Song of a Dark Angel hc-8

by Paul Doherty

  'Alan of the Marsh, too, dies, but not before bequeathing a precious object to the sisters of the Holy Cross.' It was, he told himself, at least the partial truth. 'King John,' he went on, 'dies a short while later in Newark. The treasure is lost and the two perpetrators had met their just fate. The years passed and both the treasure and its thieves become the subject of legend.' He stopped and looked across the table at Father Augustine. 'Now, Alan of the Marsh was a local man, but Holcombe hailed from Bishop's Lynn. Before his capture, but after he had stolen the treasure, he returned to his family home. He must have chattered. His family became aware that he was a robber, being hunted by the Gurneys who later captured and killed him. The stories about his daring robbery entered into family legend and were passed on from one generation to another. Now, about forty years ago, the Holcombe family in Bishop's Lynn died out in the male line. But there was a daughter. She married.' Corbett caught his lower lip between his teeth. 'Father Augustine, what is your surname?'

  'Norringham!' the priest spat back.

  Corbett sipped from his wine cup. 'Norringham,' he repeated. 'So it was a man called Norringham whom the Holcombe daughter married. Now, I conjecture that this Norringham died young, leaving a baby, who grew into an intelligent young boy whose mind became full of stories about his mother's ancestor, John Holcombe, and King John's treasure. This boy, called Augustine, became a priest. He served, I suggest, as a curate in Bishop's Lynn, probably at St Margaret's, before being moved to Swaffham.'

  Corbett had very little evidence, and no proof, for any of this. The priest's silence, his failure to deny any of these allegations, seemed, though, to confirm them and Corbett was encouraged.

  'Now,' he continued, 'whilst this priest was a curate in Bishop's Lynn he fell in love with a young, headstrong girl called Amelia Culpeper-' He turned to the baker. 'Yes, Master Fourbour, your future wife. The girl became pregnant, but the child later died. Now Amelia Fourbour never told anyone about her lover. Why should she? Perhaps she knew it was impossible from the start? How could a priest break his vows to marry her? Moreover, she could make no accusation without publicizing her own shame. Who knows, perhaps she loved this man to distraction and could not bear to do anything that might hurt him.' He stared at Father Augustine and this time the priest's eyes did falter.

  'Hugh,' Gurney interrupted. 'Are you sure of what you are saying? What proof do you have of this?'

  'I have proof,' Selditch intervened, his fat, normally cheery face now solemn. 'Proof of a sort. When Father Augustine came here, he discovered my love of antiquities. He questioned me closely about the history of Hunstanton and Mortlake. I thought he had similar antiquarian tastes to my own, but as soon as I had passed on everything I had learned, he lost interest.'

  'Oh, I have stronger proof than that,' Corbett said. 'Amelia was a secretive, devious woman. Only once did she let her guard slip. She made for herself, on a heart-shaped scrap of parchment, one of those keepsakes so popular with lovers – you know the kind, where the lovers' initials are combined. But, to preserve her secret, Amelia made of her keepsake a kind of puzzle. Her own initials, A.C., for Amelia Culpeper, she concealed as the first letters of the words Amor Currit. Those of her lover, A.H., were hidden in the words Amor Haesitat. They stand for Augustine Holcombe. Although, Father, your real name was Augustine Norringham, you are prouder of the Holcombe side of the family tree. The Holcombes have a more interesting history – perhaps a grander one. You undoubtedly told Amelia all about it.' He looked again at the priest. 'And perhaps she thought that amor haesitat aptly described your behaviour towards her.' Father Augustine bowed his head.

  'Now time went on,' Corbett continued. 'You became parish priest at Swaffham, near enough to Hunstanton and Mortlake to do something about the dreams and stories you had grown up on. You visited the convent of the Holy Cross, serving there as a chaplain during the summer months. The sisters were pleased and old Father Ethelred was only too glad to have someone to help out. You saw and used their chalice and remembered all the stories you had been told. You realized that the cup was very old and very precious.'

  The priest raised his head then, malice blazing in his eyes.

  'You are very clever, Sir Hugh,' he murmured. 'But you tell a preposterous story. Are you going to say that I murdered Amelia Fourbour? Have you forgotten that no signs or marks were found around the scaffold?'

  'I have not forgotten,' Corbett replied. 'But let me carry on with the story. You were a priest in Swaffham – a royal town, a busy place, where the income was good, the benefices rich. So why come to Hunstanton, to a poor fishing village? Had you done something disgraceful? I doubt it. I think that you petitioned the Bishop of Norwich for Hunstanton and that he was only too willing to give such a lonely little parish to someone so keen to take it on. So you come to Hunstanton. You make enquiries of Master Selditch. You make friends with Dame Cecily and learn all you can from her. You go through the parish records, looking for references to Holcombe and his accomplice, Alan of the Marsh. You had your own pool of knowledge, from what your mother had told you. You leave flowers at the scaffold on which your ancestor was hanged – a small gesture of respect to someone who was going to make you very rich.'

  'I've seen those flowers sometimes,' Catchpole interjected. 'Bunches of wild flowers, placed at the foot of the gibbet and replaced when they rotted.' He jabbed a finger at the priest. 'Yes, Sir Hugh is right. It started when you came and ceased when Master Monck arrived.'

  'You knew your ancestor had been hanged,' Corbett continued. 'But where was he buried? What had happened to him? And to his accomplice, Alan of the Marsh? And, above all, where could the treasure be? You began investigating your own churchyard, violating old graves, thinking that perhaps the treasure was in a coffin or that at least you might find some sort of clue in one of those derelict tombs. You could do that without any recrimination or accusation. Who would dream that the parish priest was the person pillaging the graves? And any strange happenings or occurrences could always be blamed on the Pastoureaux.'

  'Of course,' Selditch said. He stared, appalled, at the priest. 'It was you who advised Sir Simon to give the Pastoureaux the Hermitage. You told your parishioners to treat them well.'

  'Of course he did!'

  Corbett watched Father Augustine intently. The priest's hands had disappeared beneath the table. He had also pushed his chair back and was now staring into the darkness as if only half-listening to what Corbett was saying.

  'Priest!'

  Father Augustine's eyes flickered.

  'You were patient, weren't you?' Corbett continued. 'You knew it might take years but, there again, you had no distractions – until Amelia Culpeper came to the village.' Corbett looked down the table at Fourbour the baker, who sat, wide-eyed like the rest, listening to his tale.

  'God save me, Master Fourbour! I mean no offence,' Corbett declared, 'but God knows why Amelia Culpeper married you. She may have been attracted to you. She may have wished to escape the malice of her neighbours in Bishop's Lynn or perhaps she knew that Father Augustine was in Hunstanton. Whatever the reason, she came here.'

  'But she didn't like him!' the baker cried. 'She said she only went to church on sufferance!'

  'Amelia Culpeper must have been a remarkable woman,' Corbett said. 'Her public attitude to Father Augustine was only pretence. Don't you remember telling me how she liked to go for walks or rides? I am sure that she went to see her long-lost lover, Father Augustine.'

  'I can't believe this!' Fourbour whispered.

  'It's true,' Corbett told him. 'There must have been several lover's meetings. But Amelia's very presence was a threat to everything Father Augustine had worked for. The night she died Amelia took a horse and rode out to meet him on the moors. Father Augustine had invited her, though he had also made preparations. Remember, the night was dark, wild and blustery. He had already prepared for murder, coating the rope and noose on the scaffold in black pitch to camouflage it against any prying eyes.
Tell me, priest, what do you use on the wooden crosses in the cemetery?'

  The priest smiled, a fox-like grin, as if savouring some secret.

  'That same pitch,' Corbett answered for him, 'you used on the scaffold rope.' He paused and stared around. Father Augustine was gazing coolly around the hall. There was an air of controlled menace about him that made Corbett uneasy. The others, including Ranulf and Maltote, sat like a group of children waiting for a minstrel to finish his tale.

  'We are waiting,' Father Augustine said softly.

  'Aye, just as Amelia must have waited,' Corbett said. 'I suppose you were all loving towards her that night. Everything was ready. The noose had been coated with pitch earlier in the day. You'd use twigs to remove any sign of your presence there. And you went to meet Amelia.' Corbett watched the priest. 'You went on foot. You'd share her horse – Amelia would like that, perched on the saddle before you, two lovers riding into the night. You'd take her to the place where your ancestor died. Amelia knew all the legends.' Corbett glanced at Fourbour. 'Hence, her veiled remarks to you about Hunstanton being richer than it knew.'

  The baker covered his face with his hands as Corbett continued.

  'God knows what happened then? Perhaps you paused for a while, murmuring endearments into Amelia's ear? She was distracted, delighted by what she heard. Your hand goes out. You clasp the swinging rope, slip the noose around her neck and move the horse away. It would have been so simple.'

  He turned to Selditch. 'I believe Amelia's neck was broken?'

  'It was,' Selditch agreed. 'The head was loose. Her neck must have snapped like a piece of thread!'

  'Perhaps she struggled,' Corbett continued, trying not to be distracted by Fourbour, now sobbing till his shoulders shook. 'Perhaps she fought against the noose, but it would have been over in seconds. There's a rope round her neck, the horse she was sitting on moves away, she drops-' Corbett drew a deep breath. 'You check her wallet, but there's nothing in it except some sachets of perfume, which you remove. You ride to the edge of the village. You pass some peasants. They see the baker's horse and a cloaked figure sitting sidesaddle and think it's Amelia Fourbour. Now the church is on the edge of the village-' Corbett paused and tried to catch Ranulf's eye, whilst quietly cursing his own ineptitude. No longer the humble parish priest, Father Augustine had a definite air of menace. Does he have a knife, Corbett wondered, remembering de Luce, canon of St Paul's, who had inflicted the knife wound whose scar he still bore.

  'On the edge of the village,' Corbett continued, getting to his feet, 'you slipped off the horse and disappeared into your church.' He began to walk towards the priest, but he was too late.

  Father Augustine sprang to his feet and, before Corbett could shout a warning, took the few steps that put him to stand beside Alice.

  'Sit down, Father!' Corbett commanded.

  'Sit down! Sit down!' Father Augustine mimicked.

  He had his head lowered, chin pressing into his chest. Catchpole regained his wits and made to rise but the priest's hand came sweeping out of his cloak and he pressed the point of his dagger against Alice's soft throat.

  'Keep still, my lady!' Father Augustine murmured.

  'Don't be a fool!' Corbett shouted.

  'Don't be a fool!' Father Augustine mocked. 'You stupid, miserable-faced clerk! You can tell that bastard' – he nodded towards Ranulf – 'to put his hands on the table. Come on!'

  He pressed the point of the dagger against Alice's neck. A small prick of blood seeped out. Alice moaned. She tried to force her neck away but the priest held her fast.

  'Gently, Ranulf!' Corbett snapped. 'He'll kill!'

  'Yes, I'll kill!' the priest said. His eyes darted around like those of a trapped animal. 'You don't understand. None of you do. That treasure is mine. It has been since the first day I heard about it. It was like a demon inside me. I thought I could forget it. I became a priest.' Father Augustine tapped the side of his head. 'But the voices kept telling me. The ghosts of my ancestors, chattering away, like a tune you hear and never forget. I tried to forget it.'

  Ranulf moved but the priest pressed the dagger harder against Alice's throat.

  'For God's sake!' Gurney hissed, glaring at Ranulf.

  Corbett gazed despairingly at Alice's face. Grey with fear, she was on the verge of fainting. The priest's dagger shifted towards her windpipe, leaving a red mark and a small bubble of blood where her throat had been nicked. Father Augustine was now talking as if to himself.

  'I tried,' he muttered. 'I really did try to stop the voices. I thought the love of a woman would help but she betrayed me, she became pregnant.' He raised his head and his lips curled. 'The stupid bitch wanted me to leave the priesthood.' He gazed at the hapless baker. 'You were welcome to the stupid sow!'

  'I loved her!' Fourbour whispered. 'You wicked, evil man! I really loved her!'

  Corbett pressed Fourbour back into his seat. He shook his head imperceptibly at Ranulf and Catchpole, both of whom were tense, waiting for his signal. The priest glanced at Selditch, but the physician's trembling and sweat-soaked face showed he was no fighting man.

  'Leave the woman!' Corbett pleaded.

  'Oh, I will!' The priest smiled. 'We'll go together, Corbett. Perhaps you deserve some of the treasure? Like me, you may have discovered its whereabouts, but I found it first.' His voice sounded like that of a spoilt child. 'Yes, I found it first. Those stupid, fat nuns! One day at Mass I couldn't believe my eyes. I stood at the altar and I saw a chalice from the treasure of King John!' He gazed round-eyed at Corbett as if expecting his approval. 'I knew then that my voices were correct. God was showing me, in His own way, that the treasure was really mine. My fingers itched to take that cup. I began my searches – of graves, of the Hermitage. And then that bastard Monck arrived! He thought he was so perceptive, but it was his servant I feared. The man went to Mass at the convent. He saw the chalice.'

  Alice – her eyes becoming glazed, the muscles of her face tense – was motionless with terror.

  'Release the woman, please!' Corbett begged.

  'I'll soon be finished and then I'll be gone,' Father Augustine told him. 'You see, Cerdic saw the chalice and he babbled like a child. He wanted to please his master, so he came to see me. He wanted to know more about the chalice and the voices told me to do it. I slit his throat. Whish!' The priest drew his finger across his throat. 'And what did I do then, clerk?'

  'I suppose you bundled the body on a horse and took it to a cove where there was a small boat and rowed down the coast to the beach beneath Hunstanton. You cut off the head and stuck it on a pole and slung the body on the beach just below the high-tide mark. The rising tide washed away your footprints and any sign that a boat had been beached.'

  Father Augustine nodded. 'Ingenious,' he murmured. 'I left the head upon a pole. I thought the Pastoureaux would take the blame. I climbed into the boat and rowed a little way out, watching the incoming sea smooth out the shingle and remove any signs that I had been there – though most of Cerdic's body remained dry.' He pointed at Corbett with his free hand. 'You should have died there. I watched you go out to the Hermitage. I heard how that rogue Master Joseph had taunted you. I took Amelia's perfume.' Father Augustine blinked. 'But we are wasting time. Come here, Sir Hugh, quickly! I'll soon let this bitch go!'

  Corbett walked around the table, touching Ranulf gently on the shoulders as a sign to stay still. The priest, however, saw this.

  'Stand up!' he ordered.

  Ranulf got to his feet.

  'And the crossbow!'

  Ranulf looked at Corbett, who nodded.

  'Very carefully,' the priest snapped, 'put it on the table!'

  Ranulf obeyed.

  'And the bolts! Come on, you've got more than one!'

  Ranulf placed the two squat crossbow bolts on the table.

  'Clever, clever boy! Now, take the bolts!'

  Ranulf picked them up.

  'And throw them down the hall.'

  Ranulf obey
ed.

  Alice whimpered, slumping in a half-swoon. The priest grabbed her by the arm and ordered Corbett nearer. 'Take her other arm!' he ordered.

  Corbett obeyed. He and the priest, who still held the knife to Alice's throat, dragged the half-swooning woman down the hall, walking backwards. The priest shouted curses and warnings at the rest to stay seated. Corbett curbed his own panic and resisted the desire to do something stupid, quickly dismissing thoughts of pulling Alice away, for he dare not take the risk. The priest's knife was still digging deeply into Alice's throat. Corbett knew the man was both insane and evil enough to kill her without a second's thought.

  At the hall door a group of servants, who had been half-dozing in the passageway, suddenly jumped to their feet. They stared in horror at the macabre procession. The priest ordered them into the hall and they scurried in like frightened children. Father Augustine pulled Alice towards him, circling her neck with one arm, the knife now under her chin.

  'Lock the door!' he yelled.

  Corbett swung the two great doors closed, pulling down the beam across the iron slats. He turned as the priest backed down the passageway.

  'For God's sake!' Corbett hissed. 'What on earth do you think will happen? Gurney will hunt you down and, if he doesn't, I will!'

  Father Augustine ignored him.

  'My ancestor survived for a year!' He snapped. 'Alan of the Marsh was never caught.'

  'How did you kill Monck?' Corbett asked.

  'Oh, that was simple. He said he had been examining Cerdic's clothes.' The priest grinned. 'Like you did. What did you find, Sir Hugh?'

  'Candle grease.'

  'Well, Monck found the same. He said it was from a church candle, beeswax. I, of course, denied it. I blamed those bitches up at the convent. He left in a hurry, believing they were the culprits. I told him that both Cerdic and I had suspicions about their smuggling and the chalice. When he came out of the convent I was waiting for him. Quite easy. A crossbow bolt in his chest. I put him back on his horse. I thrust his boots back into his stirrups and fastened his own belt round the saddle horn to keep him upright. I pricked the horse with my dagger and sent it galloping like a rider from hell through the village. The horse must have raced on to the moor until Monck was shaken loose and fell off. No one would believe that he had already been killed when his horse galloped through the village. Except you, of course!'