Paul Doherty: Assassin in the Greenwood

'Does Sir Eustace have any family?'

'He has a son in the King's army in Scotland and a daughter married to some Cornish knight; he was a widower. His remains will probably be interred in one of the city churches until Sir Eustace's son declares his intentions.'

'You can take him away,' Corbett murmured. 'God knows that body has suffered enough!'

Naylor rejoined them, marching purposefully through the long grass. He seemed more friendly and grinned at Corbett.

'They are all ready. I've summoned them to the hall,' he announced.

Ranulf, sitting on a stone wall sunning himself, squinted up at this serjeant-at-arms against whom he had taken an instant dislike. 'Who is ready?' he asked.

Before he received an answer, three others came through the garden: a friar, small, balding and brown as a berry, his face glistening, eyes almost lost in rolls of fat. Beside him was a young clerk, with thick hair cut painfully short. He was dressed in a fustian knee-length sleeveless jupon. Underneath his jerkin was of padded silk with slashed sleeves, and on his dark head sat a small tasselled skull cap. A clerk, Corbett thought, but a fop. Nevertheless, he liked the fellow with his boyish face and laughing eyes. Beside him stood a severe figure with steel-grey hair and a long white face, his chin deeply cleft. He was dressed in a blue quilted gown, fringed at the neck and cuff with dyed black lambswool, which almost hid his spindly legs. Branwood waved them over.

'Sir Hugh Corbett, may I introduce three members of my household. Friar Thomas, my clerk Roteboeuf, and Physician Maigret.'

Hands were clasped and shaken, Corbett introducing Ranulf and Maltote. He glared as Ranulf winked fleetingly at his fellow. Corbett knew his manservant was already poking fun at the young clerk's name which, translated from the Norman French, meant 'Roast Beef. The quick-witted young man caught the exchange of grins.

'My name,' he laughed loudly, 'indicates my origins but not the quality of meals received here in the castle.'

The murmur of laughter, shared by all except Maigret and the sombre-faced Naylor, was halted by Branwood putting up his hands and loudly declaring, 'Sirs, we have problems enough but, I assure you, either the cook changes his ways or he goes!'

'Who knows?' Roteboeuf quipped. 'Sir Eustace, God rest him, may have been poisoned by his own cook.'

'He would not have died so quickly,' Maigret snapped, his eyes flickering with annoyance as he scratched the tip of his nose. 'Sir Eustace was murdered. And you, Sir Peter, had a narrow escape.'

Corbett glimpsed the annoyance on Branwood's saturnine face.

'What does the physician mean, Sir Peter?'

'The night Sir Eustace died, we had been dining at table in the hall. I left after Sir Eustace. Later I returned for a half-finished cup of wine. I drank it but the taste was acrid so I threw it away. After I retired I began to retch and vomit. I spent the night in the latrines. My bowels had turned to water.' Sir Peter cleared his throat. 'The next morning I felt weak. I thought it was something I had eaten until Sir Eustace's corpse was found when I consulted Physician Maigret.'

'He had been poisoned,' the doctor declared triumphantly, as if daring anyone to contradict him.

'With what?' Corbett asked.

'I don't know, but if Sir Peter had finished that cup of wine he would surely have died. I told him to fast for twenty-four hours and drink as much water from the castle well as possible.'

Corbett stared round the group. 'You did say someone was waiting for us?'

'Ah, yes, the two guards and Lecroix are in the small hall.'

'The same two who guarded Sir Eustace's chamber?' 'Of course.'

'Then we had better not keep them waiting. And I would like everyone,' Corbett continued, 'to be present at the interrogation.'

They went back into the castle and into the small hall. Corbett noticed this too shared the general air of decay which hung over the whole castle. A dirty, flagstoned room, its narrow windows were protected by wooden shutters or a few glazed with horn. Along the hammer-beam roof Corbett glimpsed huge cobwebs and on the dirty white-washed walls hung dusty shields bearing the faded escutcheons of former sheriffs. The fireplace was battered and the grate still full of last winter's ash. There were no carpets or rugs on the floor which was instead thickly covered with lime. There were two wall seats covered in cushions but these were ragged and faded. There was very little in the way of furniture except two grease-covered trestle tables on the dais as well as a number of makeshift benches and stools. On one bench, pushed against the wall, sat three lack-lustre figures. They stood up as Corbett entered. The two guards looked morose and greasy-haired, while Lecroix, skull-faced under a mop of tousled black hair, was rather obese with an unkempt moustache and beard to hide his hare lip.

'Let us make ourselves comfortable,' Branwood suggested.

Benches and stools were moved into a horseshoe pattern, everyone self-consciously taking their seats as Sir Peter once again introduced Corbett.

'Sir Peter,' he began briskly, trying to dispel the tension, 'tell me once again what happened on the night Sir Eustace died.'

'We all gathered here. The food was rancid as usual. The cook said it was roast pork but it was wet, soggy and tasted of salt.'

This drew a snigger from his companions.

'Some of us drank ale, others wine.' Sir Peter stroked his chin, trying to remember. 'There was a dish of vegetables and some marchpane.'

'And nothing happened at the meal?' asked Corbett.

'Those who were hungry ate, then as usual we sat about talking.'

'Sir Eustace included?' 'Yes.'

'For how long?'

Corbett studied the faces of the rest of Branwood's household; from their expressions he deduced the sheriff was telling the truth.

'Oh, about an hour and a half, then we went to bed.'

'And what happened next?'

'I was up early the next morning. As I have explained, I had been unwell all night,' Branwood continued. 'I attended mass and came down here to break my fast. I expected Sir Eustace to be here. When he wasn't, I went up to his chamber and asked the two guards if he had risen.'

They shook their heads as if anticipating Corbett's question.

'We never hears anything,' one of them replied in a thick country accent. 'We hears nothing so Sir Peter bangs on the door.'

'And then what?'

Lecroix pulled himself out of his reverie. 'I woke up,' he muttered. 'You see, sir, I am a heavy sleeper.'

'More like a heavy drinker!' snapped Maigret.

'I had drunk deeply,' Lecroix cried, 'but I was tired!'

Corbett watched him carefully. He noticed the man's flickering eyes, the drool of saliva down his tangled beard. This man is not full in his wits, he thought, the mind of a child in the body of a man.

'Master Lecroix,' he said softly, 'no one is accusing you. Just tell me what happened.'

'I was asleep on the trestle bed on the other side of the chamber. I always sleep there. Sir Peter's loud knocking woke me up and made my head even more sore. I went across to Sir Eustace's bed to pull back the heavy drapes. He was just lying there.' Lecroix's lower lip began to tremble and his eyes filled with tears.

'Continue,' Corbett said quietly.

'I knew there was something wrong. My master's body was twisted, his face turned to one side and his mouth open. His eyes were staring. They reminded me of a dog I had seen crushed by a cart.' Lecroix put his head in his hands. 'Sir Peter was still knocking and my head was hurting so I went and unlocked the door.'

'And you went in, Sir Peter?' Corbett asked.

'We all did,' the sheriff explained. 'I sent one of the guards here down to the hall. Naylor, Roteboeuf, and of course Physician Maigret joined me.'