Dark Serpent (Hugh Corbett 18)

by Paul Doherty

  Ranulf paused as Chanson re-entered the room.

  ‘Master, our noble Ferret is supping ale as if his very life depends on it. You have another visitor, whom I have sat at the same table as the Ferret: the Magister Viae.’

  Once summoned, the Magister swept into the chamber as if he was a legate from the Pope, capuchon pulled dramatically over his head, his heavy ermine-lined cloak floating about him, exuding quite a delicious fragrance. He unstrapped his war belt, took off his cloak and flung them both over the table. He clasped Corbett’s hand, bowed to Ranulf and sat down on a chair.

  ‘Funny little man.’ The Magister gestured towards the door.

  ‘You mean Chanson?’ Ranulf replied impishly.

  ‘No, that moving blob of ink Fitzosbert. Interesting character. I would love to secure his services on that task you assigned me, Sir Hugh.’

  ‘You are making progress?’

  ‘Slowly, but bear with me. Fitzosbert would be of great assistance. I need to study the tax returns from the Essex shoreline, as well as any reports from the seneschals of custom.’

  Corbett agreed, mystified by what path the Magister might be pursuing.

  ‘You also entrusted me with another task,’ the Magister continued. ‘A close scrutiny of this tavern, who visits and who leaves. Well, Mistress Philippa goes into the city, but that is of little consequence. I know she is very busy at the behest of our noble French envoy …’

  ‘And him?’

  ‘Oh, Sir Hugh, innocence itself. Monseigneur leaves the Merry Mercy. He takes a barge along to Westminster, where he meets with whom he is supposed to and then returns to this tavern to rest, eat and drink.’

  ‘He never goes out for further entertainment and refreshment?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘He never leaves to meet a lady, to keep an assignation? Monseigneur de Craon has needs like other men?’

  ‘I doubt that, Sir Hugh. I tell you, he doesn’t leave. His companion the Carmelite Brother Jerome does, however, and sometimes changes into different robes.’

  ‘So I have heard.’

  The Magister looked a little crestfallen. Corbett leaned over and squeezed his hand.

  ‘Where does the Carmelite go to? What does he do?’

  ‘The same place as Master Sokelar the harbour master, a rather comfortable brothel called the Queen of the Night, where all kinds of delicacies, both male and female – and everything else in between – are served up to the discerning customers.’

  ‘Both Sokelar and Brother Jerome are visitors?’

  ‘Oh yes, and from my sources inside that august establishment, they seem friendly enough to each other, though there is no crime in that.’

  ‘I wonder …’

  ‘Whether there is a crime, Master Ranulf?’

  ‘No, whether we are supposed to think there is. Wouldn’t you agree, Sir Hugh?’ Ranulf turned to Corbett. ‘De Craon and his sinister dark shadow know they are being watched. They love to create confusion and illusion, dangle Sokelar as a possible suspect to distract us from the truth.’

  ‘A strong possibility,’ Corbett replied absent-mindedly, though in fact he was more intrigued by de Craon’s almost hermit-like existence. According to Corbett’s spy Tallefert, de Craon loved the ladies of the night and patronised them generously in Paris. Corbett glanced down at the ground. He had still not heard from Tallefert or Pietal. Nor had he been visited by Rochfort with any news. He closed his eyes briefly in desperation.

  ‘Anything else?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘No,’ replied the Magister.

  Corbett raised his head. ‘And The Black Hogge?’

  The Magister sighed and tapped the side of his fleshy nose. ‘Sir Hugh, if I can borrow the services of your colleague Fitzosbert and be given the right to work amongst the chancery records, I believe I can make some progress.’

  Corbett agreed and the Magister left. Ranulf said he would walk around the tavern, and Corbett decided he would accompany him. They visited the kitchens, both the great and the petty, to find ovens, stoves and spits all busy, the air fragranced with delicious odours. A red-faced Philippa assisted by an equally perspiring Agnes, together with the tavern cooks, boilers, bakers, waferers and spit boys, were all intent on preparing de Craon’s feast, which included salmon, currant dumplings, porpoise pudding, venison cooked in pastry, veal custard pie, baked pheasants and other delicacies. Corbett pushed his way through the busy household to greet Mistress Philippa, who beneath her thick white apron had donned a gown of dark-red murrey fringed with gold.

  ‘Mistress? All these people are of your household? You know their names?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do the names Sumerscale and Fallowfield mean anything to you?’

  ‘Sir Hugh, remember you asked me this before? The answer is no.’

  ‘Or Poultney and Aschroft?’

  She smiled, shaking her head. ‘Common enough names, my lord clerk, so what are they to me?’

  Corbett walked on. He glimpsed Peterkin in the buttery, called the boy over and slipped a coin into his greasy hand.

  ‘Peterkin, when The Candle-Bright berthed at Queenhithe and the crew came ashore, those two sailors who were hanged, do you know where they stayed? I gather there are hospices and havens for sailors along the riverside, fairly tawdry places, not too clean, but somewhere to sleep. Did they ever mention where they rested?’

  The boy pulled a face and shook his head. ‘I can’t say, Sir Hugh, but they always returned on board looking fresh, their clothes clean, changed, as if they had stayed with a family, been comfortable, not like me and others, who were lucky if we could rent an alehouse doorway.’ He looked longingly into the kitchen. ‘That is all I can say, Sir Hugh.’

  The lad scampered off. Corbett heard de Craon’s voice braying like a donkey, praising the delicious odours permeating the tavern. The bells ringing for Vespers carried faintly. Corbett plucked at Ranulf’s sleeve.

  ‘My friend, God willing, I will eat tomorrow. De Craon is about, so it’s time I went.’

  Ranulf muttered about getting something to eat and left for the taproom. Corbett finished his walk around the tavern, quietly marvelling at the business acumen of his former comrade, Raoul Henman, who had arrived in London as a simple clerk, then left the chancery to build up and develop this splendid inn. The sound of a viol echoed across the small courtyard where Corbett was standing looking up at the stars.

  ‘De Craon certainly loves his festivities,’ he murmured to himself. He went inside and glanced at the hour candle on its heavy brass spigot, the flame dancing just over the eighth red circle. ‘Time to adjourn.’

  Corbett was roused by Ranulf shouting and pounding on the chamber door.

  ‘Sir Hugh, master!’

  He opened the door.

  ‘Holy Trinity the Little,’ Ranulf gasped, struggling into his leather jerkin. ‘Burghesh and Stapleton have been murdered.’

  ‘Sweet God!’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘What hour is it?’

  ‘About the fifth. Master, you must come.’

  They reached Holy Trinity a short while later. Sconce torches spluttered against the darkness, lanternhorns glowed through the murk. The main door to the church was locked. Corbett, watching his step as he crossed the tangled gorse and bracken, followed the coffin path to the side entrance through the sacristy. Parson Layburn, bleary-eyed and unshaven, stood in the doorway, around him gathered members of his parish council. The clerk, a scrawny-haired beanpole of a man who found it difficult to keep still, explained how they had arrived at the church to prepare the nave for the feast of Trinity Sunday at the end of the week. They had wanted to enter the church before the dawn mass began. The clerk stamped his feet and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Corbett could smell the tang of fear from these men, as well as the pervasive smell of vomit. The clerk gulped and would have continued in his chatter. Corbett held a hand up.

  ‘I am Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, the king’s own officer
. What has happened here?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the clerk spluttered, ‘Parson Layburn told us about you.’

  ‘What has happened?’ Ranulf demanded. ‘Show us now.’ He snapped his fingers and pointed at the entrance.

  Preceded by torchbearers, Corbett entered the sacristy. He paused to quickly scrutinise the door, which had been forced, the lock ruptured, and now hung askew. The sacristy itself was undisturbed, but the door to the sanctuary had been similarly rent and swung all awry from its top leather hinge. The sanctuary looked like a battlefield, ominous and macabre. No furniture had been disturbed. Nothing overturned or smashed. The red sanctuary light still glowed as a telling witness to the divine presence, though looking round, Corbett felt the angels of heaven must weep at the sight of such bloodshed.

  Burghesh and Stapleton, cloaked and booted, their war belts close by, lay sprawled on the sanctuary floor, pools of blood from the stab wounds to their hearts glistening around them. Corbett leaned down and studied the gashes: deep, savage cuts like those inflicted by a razor-sharp two-handed sword.

  ‘Sweet heaven,’ he whispered, ‘what is this?’

  ‘Lord have mercy! In God’s name …’

  Corbett turned. Mistress Philippa, Sokelar the harbour master and his daughter Agnes stood in the sacristy doorway. The tavern mistress and her companions walked slowly over.

  ‘We heard the clamour,’ she explained, ‘the alarm being raised. I cannot believe this. Sir Hugh, what can I do?’

  Parson Layburn stood shaking, a man overwhelmed by fear.

  ‘Mistress, if you could …’ Corbett gestured at the priest. Philippa nodded and took Parson Layburn over to the other side of the sanctuary as Corbett quickly scrutinised the scene. The two corpses sprawled dead-eyed, their saddlebags fully strapped as if ready to leave. Everything else was in order. Corbett and Ranulf picked up the water and wine jugs, sniffed their contents.

  ‘Mistress Philippa?’ Corbett called. She came over and Corbett handed her the jugs. ‘Take these back to the Merry Mercy. Place them over some bait for rodents; see if there is anything untoward.’

  He walked across to the offertory table, but the platter was empty except for a few crumbs of gristled meat. He poked these with his finger, then sat down on a stool in the sanctuary enclave, watching the others move around. They all stayed as far away as possible from the two corpses, which lay as if floating in blood. Corbett beckoned to Ranulf and gestured at the gruesome scene.

  ‘They were dressed as if waiting to leave, so who were they waiting for? Come, Ranulf, let’s study this murderous mystery play.’

  Corbett led his companion across to the first door. There were no bolts, but the lock was strong and of good quality, badly ruptured when the door was forced. Corbett pointed to the huge log lying to one side in the shadows.

  ‘This murderous masque is both short and brutal,’ he murmured. ‘The killer locked the sanctuary door behind him; the parish council used that log as a battering ram. I suppose the outer door is no different.’

  They walked down to the door leading from the sacristy into the cemetery beyond. Its wood was of good quality, strongly reinforced with iron bands, the hinges of the thickest and toughest leather, the ruptured lock very similar to that on the sacristy door. Corbett asked Ranulf to bring the parish council into the sacristy. The scrawny clerk led them in even as he tried to brush vomit stains from his gown, mumbling his apologies.

  ‘No need, sir.’ Corbett patted him reassuringly on the shoulder.

  ‘I am no soldier, Sir Hugh.’

  ‘And I am, my friend,’ Corbett replied. ‘I have seen many a corpse on the battlefield, but the horror in that sanctuary would turn the most hardened of stomachs. So tell us, what happened?’

  The clerk, now consoled, pithily described how they’d entered the main door of the church but found the door through the rood screen into the sanctuary bolted from the inside.

  ‘We knocked and called,’ he explained. ‘We knew two Templars had taken sanctuary within. When there was no response, we became truly alarmed. We could not force the rood screen door: it’s sacred and very costly to repair …’

  ‘So you came round to the sacristy?’

  ‘Yes, we knocked, shouted and yelled so loudly that Parson Layburn came out of the priest’s house to discover what was happening.’ The clerk glanced sheepishly at his colleagues. A few coughed, others shuffled their feet and looked away. ‘Parson Layburn was very tired: he had been busy on parish business. Still,’ the clerk continued briskly, ‘he instructed us to force both doors, and so we did, to expose the abomination within.’

  ‘And they were locked from inside?’

  ‘Aye, and all the bolts on the rood screen had been tightly clasped.’

  ‘And the keys to the doors that were forced?’

  The clerk pulled a face and shook his head.

  Corbett turned to Ranulf. ‘Search the corpses.’

  Ranulf did so whilst Corbett thanked the parish clerk and his companions, adding that they needed to visit the Bishop of London’s archdeacon as a matter of urgency. ‘Blood has been shed in the most sacred part of your church,’ he explained. ‘It is now polluted. Mass cannot be celebrated until it is reconsecrated. You understand?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Master,’ Ranulf came back shaking his head, ‘no sign of the keys on either corpse or elsewhere in the sanctuary.’

  ‘Very well,’ Corbett replied. ‘It’s time we questioned the priest.’

  Parson Layburn had, under the tender solicitations of Mistress Philippa and Agnes, as well as the strength from a deep goblet of Bordeaux, regained his composure if not his pomposity. He sat on a sanctuary stool clutching the wine cup. Corbett crouched down to question him.

  ‘Parson Layburn, who had the keys to the sacristy door and that leading into the sanctuary?’

  ‘Oh, they had.’ The priest pointed across at the two corpses before taking another gulp of wine. ‘They locked themselves in and would only open to me or someone they knew and trusted.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s what sanctuary men do. They won’t be the first, nor the last.’

  ‘Did you hear anything untoward, Parson Layburn? After all, the priest’s house is not far from the entrance to the sacristy.’

  ‘I was absent,’ the priest mumbled, head down, refusing to meet Corbett’s eye. ‘I was visiting parishioners.’

  Corbett glanced up at Mistress Philippa, who smiled and raised her eyes heavenwards. ‘So you never heard or saw anything amiss?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Mistress Philippa,’ Corbett glanced up again, ‘I suggest you have the parish council remove both corpses to the church’s death house, or even back to St Giles …’

  ‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh!’ Corbett turned as the parish clerk came hurrying up the sanctuary steps. ‘The Sisters of the Street are here. They want to speak to the king’s man.’ He pointed at the open rood screen door. ‘They are waiting near the baptismal font.’

  ‘Ranulf,’ Corbett ordered, ‘go through Stapleton’s and Burghesh’s possessions to see if there is anything of interest. As for you, sir,’ Corbett gestured at the parish clerk, ‘it might be best if you looked after your priest and saw to the removal of those corpses.’

  Corbett went down the sanctuary steps and out into the cold, murky nave. Thankfully someone had lit the candle spigots fixed to the drum-like pillars, and these afforded some meagre light. Corbett found the four sisters huddled beneath a wall painting of St Christopher, in which the holy man was fighting a horde of hellish imps, nightmare creatures with monkey faces and bat-like wings. The juddering lights of the candles against this macabre fresco made the four women clustering so close even more sinister. Garbed in a collection of foul-smelling rags, white hair falling down either side of bony faces, the four ancients looked like sisters from the same womb. They were certainly sharp enough, and confident in themselves.

  ‘You’re the king’s man.’ Their leader poked a bony finger
at Corbett. ‘You’re snooping all over the ward. Everyone knows you are here, isn’t that right, sisters? King’s men! But what are you doing about The Black Hogge or that Frenchman, full of mischief he is! You didn’t save poor old Rohesia, did you? You can’t bring her back or even catch the malignant sinner who murdered her. We watch the streets, we do. We see them come and go.’

  Corbett squatted down and opened his belt purse. He plucked out a silver coin, which he spun, caught and placed on the paving stone beside him. ‘That’s for you and your good sisters when we are done. Now tell me, do you remember the funeral of the two sailors from The Candle-Bright?’

  ‘Yes,’ they replied together, heads moving in unison.

  ‘You see everything,’ Corbett flattered. ‘Particularly Rohesia. She had a glimpse of those two corpses. She told Parson Layburn that she had seen both men before. Did she ever remark on that to you?’

  ‘No,’ they chorused.

  ‘Rohesia,’ their leader leaned forward, red-rimmed eyes all bright, ‘did see things, yes.’ She turned to get the approval of her companions. ‘She did tell us how she saw both men leaving a house in Cheapside.’

  ‘Which house, which street?’

  ‘King’s man, I don’t know.’ She began to hum beneath her breath, the refrain taken up by her sisters, swaying backwards and forwards in macabre harmony.

  ‘And tonight,’ Corbett asserted himself, ‘what did you see?’

  ‘We gathered at Glistening Corner: it’s called that because of the dirty lard thrown on to a lay stall there, taken from a nearby flesher’s yard.’ The leader held up a hand to still her companions’ eerie liturgy. ‘Isn’t that right, sisters?’