Hugh Corbett 10 - The Devil's Hunt

by Paul Doherty

  They went downstairs into the lane. A whore, her face painted so white the plaster was cracking, flounced by, shaking her dirty, tattered skirts at them. In one hand she held her red wig, in the other a pet weasel tied by a piece of string wrapped round her wrist. She grinned at them in a display of yellow, cracked teeth but then turned, cursing in a string of filthy oaths, as a dog came out of an alleyway snapping and snarling at her pet. Whilst Ranulf and Maltote helped to drive it away, Corbett crossed and knocked at the door of Sparrow Hall. A servitor let him in. Corbett explained why he was there and the man took him upstairs to Churchley’s chamber. Master Aylric was sitting at his desk beneath an open window, watching the flame of a candle burn lower. He rose as Corbett entered, hiding his irritation beneath a false smile.

  ‘How does fire burn?’ he asked, grasping Corbett’s hand. ‘Why does wax burn quicker? Why is it more amenable to fire than wood or iron?’

  ‘It depends on its properties,’ Corbett replied, quoting from Aristotle.

  ‘Yes, but why?’ Churchley asked, waving him to a stool.

  ‘It’s about natural properties I have come.’ Corbett abruptly changed the conversation. ‘Master Aylric,’ he continued. ‘You are a physician?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m more of a student of the natural world,’ Churchley teased back, his narrow face becoming suspicious.

  ‘But you dispense physic here?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘And you have a dispensary? A store of herbs and potions?’

  ‘Of course,’ came the guarded reply. ‘It’s further down the passageway, but it’s under lock and key.’

  ‘I’ll come to the point,’ Corbett said briskly. ‘If you wished to poison someone, Master Aylric - it’s a question, not an accusation - you wouldn’t, surely, buy it from an apothecary in the city?’

  Churchley shook his head. ‘That could be traced,’ he replied. ‘One would be remembered. I buy from an apothecary in Hog Lane,’ he explained, ‘and all my purchases are carefully noted.’

  ‘You never gather the herbs yourself?’

  ‘In Oxford?’ Churchley scoffed. ‘Oh, you might find some camomile out in Christchurch Meadows but, Sir Hugh, I am a busy Master. I am not some old woman who spends her days browsing in the woods like a cow.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Corbett replied. ‘And the same goes for the assassin who killed Passerel and Langton.’

  Churchley sat back in his chair. ‘I follow your drift, Sir Hugh. You think the poisons were taken from the dispensary here, yet that would be noticed. The poisons are all held in jars carefully measured. It’s not that we expect to be poisoned in our beds,’ he continued, ‘but a substance like white arsenic is costly. Come, I’ll show you.’

  He took a bunch of keys from a hook on the wall and led Corbett to a door further down the gallery. He unlocked it and they went in. The room was dark. Churchley struck a tinder and lit the six-branched candelabra on the small table. The air was thick with different smells, some fragrant, others acrid. Three walls of the chamber were covered in shelves. Each bore different pots, cups or jars with its own contents carefully marked. On the left were herbs: sponge-cap, sweet violet, thyme, hazelwitch, water grass, even some basil, but others, on the right, Corbett recognised as more deadly potions such as henbane and belladonna. Churchley took down a jar, an earthenware pot with a lid. The tag pasted to its side showed it to be white arsenic. Churchley put on a pair of soft kid gloves lying on the table. He took off the stopper and held the pot up against the candlelight. Corbett noted how the jar was measured in half ounces.

  ‘You see,’ Churchley explained. ‘There are eight and a half ounces here.’ He opened a calf-skin tome lying on the table. ‘Sometimes it is dispensed,’ he continued, ‘in very small doses for stomach complaints and I have given some to Norreys as it can be used as a powerful astringent for cleansing. But as you see, eight and a half ounces still remain.’

  Corbett picked up the pot and sniffed.

  ‘Be careful,’ Churchley warned. ‘Those skilled in herbal lore say it should be handled wisely.’

  Corbett sifted through the pot, noticing how the powder at the top seemed finer than that lying underneath. Churchley handed him a horn spoon and Corbett shook some of the fine chalk-like substance into it. Churchley stopped his protests and watched quietly, his face rather worried.

  ‘You are thinking the same as I,’ Corbett murmured. He scooped some of the powder on to the spoon. ‘Master Churchley, I assure you, I am not skilled in physic.’ Corbett held the powder up to his nose. ‘But I think this is finely ground chalk or flour and no more deadly.’

  Churchley almost snatched the spoon out of his hand and, plucking up courage, he dabbed at the powder and put some on the tip of his tongue. He then took a rag and wiped his mouth.

  ‘It’s finely ground flour!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Who keeps the keys?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Well, I do,’ Churchley replied in a fluster. ‘But, Sir Hugh, surely you do not suspect me?’ He stepped out of the pool of light, as if he wished to hide in the shadows. ‘There could be other keys,’ he explained. ‘And this is Sparrow Hall, we don’t bolt and lock all our chambers. Ascham was an exception in that. Anyone could come into my chamber and take the keys. The Hall is often deserted.’ His words came out in a rush.

  ‘Someone came here,’ Corbett replied, putting the spoon back on the table, ‘and removed enough white arsenic to kill poor Langton. Someone who knew your system, Master Churchley.’

  ‘Well, everybody does,’ the man gabbled.

  ‘He filled the jar with powder,’ Corbett explained.

  ‘But who?’

  Corbett wiped his fingers on his cloak.

  ‘I don’t know, Master Churchley.’ He waved round the room. ‘But God knows what else is missing.’ He stepped up close and saw the fear in Churchley’s eyes. ‘But I ask myself what else, Master Aylric, has been taken?’ Corbett turned and walked to the door. ‘If I was a Master of Sparrow Hall,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘I would be very careful what I ate and drank.’

  Chapter 8

  A worried Churchley locked the door of the store room and followed Corbett down the gallery.

  ‘Sir Hugh,’ he wailed. ‘Are you saying we are all in danger?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I am. I would strongly advise that you scrupulously search to see if any more powders are missing.’

  Corbett paused at the top of the stairs. ‘Who is acting as bursar after Passerel’s death?’

  ‘Well, I am.’

  ‘Is it possible to sift through Ascham’s and Passerel’s belongings?’

  Churchley pulled a face.

  ‘I need to,’ Corbett persisted. ‘God knows, man, all our lives are at risk. I might find something there.’

  Churchley, grumbling under his breath and anxious to get back to his herbs, led Corbett downstairs. They passed the small dining hall to the rear of the building. Churchley unlocked the door and led Corbett into a store room, a large vaulted chamber full of barrels with sheaves of parchment, ink, and vellum ranged along the shelves; further back stood buckets of sea coal and tuns of malmsey, wine and ale.

  Churchley took Corbett over to a far corner. He unclasped two great chests.

  ‘Passerel’s and Ascham’s possessions are here,’ he declared. ‘They had no relatives - or none to speak of. Once their wills have been approved by Chancery, I suppose all these items will be inherited by the college.’

  Corbett nodded and knelt down beside the chests. He smiled as he recalled his own experience as a clerk of the Chancery court, having to travel to some manor house or abbey to approve a will or order the release of monies and goods. He began to sift through the belongings. Churchley mumbled something about other duties and left Corbett to his own devices. Once Churchley’s footsteps faded away, Corbett realised how quiet the Hall had become. He controlled a shiver of unease and went across to close and bolt the door before returning to his task. He then searched both chests, s
ifting through clothes, belts, baldrics, a small calf-skin-covered Books of Hours, cups, mazers, pewter dishes and gilt-edged goblets that each man had collected over the years. Corbett was experienced enough to realise that what was not actually listed in Ascham’s or Passerel’s will would have already been removed. He was also sure the Bellman would have also scrutinised the dead men’s possessions to confirm that nothing suspicious remained. Ascham’s belongings provided little of interest and Corbett was about to give up on Passerel’s when he found a small writing bag. He opened this and tossed the fragments and scraps of parchment it contained on to the floor. Some were blank, others scrawled with different lists of provisions or items of business. There was a roll listing the expenses Passerel had incurred in travelling to Dover. Another listed the salaries of servants in both the hostelry and Hall. A few were covered with graffiti: one in particular caught Corbett’s attention. Passerel had scrawled the word ‘Passera’, ‘Passera’, many times.

  ‘What is this?’ Corbett murmured, recalling the message left by the dying Ascham. Was Passerel playing some pun on his name? Did ‘Passera’ mean something? Corbett put the pieces of parchment back, tidied up both chests and pushed down the clasps. He went back into the hall and along the passageway to the library. The door was half open. Corbett pushed it aside and walked quietly in. The man seated at the table with his back to him was so engrossed in what he was reading that Corbett was beside him before he turned, the cowl falling back from his head, his hands moving quickly to cover what he was reading.

  ‘Why, Master Appleston,’ Corbett smiled his apologies. ‘I did not mean to alarm you.’

  Appleston closed the book quickly, turning on his stool to face Corbett.

  ‘Sir Hugh, I was... er... well, you remember what Abelard said?’

  ‘No, I am afraid I do not.’

  ‘He said there was no better place to lose one’s soul than in a book.’

  Corbett held his hand up. ‘In which case, Master Appleston, may I see the one you are so engrossed in?’

  Appleston sighed and handed the book over. Corbett opened it, the stiff, parchment pages crackling as he turned them over.

  ‘There’s no need to act the inquisitor,’ Appleston declared.

  Corbett continued to turn the pages.

  ‘I have always had an interest in the theories of de Montfort: “Quod omnes tangent ab omnibus approbetur”.’

  ‘What touches all should be approved by all,’ Corbett translated. ‘And why the interest?’

  ‘Oh, I could lie,’ Appleston replied, ‘and say I am interested in political theory, but I am sure the court spies or city gossips have told you the truth already.’ He stood up, pulling back his shoulders. ‘My name is Appleston, which was my mother’s name. She was a bailiffs daughter from one of de Montfort’s manors. The great Earl, or so she told me, fell in love with her. I am their child.’

  ‘And are you proud of that?’ Corbett asked. He studied the square, sunburnt face, the laughter lines around the eyes and wondered if this man, in some way, was a fair reflection of his father. ‘I asked a question.’

  ‘Of course I am,’ Appleston retorted, touching the sore on the comer of his mouth. ‘Not a day goes by that I don’t pray for the repose of my father’s soul.’

  ‘Concedo,’ Corbett replied. ‘He was a great man but he was also a traitor to his King.’

  ‘Voluntas Principis habet vigorem legis,’ Appleston quipped.

  ‘No, I don’t believe that,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Just because the King wants something does not mean it’s law. I am not a theorist, Master Appleston, but I know the gospels: a man cannot have two masters - a realm cannot have two kings.’

  ‘And if de Montfort had won?’ Appleston asked.

  ‘If de Montfort had won,’ Corbett replied, ‘and the Commons, together with the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, had offered him the crown, then I and thousands of others would have bent the knee. What concerns me, Master Appleston, is not de Montfort but the Bellman.’

  ‘I am no traitor,’ the Master replied. ‘Although I have studied my father’s writings since I was a boy.’

  ‘How is it -’ Corbett asked ‘- that a member of the de Montfort family is given a benefice here at Sparrow Hall? A college founded by de Montfort’s enemy?’

  ‘Because we all feel guilty.’

  Master Alfred Tripham entered the library, a small folio under his arm.

  ‘I have just returned from the schools,’ Tripham explained. ‘Master Churchley told me you might be here.’

  Corbett bowed. ‘You walk as quietly as a cat, Master Alfred.’

  Tripham shrugged. ‘Curiosity, Sir Hugh, always has a soft footfall.’

  ‘You spoke of guilt?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Tripham put the folio down on the table. ‘That prick to the conscience, eh, Sir Hugh?’ He looked round the library. ‘Somewhere here, amongst these papers, there’s a copy of Sir Henry Braose’s will but I am too busy to search for it.’ Tripham went and sat on a stool opposite Appleston. ‘However, in his last years, Braose became melancholic. He often had dreams about that last dreadful fight at Evesham and how the King’s knights desecrated de Montfort’s body. Braose believed he should make reparation. He paid for hundreds of chantry Masses for the dead Earl’s soul. When Leonard here applied for the post...’

  ‘He knew immediately,’ Appleston broke in. ‘He took one look at my face, paled and sat down. He claimed he was seeing a ghost. I told him the truth,’ Appleston continued. ‘What was the use in denying it? If I had not told him, someone else would have.’

  ‘And the post was offered to you?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Yes, yes, it was, on one condition: I was to retain my mother’s name.’

  ‘We all have secrets.’ Tripham laced his fingers together. ‘I understand, Sir Hugh, that you have been through Ascham’s possessions.’ He smiled thinly. ‘You are no fool, Corbett. I am sure you know that items have already been removed?’

  Corbett stared back.

  ‘You might wonder,’ Tripham continued, ‘why Ascham was so beloved of scholars like Ap Thomas and his cronies. What would an old man, an archivist and librarian, have in common with a group of rebellious hotheads?’

  ‘Nothing seems what it should be here,’ Corbett replied.

  ‘And the same applies to Ascham!’ Tripham snapped. ‘Oh, he was venerable, amusing, a scholar but - like many of us -’ he let his gaze fall away ‘-he had a weakness for handsome youths, for a narrow waist and firm thighs, rather than a lady’s eyes or swelling bosom.’

  ‘That is not uncommon,’ Corbett declared.

  ‘In Oxford it certainly isn’t.’ Tripham rubbed the side of his face. ‘Ascham also hailed from the Welsh march - or rather Oswestry in Shropshire. He was skilled in pagan lore as well as knowledgeable about the traditions of the Welsh. He used all this knowledge to establish a close friendship with many of our young scholars.’

  ‘So, naturally, his murder was ill received by many in the hostelry?’

  ‘That’s why they turned their anger against poor Passerel,’ Churchley replied. ‘He was their scapegoat.’

  ‘Scapegoat?’

  Tripham put his hands up his sleeves and leaned on the table.

  ‘We know Passerel was innocent,’ he replied. ‘Ascham must have been killed when Passerel was miles away from Sparrow Hall. Ah, well!’ Tripham got to his feet. ‘And as for poor Appleston, surely it’s not treason to study de Montfort’s theories? After all-’ he smiled thinly ‘- even the King himself has taken them as his own.’ He gestured at Appleston. ‘Come, let us dine together, I am sure Sir Hugh has other matters to pursue.’

  ‘Oh, one other thing, Master Tripham?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Hugh?’

  ‘You talked about secrets. What is yours?’

  ‘Oh, that’s quite simple, master clerk. I did not like Sir Henry Braose, either his arrogance or his scrupulous doubts just before death. Nor do I like his waspish sister
who should never have been allowed to stay at this Hall.’

  ‘And Barnett?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Ask him yourself!’ Tripham snapped. ‘Barnett has his own demons.’

  Tripham opened the door, ushered Appleston out and slammed it behind him.

  Corbett sighed and stared round the library. He remembered why he had come and went along the shelves looking for a Latin lexicon. At last he found one near the librarian’s table. He pulled it out, sat down and found the place but groaned in disappointment. ‘Passera’ was one of the Latin words for sparrow. Was that what Ascham had been trying to write? Was his death connected with Sparrow Hall itself? Or perhaps the dead bursar had simply been scrawling a passage in his own name? Corbett put his chin in his hands. His eye caught the small box of implements the librarian must have used. He pulled this over and went through the tawdry contents: a soft piece of samite, probably used as a duster, quills, ink-horn, pumice stone and small, silken finger-caps which Ascham would have used to turn pages. On a stone shelf beyond the desk, Corbett glimpsed a leather-bound ledger. He took and opened this: it was a record of which books had been borrowed from the shelves. Corbett searched for Ascham’s name but there was nothing: the dead archivist probably had no need to borrow books from the room he constantly worked in.

  Corbett closed the ledger, put the lexicon away and left the Hall.

  The lane was now thronged with scholars and their hangers-on making their way down to the last lectures of the day. Corbett glanced across and glimpsed Barnett: the pompous Master was standing at the top of the alleyway talking animatedly to the same beggar Corbett had met. The clerk stepped back into a doorway and watched Barnett hand a coin over. The beggar fairly jumped with glee. Barnett leaned down and whispered in the man’s ear; the fellow nodded and pushed himself off in his barrow. Corbett waited for the master to cross the lane and stepped out to block his path. Barnett seemed to ignore him but Corbett held his ground.

  ‘You are well, Master?’

  ‘Yes I am, clerk.’

  ‘You seem out of sorts?’

  ‘I do not like to be snooped and pried upon.’