Paul Doherty - Nightshade

Dame Marguerite made to rise, but Corbett gestured at her to remain seated. He pulled across a small stool and sat before her. ‘I have been confessing my sins to Master Benedict.’ Dame Marguerite smiled through her tears. ‘I am, Sir Hugh, in periculo mortis , in danger of death, just like our beloved patroness.’ She pointed at the painted window that described St Frideswide’s flight from her royal would-be husband: the saint sheltering in a convent at Oxford, and God protecting her by striking the pursuing king blind.

‘My lady.’ Corbett gestured at the arrow and picked up the scrap of parchment, a coarse yellow, the inscription on it clearly written. ‘The Mills of the Temple of God,’ he murmured, ‘may grind exceedingly slow.’ He glanced up. ‘The same message sent to Lord Scrope.’

Master Benedict hurriedly cleared his throat. ‘We were herein the church,’ he stammered, ‘when Dame Edith brought in both shaft and parchment.’

‘Pinned to the kitchen gate it was,’ Dame Edith sniffed, mouth all prim. ‘One of the gardeners bringing in the produce saw it there, an arrow from hell!’

‘Does the Sagittarius wish my death?’ Dame Marguerite moaned. ‘Oh, Sir Hugh, I’m so frightened.’

Corbett glanced at Master Benedict, who just shook his head, then at Dame Edith. The prioress stared boldly back.

‘Dame Marguerite,’ Corbett asked, ‘do you have any suspicions about the perpetrator?’

‘Yes,’ she stammered. ‘Claypole! He knows I hate him. I detest his arrogant claims. Now my brother is dead, he dreams of being lord of Mistleham. I have reflected,’ she whispered. ‘Claypole profits much. Sir Hugh, he owns tenements over the market square, he is skilled in archery. Moreover, like my brother, his reputed father, he is a man of blood.’

‘Sir Hugh,’ Master Benedict raised his hand, ‘are you close to trapping this killer?’

Corbett stared at this soft-faced cleric crouching like a frightened rabbit. ‘The solution,’ he replied slowly, ‘is not here or in Mordern, but in Mistleham.’

‘What shall we do?’ the chaplain bleated.

‘Arrest Claypole!’ Dame Marguerite snapped.

‘But Lord Scrope’s death has not advanced his claim,’ Corbett replied. ‘The blood registers are missing.’

‘Are they, Sir Hugh?’ Dame Marguerite nodded.‘Or has Claypole had them all the time, biding his moment. But to repeat Master Benedict’s question, what shall we do?’

‘Be careful.’ Corbett picked up the arrow. ‘I shall keep this and the parchment, my lady.’ He bowed to the abbess, thanked Master Benedict and allowed Dame Edith to escort them back to the stables, where Chanson and Pennywort were waiting. Once clear of the convent buildings, Ranulf urged his horse alongside that of Corbett.

‘Master,’ he asked, ‘do you suspect anyone?’

‘Yes, Ranulf, I do, but only thinly, a few pieces collected together. This is going to be difficult. Not a matter of logic or evidence; more cunning. You see, Ranulf, the Sagittarius, the killer, the murderer, the Nightshade – whatever hellish name he likes to call himself – prowls Mistleham. He has two lives: openly respectable, but secretly he is an assassin. However, I suggest that he cannot continue this for ever. Sooner or later he must disappear.’

‘In other words, the fox has invaded the hen coop?’ Ranulf asked. ‘And he is going to find it rather difficult to leave.’

‘Correct,’ Corbett declared. ‘So, Ranulf, we must concentrate on that.’

Once back in his chamber at Mistleham, Corbett sent Ranulf and Chanson together with Pennywort to collect Brother Gratian and Master Claypole for further questioning. He then sought an urgent meeting with Lady Hawisa and explained that, once again, he must use the hall as a place to interrogate certain witnesses. She heard him out and nodded.

‘Do you know, Sir Hugh,’ she stepped closer, head to one side as if studying Corbett for the first time, ‘when my husband knew you were coming here, he was truly frightened. He called you a hawk that never missed its quarry, a lurcher skilled to follow any scent. I can see why. Are you close to the truth?’

‘No, my lady, not yet.’

‘What is the cause of these hideous events at Mistleham?’

Corbett sat down on a stool and smiled at her. ‘Lady Hawisa, this is all about love!’

She glanced at him in surprise.

‘Love,’ Corbett continued. ‘Even the most loving couple in wedlock disappoint each other. We constantly fail each other, and the reason is that we want to love so much and be loved so deeply. However, if such love is abused, it can turn rancid, evil and malignant; it seeks revenge. That is what I am hunting here, Lady Hawisa. Not events that happened twelve, thirteen, even twenty years ago, but an emotion, a feeling, some passion of the human heart that didn’t burn then die, but transformed into something sinister and monstrous.’

‘Will you ever discover what?’

‘With God’s own help, my lady, and a little assistance from yourself.’

‘In which case, Sir Hugh,’ she extended her hands, ‘my hall is yours.’

‘One further thing.’ Corbett stood up. ‘I wish to question Brother Gratian. When I have finished, may I look at the ledgers, the accounts for Mistleham? Not so much the expenditure, but the income from rents, profits, trading ventures – is that possible?’

‘For what purpose, Sir Hugh?’

‘My lady, I wish I could tell you the truth, but I cannot. I want to scrutinise them carefully. However, when I see my quarry, I will recognise it.’

Lady Hawisa nodded in agreement, and Corbett made his farewells.

Chanson ushered a rather nervous Brother Gratian into the great hall and up to the chair before the dais. This time Corbett had not produced his warrants or letters of appointment, simply his sword lying next to the Book of the Gospels on which Gratian had taken his earlier oath. When the Dominican went to take his seat, Ranulf sprang to his feet.

‘How dare you!’ he shouted. ‘How dare you sit without permission before the King’s commissioner?’

Brother Gratian grasped the table and leaned against it, pallid-faced, eyes darting to left and right, constantly licking his bloodless lips.

‘Sir Hugh, what is this? I am a priest, a Dominican.’

‘I know enough of that,’ Corbett replied slowly. ‘I also know you are a liar and a perjurer, responsible for an attack on the King’s representative in these parts.’

‘I … I … don’t know,’ the Dominican replied.

‘You’d best sit down,’ Corbett declared. Leaning over, he pushed the Book of the Gospels in front of the Dominican, then, stretchingacross, took Gratian’s right hand and slammed it firmly down on top of the book. ‘Now, Brother Gratian, I’ll be swift and to the point. I have been in to Mistleham. You might not know this – I am sure they’ve now fled – but I met your friends from the Temple, lodged at the Honeycomb disguised as beggars; the same men whom you used to meet at the distribution of the Mary loaves. You exchanged messages with them, including threats to pass on to Lord Scrope. They’ve confessed.’

‘I don’t know …’

‘If you continue to lie,’ Corbett declared, ‘I shall arrest you and personally take you to Colchester to be interrogated by the King and his ministers, who have now moved there. You also failed to tell me that you were at Acre in 1291.’

‘You never asked. I did not think it was relevant.’

‘We shall decide,’ Corbett declared, ‘what is relevant and what is not. Brother Gratian, your hand is on the Gospels, and so is mine. I am not lying to you. I know precisely what you have done and what you planned, but I want to hear it from your own mouth. Now you can decide either here or before the King in Colchester. I am sure that your superiors in London will not be pleased when the King returns to report what meddling mischief you’ve been involved in.’