by Paul Doherty
'I need to inspect Sir Eustace's corpse,' he demanded.
'It's been moved.' Branwood shrugged. 'Because of the heat. To a death house in a garden near the postern gate.'
'No time like the present,' Corbett replied briskly. 'Sir Peter, you'll show us the way?' The under-sheriff led them out, Naylor, Ranulf and Maltote following. Corbett looked carefully around. For a royal castle Nottingham was painfully neglected. The paint on the walls was mouldy and flaking; the paving stones underfoot uneven, damp and cracked. Branwood led them through a dirty kitchen. The walls were spattered with traces of meals long past whilst bloated flies buzzed lazily over pools of blood as a sweating cook and his grimy-faced scullions hacked at a chunk of beef. Corbett glimpsed a tub of dirty water covered in scum. He swallowed and quietly vowed he would be careful what he ate here. They crossed an empty yard, passed down more passageways and into a small garden. Perhaps under previous sheriffs it had been a bower, but now the chipped statue in the centre was almost hidden by a wild tangle of brambles and weeds.
'Better care should be taken,' Ranulf murmured.
'We are King's officers not gardeners!' Branwood snapped. 'And, thanks to Robin Hood, poor Vechey could hardly take care of himself.'
They fought their way through the high grass and gorse to a small stone building with a flat roof whose cracked door hung askew on leather hinges. Branwood pulled it back and waved Corbett in. The stench was so pungent he pinched his nostrils.
'Today is Friday,' he muttered to himself. 'Vechey died late on Wednesday evening.'
He stared round, took a thick tallow candle left just inside the door, struck a tinder and moved deeper into the darkness. Ranulf and Maltote wisely stayed outside. The dead sheriff's body had been laid on the floor, a dirty linen sheet flung over it.
'I am sorry,' Branwood called in through the half-open door, 'but we knew you were coming, Master Corbett, and Physician Maigret told us not to dress the corpse until you had inspected it.'
Corbett pulled back the fetid sheet and tried not to think or reflect. If he did so he would gag or retch. Vechey had been middle-aged, balding, a slightly podgy man though the stomach was even more swollen with the trapped gases. The eyes were still half-open. Corbett tried not to look at them but examined the lips which had turned a purple hue, particularly the open sores at each side of the mouth. In his earlier days the clerk had performed military service in Wales and knew enough physic to conclude that such blotches were the result of poor diet, too much meat and very little fruit. He carefully scrutinised the dead man's fingers and nails but noticed nothing untoward except that the skin of Vechey's hand felt like wet wool. Corbett sighed, pulled back the sheet, blew out the candle and walked back into the garden.
'Does Sir Eustace have any family?'
'He has a son in the King's army in Scotland and a daughter married to some Cornish knight; he was a widower. His remains will probably be interred in one of the city churches until Sir Eustace's son declares his intentions.'
'You can take him away,' Corbett murmured. 'God knows that body has suffered enough!'
Naylor rejoined them, marching purposefully through the long grass. He seemed more friendly and grinned at Corbett.
'They are all ready. I've summoned them to the hall,' he announced.
Ranulf, sitting on a stone wall sunning himself, squinted up at this serjeant-at-arms against whom he had taken an instant dislike. 'Who is ready?' he asked.
Before he received an answer, three others came through the garden: a friar, small, balding and brown as a berry, his face glistening, eyes almost lost in rolls of fat. Beside him was a young clerk, with thick hair cut painfully short. He was dressed in a fustian knee-length sleeveless jupon. Underneath his jerkin was of padded silk with slashed sleeves, and on his dark head sat a small tasselled skull cap. A clerk, Corbett thought, but a fop. Nevertheless, he liked the fellow with his boyish face and laughing eyes. Beside him stood a severe figure with steel-grey hair and a long white face, his chin deeply cleft. He was dressed in a blue quilted gown, fringed at the neck and cuff with dyed black lambswool, which almost hid his spindly legs. Branwood waved them over.
'Sir Hugh Corbett, may I introduce three members of my household. Friar Thomas, my clerk Roteboeuf, and Physician Maigret.'
Hands were clasped and shaken, Corbett introducing Ranulf and Maltote. He glared as Ranulf winked fleetingly at his fellow. Corbett knew his manservant was already poking fun at the young clerk's name which, translated from the Norman French, meant 'Roast Beef. The quick-witted young man caught the exchange of grins.
'My name,' he laughed loudly, 'indicates my origins but not the quality of meals received here in the castle.'
The murmur of laughter, shared by all except Maigret and the sombre-faced Naylor, was halted by Branwood putting up his hands and loudly declaring, 'Sirs, we have problems enough but, I assure you, either the cook changes his ways or he goes!'
'Who knows?' Roteboeuf quipped. 'Sir Eustace, God rest him, may have been poisoned by his own cook.'
'He would not have died so quickly,' Maigret snapped, his eyes flickering with annoyance as he scratched the tip of his nose. 'Sir Eustace was murdered. And you, Sir Peter, had a narrow escape.'
Corbett glimpsed the annoyance on Branwood's saturnine face.
'What does the physician mean, Sir Peter?'
'The night Sir Eustace died, we had been dining at table in the hall. I left after Sir Eustace. Later I returned for a half-finished cup of wine. I drank it but the taste was acrid so I threw it away. After I retired I began to retch and vomit. I spent the night in the latrines. My bowels had turned to water.' Sir Peter cleared his throat. 'The next morning I felt weak. I thought it was something I had eaten until Sir Eustace's corpse was found when I consulted Physician Maigret.'
'He had been poisoned,' the doctor declared triumphantly, as if daring anyone to contradict him.
'With what?' Corbett asked.
'I don't know, but if Sir Peter had finished that cup of wine he would surely have died. I told him to fast for twenty-four hours and drink as much water from the castle well as possible.'
Corbett stared round the group. 'You did say someone was waiting for us?'
'Ah, yes, the two guards and Lecroix are in the small hall.'
'The same two who guarded Sir Eustace's chamber?' 'Of course.'
'Then we had better not keep them waiting. And I would like everyone,' Corbett continued, 'to be present at the interrogation.'
They went back into the castle and into the small hall. Corbett noticed this too shared the general air of decay which hung over the whole castle. A dirty, flagstoned room, its narrow windows were protected by wooden shutters or a few glazed with horn. Along the hammer-beam roof Corbett glimpsed huge cobwebs and on the dirty white-washed walls hung dusty shields bearing the faded escutcheons of former sheriffs. The fireplace was battered and the grate still full of last winter's ash. There were no carpets or rugs on the floor which was instead thickly covered with lime. There were two wall seats covered in cushions but these were ragged and faded. There was very little in the way of furniture except two grease-covered trestle tables on the dais as well as a number of makeshift benches and stools. On one bench, pushed against the wall, sat three lack-lustre figures. They stood up as Corbett entered. The two guards looked morose and greasy-haired, while Lecroix, skull-faced under a mop of tousled black hair, was rather obese with an unkempt moustache and beard to hide his hare lip.
'Let us make ourselves comfortable,' Branwood suggested.
Benches and stools were moved into a horseshoe pattern, everyone self-consciously taking their seats as Sir Peter once again introduced Corbett.
'Sir Peter,' he began briskly, trying to dispel the tension, 'tell me once again what happened on the night Sir Eustace died.'
'We all gathered here. The food was rancid as usual. The cook said it was roast pork but it was wet, soggy and tasted of salt.'
This drew a snigger fro
m his companions.
'Some of us drank ale, others wine.' Sir Peter stroked his chin, trying to remember. 'There was a dish of vegetables and some marchpane.'
'And nothing happened at the meal?' asked Corbett.
'Those who were hungry ate, then as usual we sat about talking.'
'Sir Eustace included?' 'Yes.'
'For how long?'
Corbett studied the faces of the rest of Branwood's household; from their expressions he deduced the sheriff was telling the truth.
'Oh, about an hour and a half, then we went to bed.'
'And what happened next?'
'I was up early the next morning. As I have explained, I had been unwell all night,' Branwood continued. 'I attended mass and came down here to break my fast. I expected Sir Eustace to be here. When he wasn't, I went up to his chamber and asked the two guards if he had risen.'
They shook their heads as if anticipating Corbett's question.
'We never hears anything,' one of them replied in a thick country accent. 'We hears nothing so Sir Peter bangs on the door.'
'And then what?'
Lecroix pulled himself out of his reverie. 'I woke up,' he muttered. 'You see, sir, I am a heavy sleeper.'
'More like a heavy drinker!' snapped Maigret.
'I had drunk deeply,' Lecroix cried, 'but I was tired!'
Corbett watched him carefully. He noticed the man's flickering eyes, the drool of saliva down his tangled beard. This man is not full in his wits, he thought, the mind of a child in the body of a man.
'Master Lecroix,' he said softly, 'no one is accusing you. Just tell me what happened.'
'I was asleep on the trestle bed on the other side of the chamber. I always sleep there. Sir Peter's loud knocking woke me up and made my head even more sore. I went across to Sir Eustace's bed to pull back the heavy drapes. He was just lying there.' Lecroix's lower lip began to tremble and his eyes filled with tears.
'Continue,' Corbett said quietly.
'I knew there was something wrong. My master's body was twisted, his face turned to one side and his mouth open. His eyes were staring. They reminded me of a dog I had seen crushed by a cart.' Lecroix put his head in his hands. 'Sir Peter was still knocking and my head was hurting so I went and unlocked the door.'
'And you went in, Sir Peter?' Corbett asked.
'We all did,' the sheriff explained. 'I sent one of the guards here down to the hall. Naylor, Roteboeuf, and of course Physician Maigret joined me.'
'When I went in,' Maigret explained, 'Lecroix was kneeling by the bed weeping.' He patted the servant on the shoulder. 'He was devoted to his master. One of the bed curtains had been pulled aside and it was as Lecroix has described; Sir Eustace lay sprawled as if he had suffered some dreadful seizure. By the appearance of his skin, his eyes and mouth, I immediately concluded he was poisoned.'
Corbett got to his feet and shook his head in disbelief.
'Sirs, let me repeat the obvious. Sir Eustace drank and ate only what you did at supper?'
'Yes,' Sir Peter replied. 'And, remember, Master Clerk, he insisted on Lecroix, Maigret and I testing everything for him.'
'Did he eat or drink anything else?'
'No,' replied Maigret. 'When he left the hall I went up with him to his chamber. Lecroix bore his wine cup for him. Sir Eustace was lost in his own thoughts. He was almost beside himself with fear about your visit, Sir Hugh. He believed the King would hold him personally responsible for the robbery and murder of the tax-collectors. Anyway, I wished him good night, took the wine cup from Lecroix and put it in his hands. Even then Vechey asked me to taste it, so I did.'
Corbett came back and stood over the manservant. 'Lecroix!' he whispered.
The servant looked up, his face made even uglier with fear.
'Inside his bed chamber,' Corbett continued, 'your master drank the wine. Anything else?'
'Just the sweetmeats,' Lecroix murmured. 'He always kept a small tray there, but I ate some as well.'
'Did he drink any water?'
'No.' Maigret spoke up defensively. 'There's only a bowl of washing water. Both I and Roteboeuf here tested this and examined the napkin on which he dried himself. There was nothing untoward. You can see for yourself, Sir Hugh, they are still there, as are the sweetmeats and what is left of the wine. I insisted that the room be sealed so nothing could be tampered with.'
'Maigret speaks the truth,' Roteboeuf added. 'I ate some of the sweetmeats. I even examined the water in the bowl.'
Corbett stared at the mildewed wall and momentarily closed his eyes. Something was wrong here, he thought. How could a man be poisoned in a locked room and yet no one trace the source of the poison which killed him? He sighed heavily.
'Look.' He held up his hands. 'Sir Eustace died of poisoning. How it was administered and who administered it are a mystery. However, surely he would have suffered spasms, cried out in pain and woken Lecroix?'
'Not necessarily,' Maigret answered quickly. 'God knows what killed Sir Eustace Vechey but there are poisons, Sir Hugh – white arsenic, henbane, foxglove – which can kill as quickly as an arrow to the heart. Remember, Sir Eustace was not a fit man. He was overweight and his heart was growing weak. He may have taken only a few seconds to die.'
Ranulf, leaning against the wall, now unfolded his arms and stepped forward.
'Is it possible,' he asked, 'that Lecroix or anyone else could have changed the wine or water?'
'No,' Maigret explained. 'I saw to that. In Sir Eustace's chamber the windows are mere arrow slits. I examined them carefully. Nothing had been thrown out, and even if it had, how could it have been replaced? There was no more water or a jug of wine in the room.'
'So,' Corbett concluded, 'we have Sir Eustace who dines and wines but only what you eat and drink and even then it is first tasted by others. He goes up to his room with half a cup of wine which was apparently untainted. The same applies to a tray of sweetmeats he kept there and the water with which he washed his hands.' He glanced at Lecroix. 'Your master did wash before he retired?'
The man nodded.
'So, Sir Eustace retired to his bed, locked in a chamber with the key on the inside?' He stared at Branwood who was watching him carefully.
'Yes,' Branwood replied. 'Lecroix opened the door. I heard the key turn.'
'And you, sirs,' Corbett pointed to the soldiers, 'never left your post and no one visited Sir Eustace that night?'
Both men shook their heads.
'On the same evening,' Corbett continued, 'you, Sir Peter, returned to the hall for a cup of wine you had left. Now, if our good physician is to be believed, that too had been poisoned. A mere sip of it turned your bowels to water.' Corbett looked at the friar who had been sitting on a stool, hands on his knees, half-dozing. 'Father, I beg your pardon, Where were you when Sir Eustace's corpse was discovered?'
'1 had gone back to the chapel to clear up after saying mass. Sir Peter sent a servant for me. I went up and did the only thing I could. I anointed the body and blessed it.'
'You have seen many corpses. Father?'
The friar's merry eyes met Corbett's.
Aye, Sir Hugh, more than you have. I served as King's chaplain with the armies on the Scottish march.'
'And when you saw the corpse and anointed it, would you say that Sir Eustace had been dead for hours or had died shortly before Sir Peter knocked on the door?'
The friar narrowed his eyes.
'The corpse was growing stiff,' he replied haltingly. 'Still supple though there was a tightness to the limbs. Sir Eustace retired an hour before midnight. I anointed his poor remains somewhere between eight and nine in the morning.' He stared up at Corbett. 'To give you an honest answer, Sir Hugh, I believe Sir Eustace may well have been dead by midnight.' The friar laughed sourly. 'The witching hour when more souls go to God than at any other time.'
Corbett scratched his brow, genuinely perplexed as well as tired and weary after his journey. He rubbed his eyes. Nothing, he thought to hims
elf, there is nothing here, not even a loose thread.
'So,' he breathed, 'we do not know how Sir Eustace died or who killed him?'
'Oh, yes we do,' Sir Peter spoke up. 'The wolfshead Robin Hood!'
'How could he?' Corbett retorted. 'Enter a castle at the dead of night and administer a deadly potion to a man already on his guard against him? Why do you say that?'
Sir Peter dug into his wallet and tossed a greasy piece of parchment across.
'Because that's what Robin Hood claimed he did.'
Chapter 2
Corbett stared in disbelief at the scrawled writing on the parchment: Sir Eustace Vechey, self-styled Sheriff of Nottingham, executed by order of Robin Hood. Peter Branwood, self-styled Under-Sheriff, executed by order of Robin Hood.
Corbett mouthed the words slowly and stared at Branwood. 'So you too were supposed to die. But why didn't you show me this immediately?'
'I told you that Robin Hood was responsible! Vechey is dead and so should I be. There's no doubt this wolfshead has sympathisers in the castle. I thought,' he coughed selfconsciously, 'I thought I should watch you. See what conclusions you drew.' He shrugged. 'Now you have it.'
Corbett stared at the parchment again. 'By the cross!' he swore. 'This outlaw does take on styles and titles! He finishes his letter: "Given at our castle in the Greenwood".' Corbett tossed the parchment back at Branwood. 'I want to see that bastard hang from the castle walls! Where was this proclamation left?'
'It wasn't. It was despatched by arrow into the outer bailey.'
Corbett looked at a huge cobweb in the corner of one of the roof beams.
'The letter proves one thing,' he declared. 'It says "by order of", so the poisoner must be in the castle. I don't accept that some criminal has the God-given power to go through stone walls.' Corbett paused. 'You did say there are secret passages here?'
'In the cellars below, yes, a veritable warren. The castle and town are built on a huge crag. The caves and tunnels were used by people long before the Romans came.'