Hugh Corbett 10 - The Devil's Hunt

by Paul Doherty

  Corbett joined in the search. Tripham stood by the door bleating protests. Bullock relished turning over coffers and chests. In the end Corbett piled all that they’d found on the desk.

  ‘So Appleston was the Bellman,’ he concluded. ‘We knew him to be the illegitimate son of de Montfort and there is no doubt he had a special love for the Earl. The scrolls, the writing implements all seem to indicate he was the Bellman.’

  ‘You are not so sure?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘Oh, I may accept that he’s the Bellman,’ Corbett replied. ‘But why did he commit suicide? For that’s what the verdict will be, yes? Appleston realises he could no longer continue his subterfuge. Accordingly, he draws up a small memorandum proclaiming the truth, takes a potion and dies peacefully in his sleep.’ He glanced at Tripham. ‘Was the door locked or unlocked?’

  ‘Unlocked, Sir Hugh.’

  Corbett sat down on a stool and scratched the end of his nose.

  ‘Here’s a man who is going to commit suicide,’ he declared. ‘He’s written his death warrant - you see the ink stains on his fingers. Most of the wine has been drunk. Appleston does not bother to die dramatically but climbs into bed.’ Corbett stared at the candlestick, he noticed how the wax had burnt down. ‘If you could all leave. Master Sheriff, you too.’

  Bullock was about to protest.

  ‘Please,’ Corbett added. ‘I promise I will not keep you long.’

  Bullock followed Tripham out of the chamber. Ranulf closed the door behind them.

  ‘You don’t believe it was suicide, do you, Master?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Corbett replied. ‘It’s not logical. Most assassins value their lives. The Bellman has enjoyed the game. He has killed in secret under the cloak of darkness. So why should he go so quietly into the night? Oh—’ Corbett nodded. ‘There’s a lot of evidence against him. His parentage, the documents in this chamber. But there again, Ranulf, if you were the bastard son of de Montfort, you’d be proud of it too, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I would.’

  ‘So, tell me, Ranulf, if you were going to commit suicide, if you were going to write the last note of your life, you’d want to do it undisturbed surely? You’d lock and bolt the door. But Appleston did neither. He climbed into bed without dousing the candle. Above all, if a man was about to die, why change into his night attire?’ Corbett walked across to the door. On one peg hung a Master’s cloak bearing the badge of the Hall and, on the other, a shirt, jerkin and hose. Corbett examined these carefully.

  ‘They are all clean,’ he murmured.

  He looked round the room and glimpsed a straw basket in the far corner under the lavarium. He went across and pulled this out, emptying the contents on to the floor. He picked up a soiled shirt and hose.

  ‘This is what Appleston wore yesterday.’ Corbett put them back in the basket. ‘Appleston also arranged fresh clothes for the morrow.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s a man of routine,’ Ranulf replied. ‘I have heard of a similar case in Cripplegate when a mother baked bread, even though she had decided to take her life before morning.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Corbett walked round the room. He sat at the desk and sifted through pieces of parchment. ‘But let’s say -’ he waved a piece of vellum in his fingers ‘- Causa Disputandi, that Appleston was the Bellman. Bullock came in here and immediately found the evidence. Why make it so apparent?’

  ‘Appleston was past caring,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Don’t forget, Master, he must have calculated we were closing in. We’d found out his secret...’

  ‘But I’m not closing in,’ Corbett commented drily. ‘I’m stumbling around in the dark as much as ever.’

  ‘Yes, yes. But, Master, let’s say we left Oxford and took horse to Woodstock and told the King what we knew. What would have happened?’

  ‘The Masters here would have been arrested.’ Corbett nodded. ‘I follow your drift, Ranulf. The King would have been deeply interested in Appleston. He would have been tempted to lodge him in the Tower with the Torturers until the truth was out. Indeed, Edward would have been beside himself to learn that a bastard son of the great de Montfort might have been plotting against him.’

  Corbett saw Ranulf’s boots scuff the bed tapestries and, going across, he lifted the sheets and blankets. Beneath the mattress, built into the wooden bedstead, was a small drawer. Corbett told Ranulf to move and they both crouched and tried to open it. The drawer was locked but Ranulf took a small pin out of his purse and inserted it carefully in the lock. At first he had no luck but, drawing it out, he inserted it again more carefully. Corbett heard a click and Ranulf pulled the drawer open. They took it out and placed it on the bed. Ranulf glimpsed Appleston’s dead face and, feeling guilty, pulled the sheet over it. The small drawer contained a few items: a lock of hair in a leather pouch; a ring bearing the insignia of a white lion rampant; a pilgrim’s medal from Compostella in Spain; an ivory-handled dagger in a clasp bearing the same escutcheon as the ring.

  ‘De Montfort’s arms,’ Corbett remarked. ‘Probably relics of the great Earl.’

  He took out the book and opened it. Bound in calf-skin, with small glass jewels embedded in the brown leather cover, the pages inside were stained and marked, the writing in different hands. Corbett took this over to the light.

  ‘It’s a collection of tracts,’ he remarked, ‘collected and bound together in one volume.’ He turned to the front of the book. ‘And this did not belong to Appleston, it’s the property of the hall.’

  ‘Is that what Ascham was studying?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘Perhaps?’ Corbett replied, leafing through the pages. ‘They are tracts,’ he declared, ‘written and circulated in London during de Montfort’s civil war with the King. They are written by different people, most of them are anonymous.’

  ‘Anything from the Bellman?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘No, but one writer calls himself Gabriel, taking the name of Heaven’s chief herald,’ Corbett replied. ‘Ah!’ He smiled. ‘They are savage criticisms of the King’s government,’ he continued. ‘Nothing original - the usual list of royal abuses and expressions of support for de Montfort.’

  ‘So?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘What is interesting, my dear Ranulf, is that they are the source of the Bellman’s proclamations. He simply copied them out, transcribing them for his own use.’

  ‘And did Appleston do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. But one thing we can establish is how long Appleston has had this book. We must look in the library at the register of books that have been borrowed.’ Corbett turned the pages of the book over. On the back of the various tracts was scribbled: ‘Ad dominum per manus P.P.’

  Ranulf came across and looked over his shoulder.

  ‘What does that mean, Master?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Corbett replied. ‘I suspect that these tracts were collected by royal adherents in London and sent to Braose. He collected them and later had them bound in one volume.’

  ‘More evidence against Appleston?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. ‘Ranulf, go down to the library and ask to see the register. Tell them not to disturb us as yet.’

  Ranulf hurried off. Corbett put the book back on the table. Was Appleston the assassin? He closed his eyes and put his face in his hands. Think, he urged: Appleston is the bastard son of de Montfort. He hates the Braose family and the King. He decides to resurrect the memory of his dead father. He takes a book from the hall library, assumes the anonymous name of the Bellman and begins to write tracts. At night he slips out of the Hall and posts these round Oxford. He enjoys himself, baiting the King and bringing Sparrow Hall into disrepute.

  Corbett took his hands away from his face and stared at the corpse stiffening under the sheets on the bed. Ascham must have grown suspicious, perhaps he had missed the book. He let his suspicions show so, one evening, Appleston goes out into the garden and sulks between the line of bushes and the library wall. He taps on the shutters. Ascham opens them and
Appleston puts a crossbow bolt straight into the man’s chest. But what about the scrawled word ‘PASSER’...? Corbett recalled the library window and felt a tingle of excitement in his belly.

  ‘Of course,’ he whispered. ‘Appleston was athletic, vigorous. He could have climbed in, taken Ascham’s finger, dipped it into a pool of blood and written those letters himself, so that the poor bursar took the blame. After all it was Appleston who told Passerel to flee to the church. Did Appleston go back, late at night, with a poisoned jug of wine? And what of Langton?’ Corbett didn’t know why the murdered master would have been carrying a letter from him to the Bellman. However, it would have been easy for anyone in that library to slip a potion into Langton’s wine cup.

  Corbett got to his feet. And the slingshot fired at them? Hadn’t Appleston spent his youth in the countryside? Perhaps he had grown quite skilled in the use of the sling? Appleston knew that Corbett had learnt about his parentage and, fearful that all would be discovered, had he decided to take his own life? Corbett heard footsteps outside and Ranulf returned.

  ‘Well?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘The book is in Appleston’s name,’ Ranulf declared. ‘But listen, Master, the entry is only for yesterday morning. It was two entries down from mine.’

  Corbett sighed in disappointment. ‘And there’s no other sign?’

  ‘No. The title of the book is Litterae atque Tractatus Londoniensis, Letters and Tracts from the city of London. I looked through the register very quickly. No one else has signed it out.’ Ranulf jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘And Master Tripham is getting restless. He wants to know what to do with the corpse.’

  ‘Tell him to send up a servitor,’ Corbett ordered. ‘The one who looked after Appleston.’

  Ranulf left. A short while later he returned with the servitor; a lanky, cadaverous-faced individual with strands of red hair across his bald pate, and a face as white as a sheet. His cheeks and crooked nose were savagely pitted with pimples and sores. His lower lip trembled and Corbett had to sit him down and reassure him that he had nothing to fear. The man gulped, his bulbous eyes constantly watching Ranulf as if he feared he was going to be tried and executed on the spot.

  ‘I did nothing to frighten him, Master,’ Ranulf said as he leaned against the door. ‘Apparently his name is Granvel. He was Appleston’s servitor.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Corbett asked gently.

  The man nodded.

  ‘And how long have you served him?’

  ‘I have been two years at Sparrow Hall.’ Granvel’s voice had a broad, rustic twang. ‘Master Appleston was a good man. He was always kind; he never beat me even when I made a mistake.’

  ‘Did he talk to you?’ Corbett asked. ‘I mean, about what he did?’

  ‘Never, never, always please and thank you. Presents at Easter, mid-summer and Christmas. Now and again the occasional shilling when the fair came to Oxford. And he took me once to see a mummers’ play in St Mary’s Church. That’s all I know, Master. I always cleaned his room and he told me never to touch his papers or books.’

  ‘And last night?’

  ‘All was normal, Master, except Master Appleston came back very irate. It was dark...’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘Did Master Appleston ever leave late at night? I mean, go out into the city?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’ The man’s head went back. ‘He wasn’t like that, sir. Not like that Master Churchley, hot as a sparrow he is and lecherous to boot. Master Appleston was a gentleman and a scholar. He loved his books, he did. I mean a real gentleman, sir. He even emptied his own chamber pot out of the window. Didn’t leave it full for some poor servant to do, like the others.’

  Corbett tried not to look at Ranulf who, head bowed, was laughing quietly to himself.

  ‘But last night something was wrong?’

  ‘Oh yes. Master Appleston came back after dark. I think he’d been out somewhere to eat.’ Granvel lowered his voice. ‘All those strange doings, Master, at the Hall.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘And, before you ask, I know nothing about it nor do any of the servants.’ He winked slyly. ‘Oh, we’ve heard all about the Bellman, sir. But how could someone leave the Hall at night? All the doors are locked and bolted.’

  Corbett pulled a face but Granvel was quick.

  ‘Oh, I suppose, Master, if someone wanted to leave they could do. I am just saying it’s difficult to do so without being seen by someone.’

  ‘You mean the Bellman?’

  ‘Of course! We’ve all heard about the proclamations but we can’t read. I’ve wondered, like the rest, how on earth someone could enter and leave Sparrow Hall at their will?’

  Corbett looked at Ranulf who shook his head. Corbett dipped into his purse and handed a coin over. Granvel, now relaxed, warmed to his task.

  ‘The same goes for the poisoning of old Master Langton. How could the wine be poisoned? Everyone drank from the same jug. Anyway,’ he continued almost at a gabble, ‘as I said, last night Master Appleston comes back, angry he was. Some of the soldiers round the Hall were fairly rough. They seized Master Appleston by the cloak and knocked that sore on his mouth. Well, Master Appleston comes into the parlour, breathing thunder he was: with the sore beside his mouth reopened and bleeding. He complained to Master Tripham: said he knew there had to be soldiers but that being manhandled was another matter.’

  ‘And then he had something to eat?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Oh no, Master,’ Granvel gabbled on. ‘That’s what I said earlier. Strange doings here. Everyone frightened of every one else. No, he came up to his room and prepared for bed. I brought him some fresh water and he changed. He had his shift and furred robe on when I came up with a goblet of wine.’

  Corbett pointed to the goblet on the table beside the bed.

  ‘That goblet?’

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s the one. There are plenty in the kitchen. Master Appleston was sitting at his desk. I put the wine down and left.’

  ‘And that was it?’

  ‘Oh no, Master.’ Granvel smiled in a fine display of the only two teeth in his head. ‘Master Tripham came up to see him.’

  ‘And who else?’

  ‘Master Churchley brought a tincture, some camomile, I believe, for the sore on Appleston’s mouth.’

  ‘And there was someone else, wasn’t there?’

  ‘Oh yes, yes, that fat Sheriff comes into the hall, squat little toad he is. “I want to see Master Tripham!” he shouts. “Aye,” Master Tripham replies, “And I want to see you, Sir Walter. There’s a fair argument over Master Appleston’s treatment”.’

  ‘And then what?’

  Granvel shifted on his stool. ‘Well, “Bugger it!” the Sheriff says. “I’ll apologise to Master Appleston myself!”’ Granvel shrugged. ‘I took him up to the room then stayed in the passageway.’

  ‘Oh come, Master Granvel! You did listen in?’

  The man smiled, his eyes on the second coin in Corbett’s fingers.

  ‘Well, it was hard not to, Master. I didn’t hear distinct words but voices were raised. And then - Bullock by name, Bullock by nature - the fat Sheriff fairly sweeps out of the room and nearly knocks me down.’ Granvel spread his hands. ‘After that, Master, I returned to my quarters below stairs. Except for my usual visit.’

  ‘Usual visit?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Well yes, sir, it’s in the regulations of the Hall. You know how these Masters study by candlelight. After midnight, I, like the rest, go up to check on my master’s chamber.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing. I tapped on the door. I tried the latch but it was bolted.’

  ‘Was that usual?’

  ‘Sometimes, when Master Appleston had a visitor in the room or did not want to be disturbed. So I went away.’

  ‘But the room was locked?’

  ‘Oh yes. So I thought, I’d leave it for an hour and when I returned the door was unlocked. I opened it gently and peered in. The candles were doused,
there were no lights, so I closed the door quickly and went to bed myself.’

  ‘And you know nothing else?’

  ‘I knows nothing else, Master.’

  Corbett handed over the coin. ‘Then keep your mouth shut, Master Granvel. I thank you for what you have said.’

  Ranulf opened the door and the servant scuttled out.

  ‘So, Master?’

  Corbett shook his head. ‘When I was a boy, Ranulf, there was a murder in my village. No one knew who did it. A ploughman had been found in the great meadow outside the village, a knife between his ribs. My father and others took the knife out and brought the corpse back to the church. Our priest then made each of the villagers walk around the corpse. He was invoking the ancient belief that a corpse will always bleed in the presence of its murderer. I remember it well.’ Corbett paused. ‘I stood at the back of the church, watching my parents and all the adults walk slowly round the corpse. Candles flickering at the head and foot of the coffin made the old church fill with shadows.’

  ‘And did the corpse bleed?’

  ‘No, it didn’t, Ranulf. However, as the men walked by, our priest, a shrewd old man, noticed that one villager was not wearing his knife sheath. He took him aside and, in the presence of the reeve, carefully scrutinised him. Blood which couldn’t be accounted for was found on the man’s tunic; moreover, he couldn’t explain where his knife was. He later confessed to the murder and fled for sanctuary.’

  ‘And you think the same will happen here?’

  Corbett smiled and went up and pulled back the sheets.

  ‘Study his face, Ranulf. What do you see? Examine particularly his lips.’

  ‘There’s a sore.’ Ranulf pointed to the bloody scab. ‘Not properly healed.’

  ‘Yes, I thought of that when Granvel mentioned the tincture of camomile. It looks as if it has been rubbed.’

  ‘But Granvel explained that?’

  Corbett shook his head. ‘Look at the cup, Ranulf - there’s no blood mark round the rim. Would a man as neat and precise as Appleston go to sleep with a sore still bleeding? More importantly—’ Corbett began to pull the bolsters away from underneath the dead man’s head. There were four all together. Corbett turned these over and sighed in satisfaction: in the middle of one bolster were faint blots of blood, pieces of hardened scab still caught in the linen.