lesson,' Branwood replied, toying with a ring on his slim brown hand.

Corbett flinched as the axe fell again. He caught the glint of amusement in Branwood's eyes.

'What is happening?' Corbett jerked his head towards the window.

'You are a visitor to Nottingham, Sir Hugh. There's an outbreak of plague in the city.'

Corbett shivered and turned away. Thank God, he thought, he hadn't brought Maeve and baby Eleanor here.

'A house in Castle Street,' Branwood explained, 'was taken by the plague and a group of night watchmen, in accordance with city regulations, had the place shut up, marking the door and windows with crosses.'

Corbett breathed a prayer; if the plague visited any house, all the occupants suffered.

'Anyway,' continued Branwood, 'a man, his wife, a girl, a boy, and two servants were declared dead. The corpses were to be removed to the lime pits outside the city gates. Now usually everyone stays away in these cases but this time an inquisitive relative, braver than the rest, came to pay his last respects. He hid in the shadows and, when one of the corpses was dragged out, saw the head roll to one side. The throat had been cut.' Branwood nodded at the window. 'The night watchmen were murderers. They'd killed the entire family and plundered the house. Now they pay the price, to the King and to God.'

Corbett walked back to the table, trying to close his mind to the repetitive thuds followed by murmurs from the small crowd of spectators.

'I need to inspect Sir Eustace's corpse,' he demanded.

'It's been moved.' Branwood shrugged. 'Because of the heat. To a death house in a garden near the postern gate.'

'No time like the present,' Corbett replied briskly. 'Sir Peter, you'll show us the way?' The under-sheriff led them out, Naylor, Ranulf and Maltote following. Corbett looked carefully around. For a royal castle Nottingham was painfully neglected. The paint on the walls was mouldy and flaking; the paving stones underfoot uneven, damp and cracked. Branwood led them through a dirty kitchen. The walls were spattered with traces of meals long past whilst bloated flies buzzed lazily over pools of blood as a sweating cook and his grimy-faced scullions hacked at a chunk of beef. Corbett glimpsed a tub of dirty water covered in scum. He swallowed and quietly vowed he would be careful what he ate here. They crossed an empty yard, passed down more passageways and into a small garden. Perhaps under previous sheriffs it had been a bower, but now the chipped statue in the centre was almost hidden by a wild tangle of brambles and weeds.

'Better care should be taken,' Ranulf murmured.

'We are King's officers not gardeners!' Branwood snapped. 'And, thanks to Robin Hood, poor Vechey could hardly take care of himself.'

They fought their way through the high grass and gorse to a small stone building with a flat roof whose cracked door hung askew on leather hinges. Branwood pulled it back and waved Corbett in. The stench was so pungent he pinched his nostrils.

'Today is Friday,' he muttered to himself. 'Vechey died late on Wednesday evening.'

He stared round, took a thick tallow candle left just inside the door, struck a tinder and moved deeper into the darkness. Ranulf and Maltote wisely stayed outside. The dead sheriff's body had been laid on the floor, a dirty linen sheet flung over it.

'I am sorry,' Branwood called in through the half-open door, 'but we knew you were coming, Master Corbett, and Physician Maigret told us not to dress the corpse until you had inspected it.'

Corbett pulled back the fetid sheet and tried not to think or reflect. If he did so he would gag or retch. Vechey had been middle-aged, balding, a slightly podgy man though the stomach was even more swollen with the trapped gases. The eyes were still half-open. Corbett tried not to look at them but examined the lips which had turned a purple hue, particularly the open sores at each side of the mouth. In his earlier days the clerk had performed military service in Wales and knew enough physic to conclude that such blotches were the result of poor diet, too much meat and very little fruit. He carefully scrutinised the dead man's fingers and nails but noticed nothing untoward except that the skin of Vechey's hand felt like wet wool. Corbett sighed, pulled back the sheet, blew out the candle and walked back into the garden.