by Paul Doherty
'Look over there!' She pointed.
Corbett stared at the wall; he noticed that one small section of it, level with his eyes, had, at some time in its history, been plastered and carefully painted. There was a similar, but much larger, patch at the base of the wall.
'What was this?' Corbett asked.
'An anchorite's cell,' Dame Cecily said. 'A small recess built into the wall with a small door for the hermit to crawl through and a squint hole through which she could see out. In the early days of our house there would always be an anchorite living in that cell. She would fast and pray, participating in the services by peering through the squint hole. The sisters would leave bread and water outside the door. As the years passed, this practice ceased.'
I am sure it did, Corbett thought, staring at the prioress's plump face, her gold trimmed head-dress and pure woollen gown.
'And what happened then?'
'After a while there was no anchorite and Hunstanton became a lawless place.'
At least Dame Cecily had the courtesy to blush with embarrassment.
'The convent was designated a place of sanctuary. Fugitives could shelter here, within the chapel for forty days, after which they would have to give themselves up.' Dame Cecily drew in her breath and stared at the wall. 'There are rumours,' she murmured as if speaking to herself.
'Rumours about what?' Corbett asked.
'Ghosts. I have never liked this place.'
'Then let's exorcize these ghosts,' Corbett replied. 'Ranulf, go with the prioress. Bring back hammers and chisels and let's see what we can find. Oh, and Dame Cecily, let's keep this secret between ourselves. So, when you return, lock and bar the chapel.'
Dame Cecily waddled away, completely subdued, Ranulf walking beside her. Corbett went and stared up at the face of the Virgin; the baby she held stared serenely back with innocent eyes.
'Sweet Lord!' Corbett breathed. 'The sights you have to see.'
He took a taper from a small recess and lit a candle on the iron stand before the Virgin. Kneeling down, he prayed that he would finish this business and return safely to Maeve and Eleanor in London.
He sat back on his heels, revelling in the peace and serenity of the chapel. He started as the door was abruptly thrown open and Ranulf came swaggering back up the chapel, a leather bag clutched in his hand. Behind him, Dame Cecily locked and barred the chapel door and came hurrying up. Ranulf undid the bag. He brought out a long, wooden mallet with a great iron head. Corbett pointed to the plaster near the floor.
'Start there, Ranulf. I am sure you'll find a door.'
Ranulf pulled his sleeves up and set to with a relish. Corbett and the prioress walked away. Dame Cecily moaned softly as Ranulf swung the great mallet backwards and forwards against the wall in a cloud of dust and fragmenting plaster. Corbett, coughing and spluttering, told him to stop. Corbett examined the wall.
'We'll soon be through,' he commented. 'Continue!'
Soon the chapel was full of white dust. The floor was covered with fragments and shards of brick as Ranulf pounded like a man possessed. However, it was onerous work; Ranulf rested on the mallet, sweat running down his face.
'Whoever did this,' he coughed, 'did it in a hurry.' He pointed to the wall. 'Two lines of soft brick covered by a white plaster and painted to blend in with the rest of the chapel.'
He grinned mischievously at the now stricken prioress and continued with gusto. Corbett, covering his mouth and nose, watched the hole grow, a yard from the floor and about two foot across. At last Ranulf stopped. They all had to walk away coughing and spluttering, allowing the dust to settle. Dame Cecily took one look at the damaged wall and sat down groaning. Corbett went to the altar, took two candles, lit them and gave one to Ranulf.
'Now, let's see what secrets are here.'
They entered the recess, Corbett held the candle up as Ranulf squeezed behind him. The anchorite's hole was cleverly constructed, actually built within the walls of the chapel. Corbett had seen similar recesses at both Westminster Abbey and St Paul's Cathedral. This one was about six feet high and just over two yards broad.
'Where we came in,' Ranulf murmured, 'was the door. Somewhere about here should be the squint hole.'
Corbett lowered his candle and gasped. He crouched and pushed his candle closer. A skeleton lay sprawled in the corner, the bones yellowing. At first Corbett thought fragments of flesh were clinging to them but, as he crawled closer, realized they were only tattered cloth and a battered leather belt. Corbett grabbed Ranulf's candle and put it on the floor. A small dagger, the blade broken, lay glinting in the dust next to the skeleton. Corbett raised his candle. Alan of the Marsh (for Corbett knew it was he) had apparently attempted to dig his way through the wall – a pathetic attempt, as the broken dagger proved. On the wall, above the skeleton, was a crude drawing very similar to the one Corbett had seen in the Hermitage. The clerk stared round carefully; there were no other remains and the small, shabby purse attached to the belt was empty.
'God have mercy!' Corbett whispered. 'God have mercy on the poor bastard!'
He crawled out after Ranulf and handed the candles to the prioress.
'It's Alan of the Marsh,' he announced. 'Or, at least, his skeleton.'
The venerable lady had suffered enough shocks for one morning and, if Corbett hadn't caught her, she would have fainted to the floor. He gently assisted her across the sanctuary and into one of the stalls.
'What can I do?' she murmured. 'What can I do? Sir Hugh, what happened there?'
'What I suspect happened,' Corbett answered, sitting in the stall next to her, 'is that Alan of the Marsh fled here and sought sanctuary, hiding in the anchorite hole. He made his pact with the then prioress, handing over the cup and promising to keep silent about the smuggling activities of this house.'
'Was he walled in alive?' Dame Cecily interrupted.
Corbett noticed the trickle of sweat running down from beneath her coif.
'The walls are thick enough to drown any groans or cries,' Corbett explained. 'However, Alan was first drugged, probably with some sleeping potion or poisoned drink. Once he was unconscious, both the doorway and the squint hole were blocked and sealed.' Corbett shrugged. 'The prioress then had the anchorite hole bricked over. It was probably done at night, in a few hours, and the poor man was forgotten.'
'But surely someone would have noticed?'
Corbett shook his head. 'When I first came here you told me the building work was not finished until 1220. There would have been scaffolding and builders around. Just imagine. Alan of the Marsh is put there late one afternoon. The prioress brings him some food and drugged wine. She locks the door and immediately orders it to be bricked up. No one but she knows there's someone inside. Many, many hours later, Alan of the Marsh regains consciousness. He makes a pathetic attempt to escape.' Corbett stared at the statue of the Virgin Mary. 'I am not saying it happened like that. But I think it's the nearest we'll get to the truth!'
Dame Cecily rose and grasped Corbett's hand. 'Sir Hugh, for the love of God, there are long chests, boxes in the sacristy. Could you remove the skeleton? Please! I, we are not responsible for that poor man's death. I'll have prayers offered for the repose of his soul. I'll make reparation.'
Corbett saw that the prioress was so agitated she was on the verge of fainting again.
'One more question?' he asked.
She nodded.
'Does anyone else know the story of the fugitive?'
She shook her head. 'No one knows. The chronicle is kept hidden. Only the prioress is allowed to read it. As for the chalice' – she shrugged – 'it is now part of our treasure. No one comments on it.' She touched Corbett's wrist; her fingers felt cold as ice. 'But, please,' she murmured, 'get rid of that terrible thing!'
Corbett and Ranulf took the skeleton out and placed it in a long, wooden box they found in the sacristy. They sealed the lid and, preceded by a trembling prioress, carried the coffin out into the deserted cemetery. In a small o
uthouse Ranulf found a pick and shovel. A shallow grave was dug and the coffin lowered. Once it was finished, Dame Cecily gave Corbett her solemn word that, at an appropriate time, a cross would be erected there and Masses sung for Alan's soul.
'The poor bugger will need it!' Ranulf whispered as they went back to the stable yard to collect their horses.
Corbett paused. 'I wonder!' he exclaimed.
'Wonder about what, Master – the chalice?'
Corbett grinned. 'No, let the convent keep that. I am wondering about the priest, Father James, and Alan of the Marsh's involvement in his disappearance.'
Ranulf kicked the ground with the toe of his boot.
'I don't know; there's a deeper mystery here. I still think we should take that cup.'
Corbett laughed softly. 'It's a chalice, Ranulf, a sacred vessel. It is where it should be! Edward would only give it to Surrey. Now come, let's go!'
They found Maltote warming himself in the smithy. He demanded to know why they had been so long. Ranulf shook his head, raising a finger to his lips as a sign for silence until they had left the convent.
Once out on the moors, Corbett halted and looked back at the convent.
'Nothing,' he murmured, 'is what it seems to be. Who would guess that a house dedicated to prayer and God's work could harbour such dreadful secrets?'
'We have done some good,' Ranulf replied with a smile. 'We have exorcized a ghost, discovered the truth and given that arrogant woman a lesson she'll never forget as long as she lives!'
And, as Corbett urged them on, Ranulf pulled back to whisper to Maltote what they had discovered at the convent. Corbett rode ahead, lost in his own thoughts. He didn't take the path back to the manor but rode to the cliff top. He paused for a while, staring down at the beach, watching the waves sweep in and recalled how he had nearly met his death there. He sat, letting the spray-soaked wind whip his face and hair whilst brooding on what he had learnt.
'Master, where to now?' Ranulf called. 'What do we do next?'
Corbett stared down at the grey mass of heaving sea.
'Master,' Ranulf persisted. 'Is it finished? Do you know where the rest of the treasure is?'
Corbett turned his horse's head and winked at them.
'It's beneath our noses,' he replied cryptically. 'Right beneath our noses and has been all the time. But, come, it's back to Mortlake Manor. We have to trap a murderer!'
He spurred his horse into a gallop across the moor, on to the path skirting the village and into Mortlake Manor.
Once there Corbett became infuriatingly absent-minded. He went to the buttery for something to eat and drink and then back to his chamber. He took out pumice stone, ink horn and quill and a small roll of parchment and began to write furiously, listing everything he knew. He refused to answer Ranulf's questions. Now and again he would look up, stare into space and tap the quill against his cheek. He'd make some exclamation and go back to his writing. Only once did he break off, to ask Ranulf to bring to him the dead Cerdic's shirt. He scrutinized this, muttered to himself and went back to his writing. Ranulf had seen him like this before.
'Old Master Long Face is in one of his moods – he's as miserable as sin,' he whispered to Maltote. 'He is setting his traps.'
At last Corbett was finished. He rose and stretched, trying to force the cramp from his tired back.
'What now, Master, what now?' Ranulf asked.
'Go down to the hall. Give Sir Simon my regards. Tell him that I would like to dine tonight with him and his wife. He is to invite those who attended our first dinner here.' He paused. 'And one extra guest.'
'Who?'
'Fourbour the baker.' Corbett went across to the table and poured himself half a goblet of wine. 'And tell Sir Simon we'll be leaving tomorrow. I'll sleep for a while. The arrangements will take some time. Just make sure that Sir Simon does what I ask.'
Corbett drained the wine cup, lay down on the bed and fell asleep. It was dark when Ranulf woke him.
'It's late,' Ranulf whispered. 'The meal will commence within an hour. You'd best prepare.'
Corbett swung himself off the bed and groaned as the wound on his head made him wince.
'Ranulf, make sure you are armed!'
Corbett got ready slowly, then he and his companions went down to the hall.
The great table had already been prepared. Sir Simon and Alice were sitting in their chairs before the fire. They plied him with questions – what was the matter? Why was he leaving so ^abruptly? – but he returned no answers. He sat toying with the ring on his finger and staring into the fire.
'Has Monck's corpse been removed?' he asked.
It was Alice who replied. 'Yes, it's been taken to the village church; Father Augustine will sing the requiem tomorrow. Though perhaps it would be best if Monck was buried here.'
'I think so,' Corbett said. 'He had no family and my Lord of Surrey is not mindful of such things.'
'When will you leave, Hugh?' Alice asked.
'Early tomorrow morning, I hope,' Corbett replied. He smiled thinly. 'Perhaps I'll stay for Monck's requiem Mass. I'll make arrangements with Father Augustine. He is coming here tonight, is he not?'
'Of course. And Fourbour the baker.'
Selditch came bustling in, chattering about a patient he'd been treating in the village. Father Augustine arrived next, looking rather angry at being summoned from what he called his 'onerous duties'. He refused to sit but stood by the hearth.
'The gossips are busy in the village,' he said.
'Sir Simon, I suggest that the prisoners be removed as quickly as possible. Poor Robert the reeve!' He glared at Corbett. 'Everyone knows the truth. We should have kept the girl here.'
'I have no authority to do that,' Corbett replied. 'And what future is there for her here? The gossips would kill her, if not physically then at least spiritually. You know that, Father.'
The priest was about to object but at that moment the steward called them to dinner. They took their places at the table. The atmosphere was stilted and tense, and became even more so when Fourbour hurried into the hall, apologizing profusely for being late.
Gurney ushered him into his seat, Father Augustine said grace and the meal was served. The Gurneys were puzzled, rather frightened. Catchpole, who had swaggered in after grace had been said, sat stony-faced. Selditch was secretive, Fourbour tense and fearful. Father Augustine still showed his vexation at being summoned to the manor. Corbett toyed with his food until Gurney could tolerate the atmosphere no longer. He banged his wine cup on the table and glared down at the clerk.
'Hugh, you asked us all here. Give us your reasons.' 'He asked us!' Father Augustine exclaimed. 'What is all this?'
'I thought you'd be interested in what I have to say,' Corbett replied. 'First, I know who has been responsible for all the murders.'
'The Pastoureaux, surely?' Fourbour bleated.
Corbett smiled grimly and shook his head. 'Oh no,' he said, 'that's just vicious rumour.' He rolled a crumb back and forth on the table top. 'More importantly, I think I have found the lost treasure of King John.'
Chapter 13
Corbett's hearers sat dumbstruck, eyes staring, mouths gaping. Selditch was the first to recover. 'Where is it?'
'I will tell you that later,' Corbett replied. 'This is preposterous!' Gurney exploded. 'Where, Corbett?' Selditch repeated. 'Where, for God's sake?'
'Certain questions first,' Corbett said. 'Lady Alice, your perfume?'
'What about it, Hugh? What on earth has that got to do with…?' Her voice trailed off.
'I smelled it,' Corbett replied, 'yesterday, when I was attacked in the Hermitage. It's a fragrant perfume' – he smiled thinly – 'that I have always associated with you.'
'For Heaven's sake!' Gurney shouted. 'Are you implying that my wife attacked you?'
'No, Sir Simon. I simply said I smelled her perfume.'
'It means the same thing,' Catchpole grunted from down the table.
Father Augustine,
seated beside Alice, looked askance. 'Are you saying Lady Alice was in the Hermitage?' he demanded.
Corbett sighed in exasperation. 'Lady Alice, has any of your perfume ever been stolen?' 'Of course not!'
'How is it kept?' Corbett asked.
'As small sachets of wool, linen or velvet soaked in the fragrance. For Heaven's sake, Hugh!'
'Have you ever given any of it away?' Corbett insisted.
Alice's fingers flew to her lips as the memory came back to her. 'Why yes, I did! Some time ago. Do you remember, Master Fourbour, I went to your shop? Your wife looked so pale and cheerless that I felt sorry for her. Poor thing! God rest her! I was talking to her and she remarked how fragrant my perfume was. I gave her some sachets. She put them in her purse.'
Fourbour's face, usually pasty-coloured, had now gone deathly white.
'I remember that, Lady Alice,' he stammered. 'But, for God's sake, sir,' – he glared at Corbett – 'what are you implying?'
'I am implying nothing,' Corbett replied. 'I was just clearing up a small puzzle. You see, the perfume was carried by Mistress Fourbour's murderer. Wasn't it, Father?'
The priest's hands gripped the table. He looked suddenly more gaunt. His eyes never left those of Corbett. 'What are you saying?'
'Let me tell you a story,' Corbett said, 'which began before any of us were born. A king tries to take his treasure trove across the Wash. A traitor called Holcombe steals some of the treasure. He rides away to share the ill-gotten gains with his brother-in-law, Alan of the Marsh, who is the steward of the then lord of the manor here, Sir Richard Gurney. Alan knows the wastes of Norfolk – he knows where men, horses, even treasure, can be hidden. He is also a smuggler, so he knows the secret ways out of the kingdom. But something goes wrong – Holcombe is tracked down, executed and ignominiously buried.' Corbett gave Gurney a half smile – a sign that he would not betray his secrets.