Paul Doherty: Nightshade

‘I can only imagine the darkness that engulfed Dame Marguerite’s soul,’ Corbett declared. ‘The lies, the tragedy, the loss of her beloved, the evil deeds of her brother, the waste of her own life, the living of a lie!’

‘The serpent truly entered Eden!’ Ranulf called out.

‘Yes, that’s what it was. You were the serpent, Master Benedict. Publicly you were the pious chaplain; privately you wound yourself around Dame Marguerite’s soul. Did you seduce her? Did she try and take from you what she had lost? I think that you kindled her murderous fury against her evil brother whilst smilingly inviting her to participate in his destruction.’

Master Benedict gazed back, cold-eyed.

‘All was ready,’ Corbett continued. ‘Messages were sent to the Free Brethren and they duly landed at Dover and journeyed into Essex. Dame Marguerite, at your insistence still playing the faithful sister, the pious abbess, persuaded her brother that the Free Brethren were no danger, so they were allowed to shelter here in Mordern. Secretly, however, you plotted: weapons were bought and practised upon; a plan of the reclusorium was produced, the secret ford described.’

‘Secret ford?’ Master Benedict jibed.

‘Yes the secret ford across the lake to the Island of Swans knownto Scrope, Gaston and Dame Marguerite when they played there as children. I mentioned it last night. Dame Marguerite told you about it, she must have done; that is how you, the killer, crossed. After all, you often visited the manor, Master Benedict. You would become accustomed to crossing over, especially during those spring and summer days, well hidden by that clump of willows behind the reclusorium. You’d also steal out to meet the Free Brethren, and, of course, they were entertained at St Frideswide, where you all could plot to your hearts’ content. Except for Jackanapes, fey-witted he might have been, but he could still have noticed something amiss.’

‘Yet it was Dame Marguerite who told you that he came here …’

‘Of course she did, providing valuable information to sustain both your roles as innocents in this matter. You were offering us Jackanapes as a valuable witness, but not for long. He would die before I ever questioned him.’

‘Are you alleging I was the Sagittarius?’ Master Benedict declared. ‘Remember that evening in Mistleham: Dame Marguerite and I were with you when the Sagittarius blew his horn.’

‘Yes, that was strange,’ Corbett conceded. ‘As it is that you mention it now. That evening the horn was blown, but no attack was launched. Why? I suspect that earlier that day, before you attended the banquet, you secretly visited Jackanapes the fool, and bribed him with good silver to blow that horn late at night. You then met him afterwards to pay and collect the horn. After all, a horn is easy to carry and easy to hide; many people have them. On that particular evening you just wished to confuse; you did the same when we journeyed here to clear the dead. It wasso easy to slip away into the ruins or the trees and blow three swift blasts, again for the same effect: to confuse, to make me wonder if the Sagittarius really was someone distinct from all those I had met in Mistleham.’

‘I was also in the marketplace when Jackanapes was killed.’

‘Nonsense! You were there because you knew that was where he lived, and for all I know, you invited him to meet you there for payment. Jackanapes was certainly marked down for death. First because of the horn, and second because he’d been out to Mordern and St Frideswide and may have, in his own antic way, seen or heard something untoward. Now, around the market square in Mistleham stand houses with row upon row of tenements. Most of them are owned by Lord Scrope; some of the rents have been granted to Claypole, even more to St Frideswide’s. Garrets and attics, shabby little rooms, stairwells and chambers no bigger than a box, shadowy, narrow places; easy to conceal a bow and a quiver of arrows, easy for someone like yourself, with keys from Dame Marguerite, to slip like a thief up the stairs, seize the concealed bow, then through some arrow slit, hole or window take aim and unleash death. Lady Hawisa’s men, led by Pennywort, will make a sweep of such hiding holes. I wager they’ll find bows and arrows hidden away. That’s what you did when you killed Jackanapes: hastened up a flight of stairs to let murder take wing. Two shafts for Jackanapes – you had to be sure he was dead, his gabbling mouth silenced for ever – then you re-emerged as the pious chaplain.’

‘So I am a master bowman as well as a priest?’

‘Too true,’ Corbett agreed, ‘and a very good one! The Sagittarius is a matter to be discussed, but let us return to late last summer.All was secure. You were so assured you made your first mistake. In your confidence you decided to taunt Scrope with that painting. He must have been furious at being given such a brutal, stark reminder of his evil deeds, being portrayed as a Judas. Little wonder he promised to renovate St Alphege’s, a small price to pay for removing that painting. You totally underestimated Scrope, an evil, vengeful man. He bided his time, but you, the master mason of murder, made your second mistake. Brother Gratian visited you here. He’d served as a soldier and he noticed how one of the funeral crosses had been used as a whetstone to sharpen blades. Finally John Le Riche, the robber, with his ill-gotten gains, arrived from Westminster. Like any outlaw he sought refuge in Mordern Forest, and the Free Brethren took him under their wing. In many ways your associates were not children of this world; they cared little for wealth. They may also have been curious about Le Riche’s secret relationship with Master Claypole and indeed Lord Scrope. Anyway, Le Riche left most of his booty here in trust before he journeyed into Mistleham to do business with Claypole and Scrope. Of course that precious pair duped him. They arrested Le Riche, drugged him, tried him and hanged him out of hand. Again the Free Brethren showed compassion as well as overconfidence. They cut down Le Riche’s corpse and buried him and his treasure here under a certain headstone, scrawling the memorial on the sacristy wall of this church. How does it go? “Rich, shall richer be, Where God kissed Mary in Galilee.”’

‘I certainly agree with your judgement on Scrope,’ Master Benedict murmured.

‘You still underestimated him,’ Corbett declared sharply. ‘The painting, the weapons, and, I suspect, he discovered that not onlyhad Le Riche sheltered in Mordern, but most of his booty still lay hidden here. Enough was enough. The Free Brethren were a real danger. Scrope was very frightened. How had they discovered his sin? His Judas-like conduct? Had someone survived the fall of Acre, someone who knew everything? Or was it Gratian or even Claypole? Whatever, they had to be silenced. Scrope became busy sowing rumours, allegations against the Free Brethren, and then he struck. He acted the manor lord defending his own, the faithful son of the Church attacking heretics. The Free Brethren were swiftly massacred. Scrope did not find the treasure, nor had he the wit to understand the scrawl on the sacristy wall. He killed them all, then left their corpses to rot. Why? Well, first he discovered that the Free Brethren were not the angelic beings they’d pretended to be. He must have been delighted to find those weapons and the drawings of Mistleham Manor to justify his actions, but he was also suspicious: he wanted to see if the Free Brethren had any secret sympathisers amongst the community in Mistleham. Anyone who might come out here to bury the corpses.’ Corbett paused. Master Benedict’s face had grown paler. He was staring dully into the flames as the memories returned.

‘You,’ Corbett continued, ‘like everyone else, were deeply shocked at Scrope’s ferocious and ruthless attack. You certainly had not planned for that. You never thought a manor lord would attack in the first light of dawn, putting everyone to the sword. You were not there to advise your comrades that Scrope had decided on all their deaths. He had no choice: that painting, not to mention Le Riche. Our robber not only hid his plunder here, he may also have told the Free Brethren all sorts of tales about asecret pact to sell stolen royal goods to a mayor and a powerful lord. Little wonder the Free Brethren were so brutally silenced. Nevertheless, you and your accomplice, Dame Marguerite, became genuinely ill with shock, guilty at bringing your colleagues to such a grisly end. Dame Marguerite had learnt of the Templar threats to her brother; now, through you, she began to issue threats on both your accounts about the Mills of God.’