Paul Doherty: Angel of Death

For the rest of the afternoon Corbett stayed in the tavern replenishing his drink as he carefully went over what he had learnt in the last few days. Corbett believed he had found the murderer of de Montfort, the would-be regicide, the slayer of Plumpton and the man who had attempted to kill him by proxy the previous evening. Corbett felt as satisfied as he ever would in this world that he had uncovered the truth, but believed it would be futile to confront the culprit with his evidence. Better to allow the man to confess his own guilt and thus meet his just rewards.

The hours seemed to drag but at last Corbett gauged the time had come for him to return to St Paul's. Ranulf, who had spent the afternoon wandering in and out of the tavern on a number of minor errands, was asked to go with him. His servant, of course, agreed willingly, for he sensed that his master was close to the kill. Ranulf knew Corbett, with his own devious sly ways, was about to bring a murderer to justice and he, who hated the fat priests and their grasping hypocritical ways, fully intended to see matters reach their climax. Corbett, however, insisted that although Ranulf was to accompany him into the cathedral, he was to stay in the background.

St Paul's was empty when they entered. Because of winter, business finished early in the afternoon and the place was so cold that few people bothered to linger longer than necessary. Corbett went up to the confessional, the place where the priest would sit and shrive the sins of those seeking repentance. It was really a wooden trellis screen attached to a pillar. The priest sat on one side with his back to it, while the penitent would knee on a small wooden stool on the other. Corbett knelt and waited. He heard a sound from far beyond the sanctuary, a door opening and closing and the soft slithering sound of a man walking towards the screen. The priest sat down murmuring the 'In nomine Patris' followed by the 'benedicte' and quietly invited Corbett to begin his confession. The clerk, in a whisper to disguise his voice, began with the usual ritual.

'Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.' Corbett stated the last time he had been shriven and mentioned a number of sins, those which immediately sprung to mind and, even though he was in danger, Corbett smiled wryly as he realized that most of his offences were either lustful thoughts or anger towards Ranulf. He heard the priest stir angrily at being called out to absolve such minor offences. So Corbett, steeling himself, his hands now dropping to the hilt of his dagger, began the most dreadful confession he had ever made.

'Father, I know a murderer, the name of the man,' he continued hurriedly, 'who has killed two men, plotted to murder the king, the Lord's anointed, and has tried to murder someone else.' The priest stirred but Corbett continued remorselessly. 'Father, what am I to do? In justice, should I keep this information to myself? Or should I hand it over to the authorities?'

The priest turned towards the screen.

'No, Master Corbett,' Robert de Luce hissed through the screen. 'You have come to the right place.'

In the faint light of the cathedral, Corbett stared through the holes of the lattice screen at de Luce's hard, angry eyes. He sensed the man was mad, not witless like some fool in the streets, but a man driven to insanity by hate. The look of malice in de Luce's eyes was something tangible. Corbett felt sudden dread, and wondered whether this dramatic confrontation of the murderer was the wisest possible course of action.

'I have come,' Corbett said, dropping all pretence, 'to tell you what I know. To ask you to confess to what is true. You, Robert de Luce, treasurer of the Cathedral of St Paul's, the senior canon in this church, murdered Walter de Montfort during the sacrifice of the mass, attempted to murder me because I was near the truth and certainly killed Philip Plumpton because he too discovered it. I also believe deep in my heart, though I cannot prove this, that you intended to murder His Grace the King: the poisoned chalice was meant for him.'

'And how do you know all this, my clever clerk?' de Luce rasped.

'The chalice,' Corbett replied, 'first went to those on the Dean's right, de Eveden and Ettrick, before being passed on de Montfort's left to Plumpton, yourself and Blaskett. You knew de Eveden only pretended to drink the wine so enough would be left to disguise the poison you sprinkled as you grasped the chalice after Blaskett had drunk. And who would glimpse this sleight of hand? Your colleagues had just taken the sacrament and would stand heads bowed, eyes closed. Logic dictates either you or Plumpton was the poisoner. Plumpton's dead so it has to be you. You forgot one thing: the Hostiam pacis – the kiss of peace. De Montfort had to offer the chalice to the king and, before doing so, drink from it again. This is where your plot to slay the king went wrong. De Montfort drank the poisoned chalice and immediately fell dead. In the confusion you took de Montfort's chalice and, under your chasuble, dashed the lees of the poisoned wine onto your own garments. It wouldn't be much. After all, five men had drunk from it -de Montfort twice. The chalice bowl was small, it would contain little wine. Yet when I went up to the altar, after de Montfort's death, I found the chalice almost full. I suggest, Sir Priest, that after you dashed the chalice against your cope, you seized a cruet and refilled the chalice with wine. Actually, you needed only to put in a few drops, but, of course, you filled it too full. Yesterday Sir Philip Plumpton realized that the chalice was full when it should have been empty, and, secondly, that there was no wine left in the cruet. Of course there wasn't – you had poured what was left into de Montfort's chalice!'

De Luce sniggered. 'Very clever. But surely there would have been a trace of poison in the chalice?'

'Oh, yes, but you made sure it was gone. Beneath your chasuble, in the confusion following de Montfort's death, you wiped the chalice completely clean. Only it left a stain on both the chasuble and alb. I saw them when I met you and the other canons in the sacristy. After Sir Philip's death it was simply a matter of interrogating the two laundresses who work here. They told me that in the afternoon of the same day de Montfort died, you gave them an alb to clean, giving them strict instructions to remove all stains. The chasuble you ignored: it is too heavy to clean, such stains were commonplace and no one could really prove they had been acquired when you wore it at that fatal mass. The alb was different. Isn't it strange, priest, that in your arrogance, you never thought of washing it yourself? Mind you,' Corbett continued, 'there were other signs. The drops of poisoned wine on the altar frontal. They were still there after you dashed the wine under your chasuble. Finally, the wine on the carpet, to the left of where de Montfort had stood. In your haste to refill the chalice after de Montfort's death, some wine had fallen on the ground. It must have been spilt then. You know Canon Law, and de Montfort was a rigid disciplinarian. If consecrated wine had been spilt during mass there would have been an elaborate ritual to clean it up afterwards.'

'Is that all, Clerk?' de Luce hissed.

'Oh, no,' Corbett replied. 'You hoped that once de

Montfort was dead, the dean's scandalous private life would cloud the identity of his murderer. You even tried to pass the blame on to other people. De Montfort, ever the boastful man, had declared that the king had sent him a pannikin of wine. Once you had refilled the chalice, and while de Montfort's body was being taken to the sacristy for anointment by Blaskett, it was simply a matter of slipping up to de Montfort's room, poisoning the wine and, under your heavy ceremonial cope, bringing it down to the small vestry in the sacristy. I am right, am I not, Sir Priest?'