by Paul Doherty
‘Master Appleston didn’t commit suicide,’ Corbett declared. ‘I’ll tell you what happened, Ranulf. Late last night someone came here. A friendly visit - perhaps bringing a wine jug. Whoever it was filled Appleston’s cup not only with wine but with a heavy sleeping draught. Appleston fell into a deep sleep and then the assassin, our Bellman, took a bolster, held it over Appleston’s face and quietly smothered him: that’s why the room was locked when Granvel returned.’
Chapter 13
Corbett told Ranulf to hold his peace as they went downstairs. Bullock was seated in the parlour with Tripham and Lady Mathilda, Master Moth standing like a ghost behind her. Churchley and Barnett sat apart in the window seat, heads together.
‘Well?’ Bullock asked, rising to his feet.
‘Master Leonard Appleston was not the Bellman,’ Corbett replied, ‘nor did he commit suicide. I am not going to give you the evidence for this.’ He caressed the book he had found in Appleston’s room. ‘Late last night someone came and killed poor Appleston and then made it look as if he was the Bellman.’ He stared round at the assembled company. ‘Sparrow Hall is a veritable nest of murderers,’ he added.
‘I protest!’ Tripham bleated from where he sat beside Lady Mathilda. ‘Sir Hugh, I must protest at such a description. We at Sparrow Hall cannot be blamed for the murderous antics of Master Norreys...’
‘Murderous no longer,’ Bullock broke in. ‘His body’s gibbetted in Carfax.’
‘It was a royal appointment,’ Churchley said. ‘Norreys was the King’s nominee: he had little to do with Sparrow Hall itself.’
‘Why was Appleston murdered?’ Barnett asked.
‘Because the Bellman is scared,’ Corbett replied. ‘He must realise the net is closing. Appleston was the suitable sacrificial lamb. I found this book in his room, which makes me wonder if he was also murdered because he entertained his own suspicions: we’ll never know now, will we?’
‘Talking of books,’ Tripham intervened, desperate to assert his own authority. ‘Your servant, Sir Hugh, has our copy of St Augustine’s...’
‘Appleston allowed me to take it,’ Ranulf replied.
‘Well, Appleston’s dead and we want it back.’
‘What now?’ Lady Mathilda asked from where she sat with a piece of embroidery on her lap.
‘A few questions first,’ Corbett replied. ‘Master Tripham, you went up to see Appleston last night?’
‘Yes, I did. He was upset at the way Sir Walter’s soldiers had manhandled him.’
‘And, Master Churchley, you took him up a tincture of camomile?’
‘Yes, for the sore on his mouth.’
Corbett stared at the sparrows carved on both sides of the fire hearth and then at Bullock who seemed to have lost some of his bombast.
‘And you, Sir Walter?’
‘I went to apologise for my men.’
‘And the meeting was amicable?’
Bullock opened his mouth to reply.
‘The truth!’ Corbett demanded.
‘It was far from amicable,’ Bullock admitted. ‘At first Appleston accused me of being a bullyboy, of enjoying the discomfiture of the Masters and scholars at Sparrow Hall. I told him not to be so stupid. I was about to leave when he also called me a traitor: he had seen my name amongst the adherents of de Montfort. I told him he was too young and too foolish to pass judgement on his elders.’ Bullock shrugged. ‘Then I left.’ The Sheriff sat down on a stool. ‘Why,’ he added, ‘can’t de Montfort’s ghost leave us alone?’ He glanced up. ‘Sir Hugh, what will happen now? I can’t keep guarding Sparrow Hall for ever and a day. The King must be told.’ A touch of malice entered his voice. ‘He will order the dispersal of the Masters and this place closed.’
‘The Proctors of the University and others will have something to say about that,’ Barnett brayed. ‘Our status and property are the same as Holy Mother Church. We are not puffs of smoke to be wafted away.’
‘Why are you so sure Appleston is not the Bellman?’ Churchley asked. ‘We have only conjecture for your conclusions.’
‘In a while, in a while,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Master Alfred, I would like to look in your library. I’ll take this book back myself. Ranulf here will return The Confessions. He can always study the work at the royal libraries in Westminster.’ Corbett, followed by Ranulf, walked to the door. He turned. ‘But none of you is to leave,’ he warned. ‘The fire still burns,’ he added, ‘and the pot has yet to come to the boil.’
‘What did you mean by that?’ Ranulf asked as they walked down towards the library.
Corbett stopped. ‘I don’t know, but it will make them think. Perhaps the Bellman will make another move and, this time, may not be so clever. Go back and collect their book. I’ll wait for you in the library.’
Corbett pushed open the door of the library and went in. The arrow slits high in the walls provided some light but he opened the shutters at the far end, which gave him a view out over the garden. He went to the archivist’s desk and opened the register. He noted the entries for Ranulf and afterwards Appleston for the book he had just brought back. Corbett walked round the library. Each shelf had its own mark and these were copied on the inside folio of every book. He found the place for Appleston’s book, then carefully removed and studied other works on the same shelf. Many of them were similar, writings from the time of the great civil war as well as extracts from chronicles about de Montfort. One folio, thicker than the rest, contained the private papers of Henry Braose, the founder of the college. As he leafed through these, Corbett’s heart skipped a beat. Certain pages had been neatly cut out with a knife. Corbett did not know whether this was recent or had occurred when the book was first bound. There was no index. Corbett took the book to a seat underneath the window and scrutinised it. Most of the contents were letters between Braose, the King and members of the Royal Council. Some were from Braose’s beloved sister Mathilda; three or four to Roger Ascham his friend. Corbett closed the book and examined the cover: there was no dust so someone had quite recently taken it out. The door opened and Ranulf came in.
‘I’ll put it back, Master,’ he offered, holding up The Confessions. ‘I know where it goes. Have you found anything interesting?’
‘Yes and no,’ Corbett replied. He showed Ranulf the book with the pages ripped out.
They went back to the shelves and continued their searches. Servants came in to ask if they wanted anything to eat or drink but they refused. Tripham and then Lady Mathilda also entered to see if they needed further assistance. Corbett murmured absentmindedly that they did not and he and Ranulf returned to their searches. Now and again a bell rang and they heard the sound of feet pattering outside.
‘Nothing,’ Corbett concluded. ‘I can discover nothing.’
He paused as the door opened and Master Churchley came in.
‘Sir Hugh, Appleston’s corpse must be dressed and prepared for burial. Master Tripham also asks if your servant has returned our book; it is quite costly.’
‘The corpse can be removed,’ Corbett replied. ‘And Ranulf has brought your book back.’
‘How much longer will you be?’
‘As long as we want, Master Churchley!’ Corbett snapped. He waited until the door closed. ‘But if the truth be known,’ he whispered, ‘there is little more we can do here.’
‘Monica!’ Ranulf declared abruptly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Monica,’ Ranulf explained, beaming across the table. ‘I was thinking about Augustine’s mother, St Monica, who prayed every day that her son be converted.’ His eyes grew soft. ‘She must have been a woman of great strength and patience,’ he added. ‘I wish...’ Ranulf paused. ‘Is there anything we know about her?’
Corbett clapped Ranulf on the shoulder. ‘A true scholar, Ranulf,’ he declared, ‘never leaves a library without learning something. This place must have a book of hagiography: The Lives of the Saints,’ he explained, seeing the puzzlement in Ranulf’s face.
Corbett went along the shelves and took down a huge calf-skin tome which he laid gently on the table. He opened it, pointing to the titles.
‘You see, St Andrew, Boniface, Callixtus.’ He opened the pages.
‘The writing’s beautiful,’ Ranulf muttered. ‘And the illuminations...’
‘Probably the work of some monastic scribe,’ Corbett explained. He turned back to the cover of the book where Henry Braose’s name was boldly etched.
‘Henry must have been a very wealthy man,’ Ranulf remarked.
‘After the civil war ended,’ Corbett replied, ‘De Montfort and all his party were disinherited. Their lands, manors, castles, libraries and treasure chests were all deemed spoils of war. Edward never forgot those who supported him: de Warrenne and de Lacey were lavishly rewarded. It was wholesale plunder,’ Corbett continued. ‘And Braose was one of the principal beneficiaries. Now. St Monica—’ He sifted through the pages to the chapter which began with ‘M’, the letter being painted in blue and gold. Corbett looked down the page and gasped. Ranulf came round so he turned the page over quickly. He found the place for St Monica and pushed the book over. Ranulf seized it eagerly and began to read the entry, his lips moving soundlessly. Corbett walked to the window, so Ranulf would not glimpse his excitement. He stood, breathing in deeply, calming the excitement in bis belly. But how, he thought? How could it be done? He stared into the garden. The assassin came here, slunk along the walls with an arbalest. But why did Ascham open the shutters? And what of the other murders?
‘Master, I’m finished.’
Corbett went back, picked up the book and placed it back on the shelf. He was sure it would be safe there: that and the book found in Appleston’s chamber were all the proof he really needed.
‘We’d best go.’
Ranulf caught Corbett by the shoulder. ‘Master, what is it?’ He smiled. ‘You’ve found something, haven’t you?’
‘A faint suspicion.’ Corbett winked. ‘Suspicion but not proof.’
‘So what now?’
‘Doucement, as the French would say,’ Corbett replied. ‘Gently, gently, lad. Come, let’s walk.’
They left the library. Corbett became infuriatingly quiet as he walked round the Hall, upstairs and along the galleries. At one point near a back door, Ranulf stopped and pointed to an iron boot bar cemented into the floor.
‘Just like the one in St Michael’s Church,’ he observed.
‘It’s to clean boots,’ Corbett absentmindedly replied.
‘According to Magdalena the anchorite,’ Ranulf replied, ‘Passerel’s assassin tripped against the one in St Michael’s.’
‘Did he now?’ Corbett replied slowly and he stared down at the boot bar.
‘We must go there,’ he added enigmatically.
Corbett then went outside, staring up at the different windows, particularly those at the back of the hall. Before he left, Corbett plucked a red rose, still wet with the morning’s dew. When they went out into the stinking alleyway where Maltote had been fatally wounded, he ignored the curious stares of Bullock’s soldiers and placed the rose in a niche on the wall.
‘A memento mori,’ he explained. ‘But come, Ranulf, it is time for prayer.’
They went out into the streets and made their way through the thronging crowds of hucksters and traders into St Michael’s Church. Corbett walked up the nave and stood in the mouth of the rood screen.
‘So, a Daniel has come to judgement!’ The anchorite’s voice echoed down the church. ‘You have come to judgement, haven’t you?’
‘How does she know?’ Ranulf whispered.
‘A matter of faith rather than deduction,’ Corbett replied. ‘I wager that poor woman has prayed every day for vengeance on Sparrow Hall. Oxford is a small community - Appleston’s death must now be known by all.’
Corbett genuflected towards the sanctuary lamp and walked to the side door where Passerel’s assassin had crept in. He crouched down to examine the iron boot bar cemented into the paving stones. It was just within the door so people could scrape the mud and dirt from their boots.
‘Passerel’s assassin stumbled there,’ the anchorite shouted. ‘I saw him, like a thief in the night, but that’s what Death is, the silent stealer of souls.’
Corbett ignored her. He then walked out of the church, not bothering to listen to the anchorite’s fresh cry, ‘The justice of God will shoot out like a flaming rod against sinners!’
He and Ranulf walked across the street, turned a comer and went down Retching Alley into a small ale shop. The room inside was no bigger than a peasant’s hovel, with a mud-packed floor, some stools and large, overturned vats as tables. Nevertheless, the ale was tangy and frothy.
‘Well?’ Ranulf put his blackjack down. ‘Are we going to walk round Oxford or sit here on our arses looking at each other?’
Corbett smiled. ‘I was thinking about chance, Ranulf. Luck, the throw of the dice. Take Edward’s great victory over de Montfort at Evesham - oh, Edward’s a fine general but he was lucky. Or the outlaw we hanged at Leighton. What was his name?’
‘Boso.’
‘Ah yes, Boso. How did you catch him?’
‘He decided to flee,’ Ranulf replied, ‘but took the wrong path. You can’t run far when you are trapped fast in a marsh.’
‘And if he had taken another path?’
‘We’d have lost him. As you know, an army could hide in Epping Forest.’
‘It’s the same here,’ Corbett replied. ‘We can use logic and deduction but what brings results is luck.’
‘Is it, Master?’ Ranulf cradled the blackjack in his hands. ‘In a few months it will be November, the feast of the Holy Souls. I keep remembering the story you told me about the murder in your parish when you were a boy. Think of all the dead, all the victims of the Bellman crying to God for justice.’
Corbett toasted him silently with his own pot of ale.
‘Quite the theologian, Ranulf. Divine intervention is a possibility but God also helps those who help themselves. Let’s go through the list of victims.’ Corbett put his ale down.
‘Copsale died in his sleep, probably poisoned or smothered like Appleston.’
‘And Ascham?’
‘Was foolish enough to open the window shutters: he probably didn’t even think.’
‘And Passerel?’
‘I don’t know why Passerel was killed except that as he and Ascham were close friends, the Bellman might have feared that the archivist had shared his anxieties with him.’
‘And Langton?’
‘Again, very easy. People were gathered in the library and cups of wine stood on the table; an easy target. What I can’t understand is how the dead man had a letter for me from the Bellman in his wallet?’ Corbett stared at a chicken which was pecking at the mud-packed floor.
‘And Appleston?’ Ranulf asked. ‘It must have been someone strong to keep that bolster over his face.’ Ranulf called across to the tapster to fill their blackjacks. ‘But who, Master, and why?’
‘According to Aristotle,’ Corbett replied, ‘man is naturally good. This confused your favourite philosopher Augustine: how could Man, who must be good if he is created by God, do evil?’
‘Did he resolve the problem?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Yes, Augustine did: he said that when a man sins, he is seeking a selfish good. He is in fact saying, evil be thou my good.’
‘And the Bellman is doing that?’
Corbett finished off his ale. ‘Perhaps? Anyway, enough theory, Ranulf. Let me reflect for a while.’
Corbett rose and walked into the yard behind the small ale house: he sat on a turf-built bench, staring into the oval-shaped carp pond as if fascinated by the fish. Ranulf let him be. He supped his ale and, making himself comfortable in a corner, dozed for an hour. He was woken by Corbett tapping his boot.
‘I am ready now.’
They returned to Sparrow Hall, where Corbett sought out Tripham.
‘Master Alf
red, I would be most grateful if you could keep your colleague Churchley under close supervision. However, I must first have words with Lady Mathilda.’
Corbett, followed by a still-mystified Ranulf, climbed the stairs. A servant directed them to Lady Mathilda’s chamber at the far end of the gallery. Corbett knocked.
‘Come in!’
Lady Mathilda was seated by the hearth, a piece of embroidery on her lap, needle poised in mid-air. On a stool opposite sat Master Moth, his ghost-like face and watchful eyes reminding Corbett of an obedient lapdog.
‘Sir Hugh, how can I help?’
Lady Mathilda waved him to a chair. She dismissed Ranulf with a cursory glance.
‘Lady Mathilda.’ Corbett pointed to her writing desk. ‘I need to see Sir Walter Bullock urgently. If I could borrow pen and paper, would Master Moth take my message to the castle?’
‘Of course. Why, is there something wrong?’
‘You are the King’s spy at Sparrow Hall,’ Corbett replied, sitting down at the desk, ‘so, you should know before the others do; I believe that Master Churchley has a great deal to answer for as, perhaps, does his colleague Barnett.’
Corbett seized a quill, dipped it into the inkpot and wrote a short note asking the Sheriff to come as quickly as he could. He sanded the paper, folded and neatly sealed it with a blob of hot wax. Lady Mathilda made her strange hand signs to Master Moth who nodded solemnly.
‘The Sheriff may not be at the castle,’ Dame Mathilda pointed out.
‘Then ask Master Moth to wait until he returns. Lady Mathilda, I have some questions, which I believe you may be able to assist me with.’
Corbett watched and waited as Moth took the letter, knelt, kissed Lady Mathilda’s hand then quietly left the room. Once he was gone, Corbett locked and bolted the door behind him. Lady Mathilda looked up in alarm, placing the piece of embroidery on the small table beside her. Ranulf watched fascinated.