Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Come in.’ Corbett indicated the stool. Ranulf sat down. ‘I believe Sir Rauf had the Cloister Map. I suspect he memorised and destroyed it, but he was waiting. Clever man, Sir Rauf! He knew Castledene and Paulents were also searching for that treasure, not to mention Hubert the Monk. He was also wary of his prying wife. He allowed her to continue her trysts with Wendover, and took his revenge in accepting sexual favours from Berengaria. Eventually he would have applied to the Court of Consistory, an appeal to the Archbishop of Canterbury, demanding his marriage be annulled. Once he’d rid himself of Lady Adelicia, once he believed it was safe, he would have used his undoubted wealth, skill and secret knowledge to travel to Suffolk and hunt for that treasure. Sir Rauf was a cold-hearted man, he could bide his time.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘At this time, I don’t know, Ranulf. I truly don’t. We’ve discovered two new facts this morning. First, Servinus did not touch wine or any strong drink. I have to reflect on that. Second, Berengaria, a woman who lived on her wits, who had no more religion in her than perhaps . . .’ he gestured at a coffer, ‘took a piece of charcoal and scrawled the word “Nazareth” on her bedchamber wall. Why?’

  Ranulf shook his head. ‘Do you think Wendover,’ he asked, ‘could have had a hand in Sir Rauf’s death? He did leave Lady Adelicia early that day.’

  ‘Ah yes, our unfinished conversation.’ Corbett rose to his feet. He walked back in to where Lady Adelicia still sat staring into the fire. ‘You said Wendover was a thief?’

  ‘Of course, Sir Hugh, and there’s no honour amongst thieves. When I visited Wendover at The Chequer of Hope, I always took money. I have my own petty source of income, though my late husband took care of the rest. On frequent occasions I found something missing. Wendover and I lay together. He satisfied his lust as well as mine. I fell asleep. He always left before I did, claiming this duty or that.’

  ‘And he invariably stole?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Yes, Sir Hugh, it is humiliating, isn’t it? He took a coin or a bracelet, some small item he thought I wouldn’t notice.’

  ‘Why?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘I don’t know, Sir Hugh. Perhaps that was the nature of the man; perhaps he was like Berengaria, collecting money, wealth against the evil day.’

  ‘That is why he left early?’

  ‘Of course it was, Sir Hugh, to steal and sneak away. When I woke there was no one to remonstrate with. I always thought I would but I never did. Perhaps it was pride. Our passion, Sir Hugh, was like a fire: it burnt fiercely, then the flames died, leaving nothing but cold ash.’ She paused. ‘Sir Hugh, what will happen to me?’

  ‘Madam, matters have become so confused, no judge could sit and listen to this case, yet there’s a malignancy here which I must root out.’

  Corbett made his farewells still lost in his own thoughts. He and Ranulf dressed against the cold and waited for Chanson, who arrived from Maubisson declaring he’d discovered nothing new. They mounted their horses and made their way across the wasteland into the city. The break in the weather had brought everyone out. All the cocklebrains and twisted hearts, every rogue who swarmed in the King’s city of Canterbury, had emerged looking for easy pickings. These mingled with the rich garbed in woollen robes wrapped firmly around well-lined bellies. Pilgrims flocked the streets, pale and wan after their days of abstinence, eager that Advent be over so they could give up dry bread and brackish water to feast on wine, sweet manchet loaves and juicy meats. A prisoner recently released from the castle dungeons perched drunkenly on a cart, shaking the manacles on his hands, as he begged for alms and mockingly gave his last will and testament.

  ‘To those in the trap,’ he referred to fellow prisoners in the castle, ‘I give my mirror and the good graces of the jailor’s wife. To the castle, my window curtains spun from spiders’ webs. To my comrades freezing at night and chained to the walls, a punch in the eye. To my barber, the clippings of my hair. To my cobbler, the holes in my shoes. To my costumer, my worn hose . . .’

  The raucous speech had attracted the tavern-roisterers with their mulled wine and roasted chestnuts. They gathered around shouting abuse as the unfortunate begged and pleaded for pennies to take back so he and his fellow prisoners could celebrate the birth of Christ in some comfort. Corbett gave him some coins and passed on. He reached a crossroads and glimpsed Les Hommes Joyeuses now parading through Canterbury to advertise their coming pageant. The Gleeman had arranged a cavalcade of devils, all rigged with wolves’, calves’ and rams’ skins laced and trimmed with sheep’s heads and feathers from which dangled cow and horse bells ringing out a horrid din. They held in their gauntleted hands burning pieces of wood, which gave off puffs of smoke and crackling sparks. The people flocked around them. The Gleeman would occasionally rein in and describe how the Mummers would meet here or there to tell the story of the Blessed Christ and His incarnation in the world of men.

  Corbett urged his horse on, his ears dinned with the shouted bustle, the hoarse guffaws, the clink of steel, the pealing of bells, the raw scraping music of fiddlers, the shrieks of mopsies and prostitutes seeking customers. Stallholders shouted their goods whilst the sonorous, bellowing sermon of a stooped, black-garbed Dominican echoed across the streets. The preacher stood, one finger pointed to the sky, eyes gleaming in a pinched face, his nose scything the air. Shouted arguments between two dice-coggers echoed from a tavern door. A juggler screamed curses as he pushed his tame bear in a wheelbarrow, looking for space so the beast could dance. Market bailiffs moved around, shoving at the crowd with their steel-tipped staves. Corbett felt as if he was part of some bizarre pageant. He felt sick, slightly confused. He cursed as a pilgrim shot across his path to join the quarrel between a brothel-keeper and a fellow pilgrim who claimed he’d been cheated. Unsteady in the saddle, Corbett reined in and swiftly dismounted. He’d taken enough, he had to rest. He led his horse off the street into the quiet stable yard of The Gate to Paradise tavern. Ostlers ran up to take their mounts. Corbett left them and walked into the sweet, musty darkness of the tap room. He deliberately ignored the glittering, contemptuous eye of a courtesan standing in the entrance, a small posy of winter herbs in her gloved hand. Just within the doorway, a sign pointed down to the Painted Cellar, where The Father of Laughter ruled. Two men stood at the top of the steps, each cradling a pet weasel; they were shouting at the courtesan to join them below.

  Corbett still felt as if he was in a dream. The tavern master hurried up looking all snug and cosy with a welcoming pot of wine. Corbett showed his warrant and demanded a private chamber for himself. Mine host bowed and swept him across the tap room, up broad, sturdy stairs into a long, well-furnished room. Coloured cloths hung across the walls, and a fire spluttered merrily in a hearth carved in the shape of a doorway. Above the ornamented mantel hung painted panels celebrating popular saints: Christopher, protector against sudden and violent death; Laurence, the patron of cooks; Julian, the patron of innkeepers. The tavern master waved Corbett and his companions to chairs and stools before the fire whilst he listed the food available: buttered capons and fowl; golden crusty pastries rich with dark tangy sauces; roast partridge; crackling pork served in a mushroom and onion sauce; soups rich with eggs and milk, all accompanied by the best wines of Bearn. Corbett half listened as he sank into the high-backed chair; he muttered that he wanted some wine. Ranulf sat next to him, highly anxious. He was alarmed at Corbett’s drawn face, that haggard look when, as his master had admitted on previous occasions, his mind teemed, the thoughts flying thick and fast as flakes in a snow-storm. Nevertheless, he held his peace. A short while later a slattern served the wine. Corbett drank deep and relaxed.

  ‘Master,’ Ranulf asked at last, ‘what is wrong?’

  Corbett cradled the cup against his chest. ‘What is wrong, Ranulf?’ He winked. ‘I’m confused. I feel like a man with a fever, wandering in that grey land between sleep and day. Questions come, jabbing at me like spear points. Who? What? Why and how?’

>   ‘And, master?’ Ranulf wished to shake Corbett from his mood.

  Sir Hugh glanced up at the painted panels. ‘Why? Well,’ he shrugged, ‘why has the Cloister Map disappeared? Undoubtedly it was taken from The Waxman by Stonecrop and brought to Sir Rauf, but what truly happened to it then? From what I gather, that house has been searched. You remarked on that, Ranulf, yet the Cloister Map has not been discovered. Did Decontet really destroy it? Secondly, why did the Cloister Map brought by Paulents prove to be meaningless? Even if you ignore these questions and move on to gruesome murder, why was Sir Rauf Decontet killed in such a fashion? Was it simply revenge, or something else? How was it done? Who was responsible? Why was Lady Adelicia cast as her husband’s killer? How was that arranged?’ Corbett sipped from his wine. ‘Who perpetrated those hideous murders at Maubisson? How was it done so swiftly, so mysteriously? Who killed Servinus in a fashion different from the rest, then ripped his belly open and stowed his corpse away? How could all this be done in a manor house so closely guarded?’ Corbett paused as the reeling tune of pipes and the stamp of feet echoed from the tap room below. For a brief moment, in his fevered mind, he thought demons were dancing at his frustration. He shook his head to free himself from such a macabre reverie, and turned, staring at his companion. ‘And Ranulf, what else is there?’

  The Clerk of the Green Wax shifted uneasily in his chair. It was rare to find Sir Hugh so confused. ‘Well,’ he rolled the earthenware goblet between his hands, ‘you talk of who, why, what and how. Yet, master, surely the cause of this or that, the reason for everything, must be someone we have encountered, someone we know, who kills and kills again. Poor Berengaria, garrotted in that lonely church; she must have known her killer.’

  ‘And that word Berengaria etched on her chamber wall at Parson Warfeld’s house?’ Corbett added. ‘What was it? “Nazareth”, written as if to remind herself, but about what?’

  ‘And the attack on Griskin,’ Ranulf added. ‘Who killed him?’

  Corbett nodded. He did not wish to reply. Les Hommes Joyeuses was his secret. ‘Not to mention the attacks on us,’ he mused, ‘travelling back from Maubisson with Desroches, that crossbow bolt loosed at the shutters, another in the cloisters.’ He paused. ‘Then there’s the wine.’

  ‘Master, what wine?’

  Corbett quickly told him about the jugs left outside his chamber. Ranulf cursed under his breath, a shiver of cold fear pricking the nape of his neck. He glanced apprehensively over his shoulder at Chanson guarding the door. In truth Ranulf wanted to be away from here. He wanted to distance himself from the stretches of lonely, snow-draped fields, ice-rutted forest trackways, desolate, haunted wastelands, the abbey with its stone galleries and echoing, deserted passageways filled with juggling light and shifting shadows. He glanced at Corbett slouched low in the chair, staring into the fire.

  ‘Master,’ Ranulf leaned over, ‘you have always warned me about the time lost staring into flames.’

  Corbett straightened up and grinned. ‘Not this time, Ranulf, it’s . . .’ He paused at the knock on the door. The tavern master bustled in with platters heaped high with bread, strips of pork and pots of boiling spiced sauce. Corbett and his companions sat round the table. They ate in silence. Chanson offered to sing, but Ranulf didn’t reply, and the Clerk of the Stables’ joke hung like a sombre sentence in the air. Corbett was about to return to his high-backed chair when there was a further knock on the door and the tavern master crept in.

  ‘I have a message, sir. A tinker came into the tap room, asked for me, thrust this into my hand and fled.’

  Corbett took the tightly rolled piece of greasy parchment. He sensed the threat it contained. He moved a candle closer, undid the parchment and stared at the scrawled hand.

  Hubert Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze, sends formal warning: King’s man, be gone.

  Chapter 13

  Tempus erit quando frater cum fratre loquetur.

  There will be a time when brother speaks

  to brother.

  Arator

  Corbett’s anger rose at the mocking threat. He thrust the parchment into Ranulf’s hand. ‘Burn it!’ he whispered. ‘Read it, Ranulf, then burn it!’

  He pushed back his chair. For a while he paced up and down the chamber, trying to marshal his thoughts. ‘I won’t be gone!’ He paused. ‘I am not going to flee! I swear this, Ranulf, Chanson: I’ll see Hubert Fitzurse hang from the gallows! I have the power.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘All I need is the evidence to unmask him, tear off the pretence and see who he really is.’ He went back and sat in the chair, stretching out his legs and trying to relax. After a while he told Ranulf to open his chancery satchel and quickly dictated a short note on a scrap of parchment. He sealed it with some wax softened over the candle flame, impressing his ring hard against it.

  ‘Chanson, take this to the clerks at the Guildhall. I demand certain records.’

  ‘About what?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘You talked about the causa omnis – the cause of everything,’ Corbett declared. ‘I call it the radix malorum omnium – the root of all evils. It began with that hideous attack on a small manor house in the year of Our Lord 1272. I want to find out more about who lived there.’

  ‘Why, master?’

  ‘Nothing much.’ Corbett leaned against the table and stared across at Ranulf. ‘Just a feeling, a suspicion.’

  ‘What about Wendover?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Is it possible he could be the killer?’

  ‘Wendover.’ Corbett shook his head. ‘Wendover may have the Cloister Map. He may have some knowledge. Deep down, however, I suspect he is just a bully boy, a braggart, a thief. I wouldn’t be surprised . . .’

  ‘What?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if Master Wendover has decided to flee! He must be becoming very frightened. After all, an attempt was made to kill him at Sweetmead Manor, or I think there was. Anyway,’ Corbett straightened up, ‘Ranulf, settle accounts with the tavern master. Chanson, take this to the Guildhall, and meet us back at St Augustine’s Abbey.’

  Corbett collected his belongings and went down into the cobbled yard. Ostlers brought out their horses and Corbett and Ranulf left The Gate to Paradise, going down narrow lanes, shadowed by the dusk. Doors were slammed, laughter rang out through casement windows. They reached the main thoroughfare and paused to allow a funeral cortege to make its way by in a glow of tapers, puffs of incense, chants and prayers. Corbett remained vigilant. He glimpsed a whore with a twisted nose, painted red lips and hard, dark eyes; she was clad in a fur-edged gown, her impudent face shrouded by a veil as she stood with her pimp, who proclaimed himself Master Pudding, at a tavern door. Corbett rode slowly on. The crowds were thinning, the stalls had ceased trading. Market bailiffs and beadles were busy. Pilgrims, some with a range of badges depicting all the shrines they had visited, still desperately tried to reach the cathedral before its doors were closed for Vespers. Corbett felt more settled. He had lost that frenetic anxiety, that heightened sense of danger. He must find and pick at a loose thread in the tapestry of lies before him, and as with all lies, there must be a weakness. Discover that, attack it, weaken it and the rest would tumble loose.

  Once they’d reached the abbey, Corbett and Ranulf retired to the guesthouse. Both clerks checked it carefully, calling for the guest master, ensuring everything was as it should be. Ranulf busied himself with other tasks, trying to quell the tingling feeling in his stomach. He’d studied Master Long-Face for many a year. Corbett always reminded him of a hunting dog which would wildly cast about, grow agitated, but once he’d found the scent, ruthlessly adhere to it, pursuing its quarry to the death. Ranulf sensed this was about to happen.

  Corbett went down into the yard, summoned a lay brother and gave him a message to take to Les Hommes Joyeuses, camped out near St Pancras. He made the young man repeat it time and again before thrusting a small purse into his hand.

  ‘Make sure the mummer who calls himself the Pilgrim
gets that, Brother, won’t you?’

  The lay brother smiled and held up his hand as if taking an oath.

  ‘And this is for your pains.’ Corbett pressed a silver coin into his hand. ‘Brother, I beg you, tell the Pilgrim to be gone.’ He peered up at the sky. ‘Before darkness falls.’

  Corbett was about to turn away when two cowled figures came through the gateway. They shuffled through the slush carrying a makeshift bier; from the sacking thrown on top a clawed white hand trailed. A shock of black hair peeped out from the top. Corbett walked across. The two brothers paused.

  ‘A beggar.’ One of them spoke before the clerk could ask. ‘Poor man, found frozen to death in the apple orchard. He’s for the mortuary chapel.’

  Corbett whispered the Requiem, crossed himself and retired to his own chamber. He prepared his writing desk, laying out sheets of vellum, quills and ink horns. Chanson returned carrying a leather bag of documents. Corbett laid these out on the table and studied them carefully: the tax returns for Canterbury and the surrounding area between 1258 and 1272. He built up the braziers, wheeled them closer to the table, settled himself down and scrutinised the documents. About two hours later Ranulf and Chanson, lounging in their own chamber, heard Corbett shout with joy. Both hurried into his room. The clerk waved them away.

  ‘I apologise, gentlemen,’ he said, half turning in his chair, ‘but now and again when you go searching in the most unlikely places you always find a treasure, as the parable in the Gospels tell us about the woman searching for the lost coin.’ Corbett paused. ‘Nazareth, Nazareth,’ he repeated. ‘Ranulf, seek out the guest master. Ask if I can borrow a missal which contains the readings for last week, the Epistle and the Gospel. Tell him I want to keep it for a while. I’ve recalled something Berengaria told me, how carefully she listened to Scripture.’

  A short while later Ranulf returned with a leather bag containing the missal, which the guest master had described as ‘one of the Abbey’s most precious possessions’, so Corbett had to be careful. Sir Hugh nodded, opened the missal, pulling away the ribbon markers, and carefully sifted through the readings. At last he found the passage which described Jesus going back to his native town of Nazareth, and how the Saviour failed to perform any miracles there because of the inhabitants’ lack of faith.