Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Do you think,’ Ranulf asked, ‘Lady Adelicia could have also secretly returned home and done such a mischief?’

  Berengaria narrowed her eyes. ‘I thought of that,’ she replied in a half-whisper. ‘She wanted him dead, but no, I don’t think she had the time, the strength or the will. She’s squeamish. If she’d wanted someone killed, she would have hired that oaf of a lover, Wendover, to do it for her.’

  ‘As you came and went to Sweetmead,’ Corbett asked, ‘did you see anybody else?’

  Berengaria shook her head. ‘No, sir, it was a cold winter’s day. Packmen, carts clattering along the road, but no one I recognised.’

  ‘Surely,’ Corbett asked, ‘if Sir Rauf had agreed to keep the door open, and on that particular day it was locked, you must have become suspicious?’

  ‘I realised something was wrong,’ Berengaria was flustered, ‘but not that! I said Sir Rauf would often leave the latch off, but not always. If the door was locked that was a sign he could not, or would not, receive me.’ She forced a smile. ‘He had other business.’

  ‘A wasted journey?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘Not really.’ Berengaria pouted. ‘Sir Rauf would still give me a coin. You see, sirs,’ Berengaria breathed in deeply, ‘he enjoined me to be prudent, and I was, very, very careful.’

  ‘So the door had been locked before?’

  ‘Of course.’ Berengaria turned to Ranulf. ‘Sir Rauf had visitors, or Lechlade would be staggering to and from that tavern.’

  ‘You’ve heard,’ Corbett asked, ‘about the skeleton found in the garden?’

  Berengaria shook her head. ‘I know nothing of that. My mistress never told me. Sir Rauf did have visitors late at night, people coming and going. I asked him once but he said that was his business and I was not to worry about it.’

  Corbett stared down the darkening hall. A sconce light fluttered, the cresset torches were burning low. He felt tired, and his back ached; he wished to be away from here.

  ‘Do you think, Berengaria, as your mistress is now pregnant, that she knew Sir Rauf planned to claim their marriage wasn’t consummated, and intended by her pregnancy to show this to be a lie?’

  ‘It’s possible, Sir Hugh. She had no love for Sir Rauf, but sometimes she’d talk about what she’d do when he was dead and all his wealth came to her.’

  ‘And now?’ Corbett asked. ‘You’ll not return to your mistress’s service. Sooner or later what you have told me will become public knowledge.’

  ‘Ah, Sir Hugh, I listen very carefully to the Scriptures. How one should save against the evil day. Sir Rauf was generous to me. I have money put aside, and once this is over, I will leave Lady Adelicia’s service. She must give me a good recommendation. After all, if she knows about me, I certainly know about her.’

  ‘Blackmail?’ Ranulf asked. ‘You’d blackmail your mistress?’

  ‘Master Ranulf,’ came the quick reply, ‘if you had sat in a corner of an alleyway stinking of urine and dung, shivering in rags, blackmail is nothing compared to that! Are you finished with me, Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I am for the time being.’

  Berengaria got off the stool, gave Sir Hugh a mocking bow, waggled her fingers at Ranulf and walked saucily from the chamber. Corbett stared in disbelief at the door closing behind her.

  ‘Don’t be surprised, master.’ Ranulf didn’t even lift his head. ‘I could find girls in London half her age who’d do the same for a penny. What she said is true. When you’re poor you’ll do anything!’

  Corbett shook his head. He still felt uneasy. Berengaria hadn’t told him the full truth. She was concealing something, or had she decided to peddle a farrago of half-truths? What was wrong? He sighed and shouted at Chanson to bring Castledene in.

  Sir Walter entered, face pinched and pale. He’d lost some of his haughtiness, though Corbett could tell by the way he was gnawing his lower lip that the mayor was finding great difficulty in accepting royal jurisdiction being imposed on him. Corbett did not wish to alienate the man. He rose in deference but showed no partiality. Once Castledene had taken the oath and Parson Warfeld had been dismissed, Sir Hugh reassured the mayor that he did not wish to interfere in the liberties, customs, rights and privileges of the King’s City of Canterbury but that the matters before them were pressing and urgent and he needed satisfactory answers to certain questions. Castledene was astute and skilled enough to realise that Corbett was simply going through the usual diplomatic phrases and protocols, so he sat on the stool half nodding as Corbett delivered his formal speech.

  ‘Sir Hugh,’ Castledene pushed his hands up the voluminous sleeves of his gown, ‘you are a busy man and so am I. This is one matter amongst many. I am here to answer your questions. I am on oath. I will do so honestly.’

  ‘Very well.’ Corbett asked for a brazier to be brought closer and one of the candelabra from further down the hall to be placed on the table.

  ‘The parents of Adam Blackstock and Hubert the Monk, our two outlaws?’ Corbett began. ‘I know something about their deaths. Sir Walter, you are a Canterbury man, I would like to hear it from you. This time add as much detail as you can provide.’ He indicated the pouch at his feet. ‘I have been through the documents sent from the Guildhall, but there is very little; perhaps you can fill the gaps?’

  ‘Sir Hugh, you must remember we are talking about events which occurred thirty years ago, when I was young, sprightly and slim as a willow wand. Merchants like myself and Decontet were just starting out; we were petty traders in this city. We had very little to do with such matters, or what happened afterwards.’

  ‘You talk of “we”?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘At one time, Sir Hugh,’ Castledene sighed, ‘Decontet and I were very close, almost like brothers. But life is like a knife: it sinks deeper and it turns. Decontet became Decontet and I followed my own path.’

  ‘And the beginning of this tragedy?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Well, Sir Hugh, if you need a lesson in history . . .’

  ‘No I don’t, Sir Walter.’

  ‘What I am about to tell you,’ Castledene spread his hands out, ‘is well known. In 1272 the old King died at Westminster. Now, as you know, when he died, Edward, his heir, was in Outremer on crusade. There was a breakdown in the king’s peace; armed gangs carried out raids throughout the kingdom. Merchants were afraid of being attacked; the same happened here in the Weald of Kent. Canterbury was fairly quiet but there were attacks; a gang of rifflers – we don’t know their identities because they went masked, hooded and visored – attacked farms. In the main they simply stole moveables: cattle, stock, treasure, anything they could lay their hands on. However, on that night, the Year of Our Lord 1272, the Feast of Finding the True Cross, they attacked Blackstock’s manor near Maison Dieu. To be brief, Sir Hugh, the place was looted and razed to the ground. Blackstock’s father and his second wife – I forget the woman’s name; it may have been Isabella – were killed together with their servants. Adam, their younger son, escaped unscathed, as did his half-brother Hubert, who was a scholar at St Augustine’s Abbey.’

  ‘St Augustine’s?’ Corbett asked. ‘You are sure?’

  ‘Oh yes, St Augustine’s. Of course, the Royal Justices moved into the shire on a commision of oyer and terminer. Special assize courts were set up, but no one ever discovered who was responsible for that murderous attack. Adam was placed as an apprentice to a trade in the city; his master is long dead. Hubert, as you know, continued his studies and moved to the Black Monks’ house at Westminster, which he left abruptly to become a venator hominum. Of one thing I am certain: he never returned to Canterbury. Adam, on the other hand, like many apprentices, became disillusioned and drifted away. The next we heard of him was that he was in Brabant and Hainault consorting with privateers and pirates, later becoming one of their principal captains.’

  ‘He attacked your ships?’ Corbett asked. ‘Did he single you out?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ Castledene replied with a sigh. ‘
You see, Sir Hugh, I am one of the few merchants in Canterbury who actually owns ships. Others, like Decontet,’ he allowed himself a half-smile, ‘would advance monies for this voyage or that.’

  ‘But you were different?’

  ‘Yes, I was different. I owned ships; I still do. Blackstock preyed on my craft, not because of any personal hatred towards me – I hardly knew him – but out of hatred towards the city of Canterbury. Perhaps he held it responsible for the tragedy.’

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Of course not! And in the end I had to plot Blackstock’s destruction.’ Castledene waved a hand. ‘You know the rest of the story.’

  ‘And afterwards?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘After that, Sir Hugh, I heard nothing about Hubert the Monk or anyone or anything connected with The Waxman.’

  Corbett drummed his fingers on the table.

  ‘And so we come to Maubisson, Sir Walter. I understand that Paulents’ family landed at Dover on Monday. What happened next?’

  ‘I’d been preparing Maubisson, making sure all was safe and well. I ordered Wendover to bring in stores and goods.’

  ‘When did Wendover join your household?’ Corbett asked. ‘He has served at sea, hasn’t he?’

  ‘He has,’ Castledene agreed. ‘He’s a Canterbury man, a good soldier who has seen many years’ service both on the King’s ships and abroad. I cannot fault him.’

  ‘Except that he allowed four people to die at Maubisson and the bodyguard Servinus to escape.’

  Castledene shrugged. ‘I cannot answer that, Sir Hugh, not at the moment.’

  ‘Let’s go back to Dover,’ Corbett continued remorselessly. ‘Paulents landed there; what happened next?’

  ‘He sent a message to me that he and his family were ill, so I told him I would meet him at Maubisson with a physician. I did so: Desroches accompanied me. He thought there was nothing wrong. He provided them with a little camomile to quieten the stomach and the other humours. Paulents’ wife was much taken with Desroches and begged him to stay with her, but he declined. After that, well, we left the manor, the guards were mounted, the rest you know.’

  ‘And Decontet’s murder?’ Corbett asked. ‘The afternoon when the messenger came to see you?’

  ‘I was in the Guildhall,’ Castledene replied. ‘I immediately went out with some of the city guards. I saw what you’ve heard; well, most of it. Sir Rauf lying in his chamber, the back of his head staved in, nearby a set of fire tongs coated in blood. His lady wife’s cloak was smeared with blood, napkins soaked in blood were found in her chamber. I had no choice, Sir Hugh. I had to arrest her.’

  ‘And did you investigate, Sir Walter, the question of the keys? How a man had had his brains smashed out in a locked chamber, the key being still upon his person? Or how bloody napkins were found in the chamber of the dead man’s wife? Again locked; only she and her dead husband had the keys?’

  ‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh.’ Castledene waved a hand before his face. ‘My mind was plagued by other worries. I was expecting Paulents. There was little love lost between Lady Adelicia and Sir Rauf, but that was their concern. What I have told you is the truth.’

  Corbett did not believe that; he had more questions, but not for now. Sir Walter was exhausted, his face grey, his eyes red-rimmed. Once he’d been dismissed, Lady Adelicia swept in. Despite her haughty mien and arrogant air, she proved remarkably cooperative. She admitted that her husband had been impotent, at least when it came to normal intercourse. She referred to his ‘filthy’ practices, to which she had refused to consent, and talked openly of Wendover as her lover to take or leave at her whim. She spoke coldly, dispassionately, lip curling whenever she mentioned her husband’s name, those beautiful cornflower-blue eyes diamond hard. Corbett sensed this young woman’s hatred for her dead husband. At the same time he felt a deep sorrow for the rough manner in which her girlish illusions and dreams had been so abruptly and cruelly shattered. She admitted to knowing nothing about her husband’s mercantile interests or his secret business. Nor could she elaborate on what she had already said about seeing Sir Rauf on that summer’s evening dragging what she suspected was a corpse wrapped in sacking from the house into the garden. She shrugged prettily, conceding that her dead husband was a secretive man who’d kept close counsel, admitted visitors at all hours and taken them immediately to his chamber.

  Listening to her carefully, Corbett concluded that Sir Rauf was not so much an honourable citizen but a merchant who meddled and dealt in matters of the dark, best hidden from anyone’s eyes, including his wife’s. As to Lechlade, Lady Adelicia was equally disparaging, dismissing him as an ale-sodden oaf, sottish in his behaviour and manner, who seemed totally unaware of what was happening around him. Lechlade was her husband’s serf, sent on this errand or that, with no life of his own. Perhaps she sensed Corbett’s sorrow at her situation, for she became more coy and flirtatious, so Corbett decided to change tack.

  ‘Did you murder your husband, Lady Adelicia?’

  ‘No, I did not. I could not. He was found with his skull smashed in a locked room; only he had a key and that was found on him.’

  ‘But the bloodstained napkins in your chamber? Only you and your husband had keys to that room. Did yours remain with you when you were closeted with Wendover at The Chequer of Hope? Your maid, Berengaria, could she have taken it?’

  ‘Sir Hugh, I am not as stupid as you think, or, indeed, as Berengaria might. I grew suspicious of what she did when I was with Wendover. I heard rumours that she would return to Sweetmead Manor, and saw marks of affection between her and Sir Rauf, but what did I care? What did it matter to me? Berengaria is a veritable minx; she lives on her wits and, given her life, I can hardly blame her. What’s more important is that she did not interfere with me or what I was doing. She did not take my key.’

  ‘Lady Adelicia, does the ship The Waxman mean anything to you?’

  ‘I have heard of it, Sir Hugh, and learnt what happened to its master, Blackstock, but no.’

  ‘And the bloody business at Maubisson?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Again only what I’ve heard.’

  ‘And you claim total innocence of your husband’s death?’

  ‘Of course, Sir Hugh. I should be free. I object to being locked in a cell beneath the Guildhall. Surely that must not continue?’

  Corbett clicked his tongue. ‘Lady Adelicia, you are enceinte. You were once a king’s ward. I’ll put you on oath. Providing you remain within this house under the custody of the city guards, you may stay here.’

  The relief in the young woman’s eyes was obvious. Her lower lip quivered, tears brimmed, and she bowed her head, shoulders shaking slightly.

  ‘I am innocent, Sir Hugh. I hated my husband but so do many wives. I did not kill him, I swear to that.’

  Lechlade came next. He was so drunk he could hardly repeat the words Parson Warfeld uttered and kept slipping off the stool. Ranulf found it amusing, and his shoulders began to shake until Corbett glared at him. Chanson came over and forced the man to sit properly. Lechlade leaned against the table, spittle drooling down his unshaven chin, and glared blearily at Corbett.

  ‘What do you want with poor Lechlade?’ he slurred. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong! I wasn’t always a servant, you know. I was a clerk myself once; I had prospects, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I worked for a while for Sir Walter Castledene. I was dismissed for being drunk and Sir Rauf hired me. He paid me little, gave me a garret to sleep in and sent me here and there. Sir Hugh, I spend most of my days staring at the bottom of a tankard wishing it was full again.’

  ‘Do you know anything about The Waxman, Hubert the Monk or his half-brother Adam?’

  Lechlade licked his lips and looked longingly over his shoulder at the door as if expecting Chanson to produce a tankard of frothing ale.

  ‘Master Lechlade, I asked you a question.’

  Lechlade leaned across the table, his breath reeking of the herbs and veal Ranulf had cooked. ‘Sir Hugh,’ he slurre
d, eyes heavy, ‘of course I’ve heard of Blackstock and Hubert, but they really mean nothing to me, just chatter in the market square, feathers on a breeze, here today, gone tomorrow.’

  ‘But your master, Sir Rauf Decontet, did he not subsidise The Waxman?’

  ‘Perhaps he did, perhaps he didn’t, I don’t know. He never discussed his business dealings with me.’

  ‘And the people who came at the dark of night, slipping across the wasteland, knocking furtively at the door?’

  ‘Sir Hugh, again I was Sir Rauf’s manservant. I cleaned the tables, I swept the floor, but once my hours were finished—’

  ‘I know!’ Corbett broke in angrily. ‘It was another tankard of ale. So you know nothing about that skeleton buried in the garden?’

  ‘Nothing, Sir Hugh. It was as much a surprise to me as to anybody else.’

  ‘And your mistress’s doings with Wendover?’

  ‘Lady Adelicia does not like me, Sir Hugh, though I’ve tried to help her when I can. Where possible she kept away from me, so I kept my distance from her! Where she went, what she did meant nothing to me. True, there was bad blood between the master and her, anyone could see that, even a drunk like myself. I know my wits may be sottish, my brain dulled, but they sat at table and hardly conversed. She kept to her chamber, he kept to his. She was more interested in her powders and dresses, or chattering to that insolent maid of hers, than anything else.’

  ‘And on the afternoon Sir Rauf was killed?’

  ‘Oh, I remember that. Lady Adelicia and Berengaria left, mounted on their palfreys. I watched them go. I’ll be honest, Sir Hugh, I’d heard the rumours, but,’ he shrugged, ‘I have nowhere else to go. I kept my lips closed. I did not wish to be dismissed from Decontet’s service. Well, I always seize opportunities to drown my sorrows. You see, when Lady Adelicia was out of the house, Sir Rauf would lock himself up in his chancery chamber. Only the good Lord knows,’ he slurred, ‘what he did.’