Paul Doherty - Nightshade

Corbett thanked him, walked past the corpse, under the roodscreen and up the steps leading to the high altar. He stared at the crucifix, closed his eyes and quoted verses from the Veni Creator Spiritus: ‘Light Immortal, Light Divine, visit thou these hearts of thine …’ He opened his eyes. It was time he primed the trap. He was wasting his time here. He had to return to Mistleham, to explore one further possibility. He turned round and walked back to join the rest.

‘Tonight,’ he declared, ‘I must ask you all to join me at Mistleham Manor. We will assemble in the hall not to feast but to decide on certain matters. I urge you all on your allegiance to the Crown to be there. Fail to do so and you will be put to the horn, proclaimed as an outlaw. Physician Ormesby, that includes you.’ Corbett gestured at Dame Marguerite’s corpse; the white cloth covering her face was now stained with blood. ‘Father Thomas, I would be grateful if you would see that the lady’s body be honourably removed. Physician Ormesby, the arrow must be taken out, the body given some sort of semblance before it is taken to St Frideswide.’ He thanked them, beckoned to Ranulf and left.

The journey back to Mistleham was silent. Corbett refused to be drawn by Ranulf’s questions.

‘You never asked them, master, where they all were.’ Ranulf couldn’t curb his curiosity. ‘Father Thomas, Claypole and the rest.’

‘It doesn’t matter where they all were,’ Corbett replied enigmatically. ‘What matters, Ranulf, is what we are going to do now.’ He pulled at his reins and gently stroked his horse’s neck. ‘Physician Ormesby is keen-witted. Do you remember what he told us? How these mysteries can be solved by discovering what really happened at Acre thirteen years ago and on the Island of Swans the night Lord Scrope was killed. Well,’ he urged his horse on, ‘we’ve studied Acre and discovered all we can about what truly happened there; now it’s time to return to the Island of Swans. Once back at Mistleham, get Pennywort. Tell him I need the services of his boat, and you, Ranulf, fetch a long pole. I am going to ask Pennywort to row you round the lake. Someone crossed the lake that night. They didn’t use the boat, there’s no bridge and, to quote Brother Gratian, outside the Gospels, no one walkson water, but someone crossed and I intend to find how they did it!’

The brutal murder of Dame Marguerite had disturbed the manor. When Corbett and Ranulf returned, they found servants gathered in small groups whispering amongst each other. Lady Hawisa came down, face all shocked at the news. Corbett took her hands and kissed her fingers gently.

‘My lady, Dame Marguerite is gone to God. I must discover her killer and that of your husband, and the sooner the better. Think of time as sand running through an hour glass; only a few grains remain. I must act and do so swiftly.’

He told Ranulf to keep on his cloak, cowl and gloves and seek out Pennywort. The boatman arrived all agog, wondering what was expected of him. Corbett asked him to row them across to the Island of Swans, told him to secure the boat, and all three went up the steps. Corbett produced the key, broke the seals, unlocked the reclusorium and went inside. It was freezing cold and rather bleak, the air stale. Corbett told Pennywort and Ranulf to stay just within the doorway as he walked slowly around.

‘There are six windows here,’ he said. ‘Two look out towards the back of the reclusorium, the others provide a view on either side of the Island of Swans. Very well.’ He went down the steps and, much to Ranulf and Pennywort’s astonishment, began to walk around the reclusorium. It was now about noon, bitterly cold, the clouds beginning to break; rooks and crows floated above them, black-feathered wings displayed, their strident cries mocking Corbett as he slipped and slithered on the ice. He kept looking across at the lake, and when he reached the rear of the hermitage,he pointed across to a group of willows on the far side and the narrow path that snaked between the trees.

‘I wonder!’ he exclaimed, but he didn’t bother to explain to his companions. Instead he returned to the jetty and instructed Pennywort to row Ranulf into the centre of the lake and proceed slowly in the direction of those willows. Ranulf was to stand in the stern with the long pole he’d taken from the stables and test the depth of the water as they went. Pennywort immediately dismissed that as a waste of time.

‘Have you ever tested the depth?’ Corbett teased.

‘Yes, but not for the entire lake.’

‘Of course not.’ Corbett smiled.

‘What are we looking for?’ Ranulf asked.

‘The same as when I scrutinised the receipts and rents of this manor,’ Corbett replied. ‘We’ll know the truth when we see it. Now, sirs …’

Pennywort, muttering under his breath, clambered into the boat. Ranulf, carrying his pole, climbed in behind; cloaked and cowled, he looked like the Angel of Death standing in the stern. Pennywort rowed out, then turned in the direction Corbett had instructed. At Corbett’s shouted order, Ranulf let the pole down; eventually he had to sit, as most of it disappeared beneath the surface. Corbett walked with them along the bank. Sometimes vegetation and undergrowth sprouting on the edge hid the boat from view, so he called out and Ranulf shouted back that there had been no change. They rounded the island, approaching the rear of the reclusorium. Corbett glimpsed the tops of the willows on the far bank and tried to control his excitement. He was almost level with the trees when he heard Ranulf and Pennywort’sloud exclamation. He hurriedly pushed through the bushes to the edge of the lake. Pennywort was trying to keep the flatbottomed boat stationary as Ranulf jabbed his pole at something beneath the water.

‘What is it?’ Corbett called, even though he anticipated the answer.

‘About a foot or more beneath the boat,’ Ranulf exclaimed, ‘there’s a hard, ridged surface. It’s broad, master, about two feet across, like a ledge or shelf.’

‘The remains of a bridge, perhaps?’ Pennywort called out. ‘I never knew. Lord Scrope refused to allow any barge or boat to circle the lake.’

Corbett just stared across at the narrow path between the willows. He called Pennywort to bring his boat closer and row him across; Pennywort tried to, but though the lake grew shallower towards the edge, it was still too deep to wade through, Corbett decided he’d walk back to the jetty and meet them there. When he arrived, Pennywort was waiting, full of surprise at their find. After he’d taken Corbett back to the other side, he quickly moored his boat and followed the royal clerks round the edge of the lake to the clump of willows. Once amongst these, hacking at the trail of undergrowth with his sword, Corbett pointed back.

‘If someone entered the manor grounds stealthily at night,’ he explained, ‘they could lurk here unnoticed by the guards sheltering around their fire under the trees some distance away. Remember, there were no dogs. Both had been killed to prepare for that night of blood. Pennywort, would you have seen anything here?’

The boatman shrugged. ‘We’d never even think to look,’ he murmured.

‘Of course not. Here in this clump of trees the killer prepared. He had a staff.’ He pointed to the pole. ‘Cut a third off.’

Ranulf, with Pennywort’s help, did so. Corbett grasped the staff, then advanced to the edge of the lake.

‘Master …’ Ranulf warned.

Corbett walked on, using the pole to test the water. He felt it hit rock and carefully walked on to the broad ledge beneath. The water rose to about a foot, almost touching the rim of his boots. He edged forward carefully in a straight line. Icy water splashed his legs, but the ledge was quite broad and gritty, whilst the flow of the lake, fed by some underground stream, was not strong.