by Paul Doherty
‘But,’ the monk protested, ‘Father Benedict reached the door.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Corbett replied. ‘The sound of the oil hitting the floor, and the roar of the flames would have roused him. He seizes his cloak and the key by his bed and, holding the cat, runs towards the door.’
‘What about the wall of flames across the floor?’
‘They would be fierce but, probably, still not fully fanned. Father Benedict would be desperate, he had to brave them before they grew, roaring to the rafters.’
‘How do you know the key was not in the lock?’ Cade asked.
‘Because if it was, Father Benedict would have survived and the murderer would have chosen another scheme.’ Corbett looked at the under-sheriff’s sword belt. ‘Your dagger, Master Cade, it’s of the Italian mode, thin and slender. Can I borrow it?’
Cade shrugged and handed it over.
‘Now,’ Corbett said. ‘Would you all stand outside? Ranulf, cup your hand beneath the keyhole.’
Corbett’s companions, rather bemused, stepped outside the burnt building. Corbett heaved the door closed, holding it fast with one hand before slipping Cade’s thin stiletto through the keyhole. At first it was blocked so Corbett carefully pushed until he heard Ranulf’s exclamation of surprise. The clerk pulled the door open and handed the dagger back.
‘Well, Ranulf, what do you have?’
His manservant showed him a thin strip of half-burnt wood, long and rounded as if cut by a master carpenter.
‘You see, what happened,’ Corbett concluded, ‘was that the murderer knew where Father Benedict kept his key. On the night he murdered the priest, he slipped this piece of wood through the keyhole, went quietly round to the window, threw in the oil and lighted torch then slipped away. Father Benedict reaches the door, the fire raging all around him; he inserts his key but the lock is blocked. He takes it out, perhaps tries again but it is too late.’ Corbett stared at the sacristan. ‘It couldn’t have been there earlier, otherwise Father Benedict wouldn’t have locked the door behind him. On, no, Master Sacristan, Father Benedict was cold-bloodedly murdered. I intend to discover why and by whom!’
Corbett turned at the sound of footsteps. A small, fat monk, the folds of his pasty face betraying both anxiety and self-importance, hurried out of the trees and across to the priest’s house.
‘Brother Warfield! Brother Warfield!’ he gabbled. ‘What is going on here?’ He stopped, his head going back, like that of a small sparrow, lips pursed, little black eyes darting round the group. ‘Who are these people? Do you need help?’
‘No, Brother Richard, I don’t!’ Warfield replied.
The portly monk stuck his thumbs inside the tasselled cord round his waist. ‘Well!’ he exclaimed, staring round the room. ‘I think you do!’
‘Go away, little man!’ Ranulf answered. ‘This is Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, Special Emissary of the King!’
‘I am sorry, so sorry,’ the portly monk stuttered, his eyes pleading with Warfield.
‘Don’t worry, Brother Richard.’ The sacristan clapped him hard on the shoulder. ‘Everything is well here!’ Warfield smiled at Corbett. ‘Brother Richard is my assistant and most zealous in his duties.’
‘Good,’ Corbett snapped. ‘Then both of you can show me the entrance to the crypt.’
Corbett turned away but not before he glimpsed the quick, warning glances which passed between Warfield and his portly assistant.
Chapter 5
Adam of Warfield took them over to the abbey church; the stone pillars and passageways stretched before them as silent as the grave. The air was musty and Corbett caught the bitter-sweet smell of incense and rotting flowers. The dappled shadows were broken by bursts of sunlight which poured through stained-glass windows high in the walls. They walked along a transept, their footsteps ringing hollow, even their breath seemed to echo in the vastness of the vaulted roof. At last they came to the south transept which was barred by a great oaken door reinforced with strips of steel and iron studs. The edge of the door, where it met the lintel, had been sealed with great blobs of scarlet wax and bore the imprint of the Treasurer’s seal. The door was fastened by three bolts and each of these was secured with two padlocks.
‘To each padlock,’ Adam Warfield explained, ‘are two keys. One is held by the King, the other by the Lord Mayor.’ He pointed to the keyhole. ‘This, too, has been sealed.’
Corbett crouched and stared at the great disc of purple wax which had been sealed by the Chancellor. Corbett examined everything carefully.
‘Nothing is broken,’ he said. ‘But what happens if the King wishes to enter?’
‘I asked that myself,’ Cade replied. ‘The barons of the Exchequer have made it very plain: the door is not to be opened except in the presence of the King himself. So far he has sufficient silver and gold and, if more is needed, he will melt down bullion still stored in the Tower.’ Cade made a face. ‘The peace with France,’ he continued, ‘has meant the King need not make a run on his treasury.’
Corbett nodded. Everything appeared secure and what Cade said nudged his memory about gossip at court: the treasury officials had boasted to him how the King, as yet, had no need to melt down cups of plate to pay his troops.
Corbett tapped on the door.
‘And beyond this there are the steps?’
Adam Warfield sighed in exasperation. ‘Yes, and they’re broken. Anyone who tried to force that door would soon be discovered. You did say you wished to meet the Sisters of St Martha?’
And, without waiting for an answer, the sacristan and Brother Richard led them out of the abbey and into the cloisters. A square, porticoed walk bounded the garth, a green island of lush grass with a fountain splashing in the centre around which birds sang and swooped. They went through a small doorway, down more passageways and into the Chapter Room.
Corbett heard the mumble of voices which stilled as soon as they crossed the threshold. He blinked as they entered. Although the windows were unshuttered, the room was dark and candles glowed in the shadowy recesses and along the oaken table where a group of women sat. Corbett sensed an atmosphere of sadness as they all stopped talking and looked towards him. At first they were indeterminate, indistinct in the poor light so he peered closer: all the women were dressed in dark blue head-dresses, fastened with pieces of gold braid. They were wearing dresses and smocks of different hues but these were covered in tabards which matched their head-dresses. He stared hard at the livery depicted on them and made out the figure of Christ with a woman kneeling beside him, presumably St Martha. He caught a glimpse of bare ankles beneath the table and realised these ladies, however high-born, were similar to many noble widows who followed a monastic rule in their spiritual lives. Self-conscious of his own boots thudding on the wood-panelled floor, Corbett led the rest of his group across the room though he noticed how both Cade and the monks hung back as if trying to hide themselves.
‘Do you think they always dress like this?’ Ranulf whispered.
‘I doubt it,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Just at meetings.’
‘Why are you whispering? What are you doing here?’ An old, white-haired lady at the top of the table stood cupping her hand to her ear. She challenged them again and a tall lady on her right repeated the question.
‘Gentlemen, this is a meeting of our Sisterhood. You did not knock or ask for entrance.’
‘My lady,’ Corbett answered. ‘We are here on the King’s orders.’
The rest of the seated group began to murmur amongst themselves but the old lady at the top of the table clapped her hands for silence whilst the tall woman on her right rose and swept down to meet them. Corbett glanced round quickly at her companions and counted seventeen in all.
‘I am the Lady Catherine Fitzwarren,’ the tall woman announced. ‘My superior, the Lady Imelda de Lacey, asked you a question. Who are you?’
Corbett studied her, noticing the grey hair escaping from beneath the coif yet the woman was
not old; her face was smooth and clear without a wrinkle, high cheekbones emphasized eyes as grey as slate though her prim, pursed lips gave her a sour look. Corbett stood his ground; he was used to the domineering airs and graces of courtiers and the least said the better.
‘Well, I know who you are,’ Lady Fitzwarren’s eyes flickered her contempt at the monks. ‘And you,’ she pointed a long, bony finger at Cade, ‘are the under-sheriff who seems incapable of capturing the red-handed slayer of poor unfortunate girls!’
As she talked, Corbett stared at the lady seated at the top of the table. I have to be careful here, he thought. The de Lacey woman must be at least seventy summers old, the widow of one of Edward’s great mentors, whilst Fitzwarren’s husband had been one of the King’s most successful generals in Wales. Corbett drew in his breath and glanced warningly at Ranulf.
‘My Lady,’ he stepped forward. ‘I am Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal and Chief Clerk of the Chancery.’
Lady Catherine immediately extended a white, thin hand for Corbett to kiss, which the clerk did, choosing to ignore Ranulf’s muffled snigger.
‘The King himself has sent me here to investigate the deaths of Lady Somerville and,’ Corbett stammered, ‘the other unfortunates you mentioned.’
‘Well, Sir Hugh,’ she snapped, ‘you are welcome but do we really need the monks?’
Adam of Warfield and Brother Richard needed no second bidding but fled from the room like frightened rabbits.
‘Well?’ Lady Catherine turned with a prim smile on her face. ‘We need more chairs.’ She clapped her hands and serving women, seated in a darkened window recess, scurried to do her bidding. Corbett had to keep a straight face as the serving women, mumbling and muttering, dragged three high-backed chairs away from the wall to the near end of the long, oval table. Corbett ordered Cade and Ranulf to help. Lady Catherine swept back to her place whilst the three self-conscious men took their seats.
‘Perhaps it’s best,’ old de Lacey announced in a surprisingly clear voice, ‘if we tell the King’s Emissary,’ the words were tinged with sarcasm, ‘something about the Sisters of St Martha. We are a group of lay women,’ she continued heartily. ‘Widows who, following the counsels of St Paul, now devote ourselves to good works. We take a solemn vow of obedience to the Bishop of London and our work is amongst women who walk the streets and alleyways of London. Women,’ her gimlet eyes glared down at Corbett, ‘who have to sell their bodies to satisfy the filthy lusts of men.’ She paused and stared at Corbett as if he was personally responsible for every whore in London.
Corbett chewed the inside of his lip to avoid a smile. Ranulf lowered his head and received a kick from beneath the table.
‘Ranulf, if you laugh,’ Corbett hissed out of the corner of his mouth, ‘I’ll personally break your neck!’
‘What was that? What was that?’ de Lacey cupped her ear again.
‘Nothing, my Lady. I wanted to make sure my servant had stabled the horses correctly.’
The old woman rapped the top of the table with a small mallet.
‘You’ll bloody well listen when I address you!’
Corbett steepled his fingers before his face, his lower lip clenched firmly between his teeth as he recalled stories of de Lacey: how this woman had often campaigned with her husband and was not averse to using language which would make a hardened mercenary blush. He glanced quickly around the table. Surprisingly enough, except for Lady Catherine Fitzwarren, the rest of the group were now sitting, heads bowed; a few shoulders were shaking and Corbett was relieved that he was not the only one to see humour in the situation. He sat motionless as Lady Imelda finished her caustic description of the Order’s work.
‘At the end of this meeting and only when we have finished,’ Lady Imelda announced imperiously, ‘our sub-prioress, the Lady Catherine, will provide you with any further help. She and her companion the Lady Mary Neville.’ De Lacey clicked her fingers and pointed down the table at one of the women who now lifted her head and gazed straight at them.
Corbett and Ranulf looked at the petite, olive-skinned features of the Lady Mary. Ranulf took one glimpse of the dark blue eyes and gulped as his throat went dry and his heart beat faster. He had never seen anyone so beautiful and, although Ranulf had been with many women, he knew, sitting in this strange Chapter House, that for the first and possibly the last time in his life, he had fallen deeply in love. The woman smiled gently then looked away. Ranulf just gazed back hungrily and, for him, the rest of the meeting was a distant hum.
Corbett also watched the young widow turn away. It can’t be? he wondered. No, it couldn’t be! He felt shocked, his hands turning cold as ice. The Lady Mary bore the same Christian name, the same looks, the same demeanour of his own first wife, now years dead. Corbett couldn’t believe it, he was so shocked he lost his usual alertness and didn’t realise that the Lady Mary had had a similar effect on his manservant. Cade, however, glanced at both suspiciously and nudged Corbett gently with his elbow.
‘You, sir,’ Lady Imelda shouted down the table. ‘Are you, Master Corbett, some coxcomb, some cloth-eared knave? I am speaking to you!’
Corbett smiled thinly and bowed. ‘My Lady, my apologies, but my ride from Winchester was a harsh one.’
He studied the old, imperious face, the firm cheeks and hawkish look and resisted the urge to give this lady as good as he got. He forced himself to concentrate and, despite the eerie atmosphere of the room, began to quietly admire these courtly bred ladies; the only people in London who seemed to care about the droves of young women forced into prostitution.
The meeting moved from one item of business to another. The Lady Imelda described how they divided the city amongst them; each had a certain quarter to look after; how they had established refuges near St Mary of Bethlehem, in Mark Lane near the Tower; in Lothbury and at the junction of Night Rider and Thames Street. How they provided money and clothing, arranged marriages for some of the younger girls whilst others were clothed, given food, a few pennies and sent back to the villages and hamlets from whence they came.
Corbett sensed the sheer compassion beneath de Lacey’s curt description, a genuine concern for others less fortunate then her. He gathered the Order had been in existence for at least twenty years and already the ladies had established close ties with the hospitals at St Bartholomew’s and St Anthony’s where the physicians gave their services free whilst the Guild of Apothecaries sold them herbs and medicines at much reduced prices. Better this, Corbett thought, than the dizzy-headed butterflies at court, dripping with jewellery, clothed in satin, with no thoughts in their empty noddles other than how their faces looked and their bellies were filled.
The meeting eventually finished with a prayer and, whilst the other sisters made to leave, smiling shyly at the men and whispering amongst themselves, the Ladies Catherine and Mary led them across to a small deserted chamber just off the Chapter Room. Lady Imelda suddenly bellowed at Corbett, how she hoped the King kept his shoulders warm and drank the herbal potions she sent to him.
‘The King always suffered from rheums,’ the old lady trumpeted for half of Westminster to hear. ‘And as a boy he was always sniffing with colds. By the Mass, I wish I was back with him! A good strong horse between my legs and I’d teach those bloody Scots a lesson!’ Her voice faded as the door closed behind them.
Lady Catherine smiled wanly but her companion leaned against the wall, hand to her face, giggling uncontrollably.
‘You really must excuse the Lady Imelda,’ Lady Fitzwarren murmured as they sat down on stools around a low, rickety table. ‘She’s going as deaf as a post, her language can be ripe but she has a heart of gold.’ Lady Catherine blew her lips out. ‘Well, I am afraid we have no wine.’
Corbett shrugged and said it didn’t matter. He was now more interested in his servant who was staring fixedly at the Lady Mary. He followed Ranulf’s gaze. She is beautiful, Corbett thought, and seems gentle as a dove. He clenched his fists in his lap, he
had to forget the past as well as warn Ranulf that Lady Mary Neville was not some trollop to be teased and flirted with.
‘Well,’ Lady Catherine leaned forward. ‘Your questions, Clerk?’ She coughed and glanced at her companion. ‘We knew you were coming,’ she continued. ‘The King informed us but the Lady Imelda always acts like that.’ Fitzwarren smoothed the blue tabard over her knees. ‘You want to ask us about the deaths of the girls?’
‘Yes, My Lady.’
‘We know nothing. Oh, we have tried to find out but even amongst the women we work with there’s not a hint, not a whisper, not a suspicion of who the killer could be.’ She licked her dry lips. ‘You see, we work amongst the unfortunates, those who, by appearances anyway, even God has forsaken. Of course, we believe He has not. Now, we are not interested in what they do or who they know, where they go, which men have used their bodies. We are not even interested in their souls. We care for them as people, as women caught in a trap of poverty and ignorance, then lured to false wealth by empty promises. We believe that if we rescue them from that then all will be well.’
Corbett studied the woman. He could not understand her. She was harsh, yet gentle; idealistic but at the same time pragmatic. He glanced sideways and wished Ranulf would stop staring at the Lady Mary and that she would stop looking at him with those dark, doe-like eyes which stirred such memories in his own soul.
‘So, you know nothing?’ he asked.
‘Not a jot, not a tittle.’
‘Lady Mary, is that true?’
Corbett turned, ignoring Fitzwarren’s hiss of annoyance. The young woman cleared her throat.
‘The Lady Catherine is correct.’
Her voice was soft but Corbett caught the burr, the musical trace of an accent. It almost sounded Scottish and Corbett remembered the Nevilles were a powerful family owning vast tracts of land in Westmorland and along the Northern March.