Paul Doherty - Angel of Death

Sir Philip moved the cups around carefully before pulling one out. Corbett recognized the chalice he had held the morning de Montfort had died. Plumpton brought it across to Corbett. A beautiful piece of craftmanship, Corbett thought it must be at least a hundred years old. The cup was of pure gold, the stem and base of thick silver encrusted with gold and precious gems. He turned it over and saw the goldmaker's hallmark displayed on the base. The inside of the cup was beaten gold, pure, bright, so it caught the light of the candles. Corbett held it up to his nose and sniffed; there was a faint smell of polish and sweetened wine but nothing else. He moved it from one hand to the other, feeling its worth.

'There is no other cup like this?' he asked, returning it to Plumpton. A chorus of denials greeted him.

'The cup,' de Eveden said hastily, trying to be of help, 'is unique. Only a master craftsman could have made it. It would be recognized anywhere as de Montfort's cup.'

Corbett nodded.

'There is one other matter. When de Montfort died, he must have left some papers?'

'Yes,' Plumpton said. 'We have them stored down in the treasure room. We have to draw up an inventory for the city sheriff and other officials.'

'Why was I not shown these?' Corbett asked. 'You showed me his chamber readily enough.' He looked around the sacristy. 'This place will do as good as any. I want those papers brought here. Now!'

Plumpton was about to protest but, after one look at Corbett, he changed his mind. He indicated a chair and table and hurried off. Corbett dismissed the rest, gratified to see they left the sacristy a little less arrogandy than when they had entered. At last Plumpton, followed by three servants huffing and blowing under the weight of a large leather-bound chest, returned. Corbett pointed to the table, on which the servants placed the chest and left the room. Corbett opened the lid.

'These are all de Montfort's documents?'

'All his moveables,' Plumpton replied, using the legal term. 'This is everything that de Montfort had, apart from his clothing, which you have seen. A number of books are here, all his papers and precious objects.'

'Fine. If you would, Sir Philip, continue your kindness by lighting more candles and having a brazier placed here, perhaps a little wine? I will go through the contents of this trunk and then you may have it back.' And, not waiting for an answer from the priest, Corbett began to unpack the large chest.

After three hours' searching Corbett concluded it contained little of importance. Apart from a large account-book there was nothing: pieces of parchment filled with notes, sets of prayer beads, a broken crucifix. The remaining documents were bills and memoranda but nothing to excite any interest. Corbett sent for Plumpton, whom he informed that he had finished, though he would take the ledger-book home for personal study. Sir Philip protested loudly but Corbett reminded him that his commission was from the king and, if he had any protests or objections, it was useless making them to the king's messenger but to go direct to His Grace at Westminster. Plumpton, looking very subdued, shouted for the servants to refill the trunk and swept out of the room. Corbett was also about to leave when he heard a faint knock on the door.

'Come in.' The door opened and John de Eveden, the librarian, entered like some contrite boy coming to apologize. He sat down on a stool just inside the door, his hands folded in his lap. Corbett stood, wrapping his cloak around him, toying with the clasp.

'Sir John, you wish to speak to me.'

The canon nodded.

'What is the matter, man?' Corbett asked. 'You come in here like a maid who has a confession to make.'

'I am no maid,' de Eveden said wryly. 'But I do have a confession.'

'Then give it.'

'I did not drink the wine.'

'What do you mean?'

'When the chalice was passed back, I did not drink the wine.'

Corbett went over and looked down at de Eveden. 'Why not?'

The priest shrugged. 'You laypeople do not know what it is like to be a priest,' he replied. 'You pass judgement on us. Hold us up as perfect specimens yet attack us when we are not. I am no different. My weakness, Master Clerk, or my weakness was, the grape, the wine. I used to spend days, long nights, drinking cup after cup – it was my only vice. I took an oath one night after I had drunk too much and found myself in circumstances I cannot describe. I crawled like a child into the sanctuary and took an oath. I would not drink wine ever again be it consecrated or not. That's all you should know.' He shrugged. 'I did not drink the wine de Montfort drank.'

Corbett stared down at him. Deep in his heart he felt the man might be telling the truth but he did wonder why, and why now.

'Tell me, Sir John,' he said, 'when de Montfort died and collapsed, what happened?'

'We stood around. I did not know what had happened, nor did my brethren.' De Eveden passed a hand over his eyes. 'All was confusion, chaos, I cannot remember. People rushing here and there.'

'Did you see anyone go to the altar?'

'No, I did not.'

'Nothing strange?'

'No, I did not,' de Eveden said firmly.

'The gossips amongst your brethren. Did they see anything strange?'

De Eveden looked sharply at Corbett. 'No, they did not. I swear that I have heard nothing, nothing extraordinary, nothing strange.'

'Tell me,' Corbett said, 'how were you dressed for mass? What did each of the celebrants wear?'

De Eveden spread his hands. 'The usual garments. We wore our robes and over them the long, white alb fastened by a gold cord, the amice, a strip of silk on our wrists, the stole about our necks. Over that the chasuble. Why?'

'Nothing,' Corbett replied. 'The chasubles? They are kept here?'

'Yes, they are.'

'And the albs, the white tunics worn under them?'

The librarian shrugged. 'As usual, they are passed to the laundress. She washes and presses them and that is the end of the matter. Why?'

'Nothing,' Corbett replied. 'You have told me all.'

Corbett left the librarian and strode out across the sanctuary and empty choir into the nave of the church. The business for the day was finishing; lawyers and parchment sellers were drifting off, and the twelve scribes, who sold their services to anyone who wished a letter written, were packing away their writing trays in small leather cases.

As Corbett was going out of the main west door, a hand caught his shoulder. He whirled, his hand going beneath his cloak for his dagger but, in the fading light, he recognized the fleshy, still beautiful face of the courtesan.

'What do you want, woman?' he demanded.

'You should not be so aggressive, Clerk,' she replied. 'I know you are probably asking questions about me so I thought I should come and introduce myself.'

'And your name?'

'Abigail. What do you want with me?' 'What did the Dean of St Paul's, Walter de Montfort, want with you?' The woman smiled. 'What any man does.' 'And what is that?'

'You are still too aggressive, Master Clerk. What is your name?'

'Hugh Corbett, senior clerk in the Chancery.' The woman mimicked his words. It was so accurate that, in spite of himself, Corbett smiled.

'I am sorry,' he said. 'I am cold. I don't like the task in which I am involved and I am tired. If you wish to play games then perhaps another time, but not now.'

'Tush, man.' The woman put an ermine-gloved hand on

Corbett's wrist. 'I only thought it was a matter of time before you came to see me so I thought I would do the courtesy of saving you a visit.'

'Fine,' Corbett said. 'But the question still stands. What was your relationship with Walter de Montfort?'

'Simple,' the woman said. 'I hold his house in Candlewick Street.'

'What do you mean, you hold it?'