Hugh Corbett 06 - Murder Wears a Cowl

by Paul Doherty

  ‘I am sorry.’ The young man tugged at his fur-lined robe as he ushered Corbett to a seat. ‘I slept late. Please sit down.’ The young man scratched his stubbled cheek. ‘My mother’s funeral was yesterday,’ he murmured. ‘The house is still not clean, I . . .’ his voice trailed away.

  ‘My condolences, Master Gilbert.’

  ‘Sir Gilbert,’ the young man interrupted.

  ‘My condolences on your mother’s death, Sir Gilbert. But I believe you returned in the early hours of Tuesday, May twelfth, found your mother not in her chamber and organised a search?’

  ‘Yes. The servants found her near the scaffold at Smithfield.’

  ‘Before her death did your mother act, or speak, out of character?’

  ‘My mother hardly ever spoke to me so I left her alone.’

  Corbett saw the anger and the hurt in the young man’s eyes.

  ‘She’s gone now,’ Corbett replied gently. ‘Why such a discord between a mother and her only son?’

  ‘In her eyes I was not my father.’

  No, no, you’re not, Corbett thought. He had vague recollections of the elder Somerville. A tall, brisk fighting man who had given the kingdom good service in the closing years of the Welsh wars. Corbett vaguely remembered seeing him, striding through the chancery offices, or arm-in-arm with the King in some camp, or walking the corridors of a castle or palace.

  ‘Does the proverb “The cowl does not make the monk” mean anything to you?’

  Somerville pulled a wry mouth. ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘Did your mother have any confidants here in her household?’

  The young man looked sourly at Corbett. ‘No, she did not, she was of the old school, Master Corbett.’

  ‘Sir Hugh Corbett!’

  ‘Touché!’ the young man replied. ‘No, Sir Hugh, my mother kept herself to herself, the only people she spoke to were the Sisters of the Order of St Martha.’

  Corbett stared at the young man. ‘So, you have no idea about the who, why or how of your mother’s murder?’

  ‘No, I do not.’

  Corbett chilled at this arrogant young man’s curt dismissal of his mother’s violent death and stared around the chamber.

  ‘Did your mother have any private papers?’

  ‘Yes, she did but I have been through them. There’s nothing there.’

  ‘Don’t you want vengeance for your mother’s death?’

  The young man shrugged one shoulder. ‘Of course, but you are Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Secrets. I have every confidence in you, Clerk. You will find the killer. You resemble my father. You scurry about like the King’s whippet, fetching this or carrying that. The killer will be found and I shall take a flagon of wine down to the Elms to watch the bastard hang.’

  Corbett rose, kicking over the stool behind him.

  ‘Sir Gilbert, I bid you adieu.’ He turned and walked towards the door.

  ‘Corbett!’

  The clerk carried on walking, he reached the foot of the stairs before Somerville caught up with him.

  ‘Sir Hugh, please.’

  Corbett turned. ‘I am sorry your mother’s dead,’ he said quietly. ‘But, Sir, I find your conduct disgraceful.’

  The young man’s eyes slid away. ‘You don’t understand,’ he murmured. ‘Father did this! Father did that! Yes, my mother’s dead. So what, clerk? In her eyes I was always dead.’

  Corbett gazed at the young man and idly wondered if he had enough hate to commit murder. The young man’s bleary eyes caught his.

  ‘Oh, no!’ he muttered. ‘I can guess what you’re thinking, Master Clerk. In my eyes my mother didn’t exist so why should I kill her? But wait, I have something for you.’ He ran up the stairs and returned a few minutes later with a scrap of parchment in his hands. ‘Take this,’ he mumbled. ‘Study it and use it whatever way you wish. There’s no further reason for you to stay or return.’

  Corbett sketched a bow, closed the door behind him and left.

  He reached St Martin’s Lane before he stopped to examine the scrap of parchment. It was a list of clothing, probably drawn up by Lady Somerville in connection with her work at the abbey, but she had roughly etched crude drawings of monks with the hands joined as if in prayer. They were childish and clumsy except, now and again, instead of drawing the tonsured head of a monk, Lady Somerville had drawn the face of a crow, a fox, a pig or a dog. But what really fascinated him was that in the centre of this group, taller than the rest, was a figure dressed in a monk’s habit and cowl, the hood pushed back to reveal the slavering jaws of a fierce wolf. Corbett studied the piece of parchment and tried to follow the logic of the dead woman’s thoughts. Had she been listing items from the laundry and this had jolted a memory? Corbett shook his head.

  ‘Whatever it is,’ he mumbled, ‘the Lady Somerville’s perception of our brothers at Westminster left a great deal to be desired.’

  ‘What’s that? What’s that?’

  Corbett stared as a small beggar woman, holding a battered wooden doll, jumped up and down in front of him.

  ‘What’s that? What’s that?’ she repeated. ‘Do you like my baby?’

  Corbett gazed around and realised the crowds were thronging about him. He tossed a penny at the beggar woman and walked briskly back to Bread Street.

  Corbett sensed the confusion as soon as he entered his house. He heard the shrieks from the solar, recognising the clear but powerful voice of Ranulf’s young son. Griffin dolefully confirmed the news: Ranulf and Maltote were busy playing with the young boy and were supposed to be looking after baby Eleanor whilst Lady Maeve was in the garden. Corbett followed him out. Maeve was busy amongst the lilies and marigolds, roses and gillyflowers. He stood and watched her. She was busy talking to the maid Anna and, in the dying sunlight, Corbett stood under the porch and admired how Maeve had transformed an overgrown moorland into a beautiful garden with gravel paths, sapling apple trees and climbing vines along a wall which caught the sun. Further down, beyond where a small orchard would grow, Maeve had directed the builders to erect a great white-washed dovecote next to a long row of beehives. Maeve turned as if she sensed his presence.

  ‘Hugh! Hugh! Come here! Look!’ She pointed towards the ground. ‘The herbs have lasted.’

  Corbett gazed at the mustard, parsley, sage, garlic, fennel, hyssop and borage she had planted the previous year.

  ‘You see!’ Maeve cried triumphantly. ‘They have grown.’ She turned, her beautiful face flushed with the heat and exertions from her work. ‘If all goes well, at Michaelmas we’ll have more than salt to flavour the meat.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘You look tired, Hugh?’ Maeve took off the thick woollen gloves she was using and handed a small trowel to Anna who had been helping her weed amongst the sprouting herb beds. ‘Come.’ She wiped her brow on the back of her hand.

  ‘A cool tankard of ale. Anna and I have prepared supper.’

  By the time he had washed and refreshed himself, Corbett felt better though the evening meal was a riotous one. Young Ranulf shouted all the way through and baby Eleanor, supposedly asleep in her cot, gurgled with laughter at his antics before bawling for her own food, pieces of sugar-loaf soaked in milk. Any conversation was impossible, for Ranulf had regained his good humour – too quickly, Corbett thought suspiciously – and insisted on telling everyone about Maltote’s recent clumsiness with a dagger. At last the meal ended, Corbett snapping that Maeve and Ranulf should join him in the solar.

  ‘Your day went well, Ranulf?’ he asked innocently, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Yes, yes, it did.’

  Corbett gazed round the beautiful room. Maeve stared at him curiously as if she failed to understand her husband’s irritation and bad temper.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Corbett muttered. ‘But this problem seems to pose few solutions. The killer could be anyone. All I have established is that he wears a hood and a cowl.’

  ‘So it could be a monk?’ Ranulf interrupted.

  ‘For
God’s sake, Ranulf!’ Corbett snapped back. ‘Every man in the city possesses a hood and cowl!’ He settled himself on a stool. ‘And what have you done?’

  Ranulf grinned from ear to ear. Corbett groaned to himself.

  ‘I used my initiative, Master. You may remember Lady Fitzwarren said we were welcome to view her work? Well, I paid a courtesy visit to the Lady Mary Neville.’

  Maeve covered her mouth with her hand. Corbett stared down at the floor.

  ‘The day is not yet done, Master. Lady Fitzwarren has issued an invitation for you to join her at the hospital of St Katherine by the Tower. Who knows,’ Ranulf beamed, ‘we might find out more.’

  Corbett covered his face with his hands.

  Chapter 8

  Corbett raised his head and gazed furiously at Ranulf.

  ‘I do not wish,’ he roared, ‘to be travelling round the city at the dead of night!’ He glared at Maeve who stood behind Ranulf, pushing the cuff of her sleeve into her mouth to stop her laughter.

  ‘But, Master, I thought it would help? We need to question both ladies, particularly Lady Mary. After all, she was the last person to see the Somerville woman alive.’

  Corbett scuffed the toe of his boot on the carpet. Below, in the small hall, he could still hear Eleanor bawling and young Ranulf’s shrieks of delight. He glared at Ranulf and then at Maeve. Perhaps, he thought, it was best if they left; the house was in turmoil; Maeve had her mind set on her uncle’s imminent arrival and both children were in full voice. Corbett would have no peace and there were pressing matters to attend to.

  ‘Fine,’ he agreed. ‘But send Maltote ahead of us. Before we visit the Sisters of St Martha, I wish to meet the following: William of Senche, Brother Adam Warfield and his fat friend, Brother Richard. Tell these three redoubtable characters from Westminster that they are to meet me at The Three Cranes tavern in The Vintry. They will object, they will make excuses, they will inform you about what duties they have to perform, they may even be drunk. Tell them I don’t give a sod! They are summoned on the King’s authority and either they come or they spend the next two weeks in the Fleet, be they priest, monk or parish official!’

  Ranulf, grinning from ear to ear, scampered off. In his chamber he washed carefully, changed his robes and preened himself in the metal disc which served as a mirror. ‘So far, so good,’ he murmured. He could not forget the Lady Mary and she had been so welcoming when he had paid her a courtesy visit on behalf of his master earlier in the day. Of course, Ranulf had told Lady Mary that Corbett had sent him. He only hoped his master didn’t interrogate the lady too closely, but, even in her dark house-gown, Lady Mary had been a vision of loveliness. She had sat opposite him in her small parlour serving him a cup of chilled Alsace wine and offering him sugared marzipan on a silver dish. Ranulf had acted his part, telling her how he was the son of a knight who had fallen on hard times. How he was now well placed in the Chancery, earned good fees and that he placed his good services entirely at her disposal. The Lady Mary had fluttered her eyelashes and he had trotted back to Bread Street like Galahad returning to Camelot.

  Ranulf now pressed his damp hair into place and liberally sprinkled his doublet with rose water. He clambered downstairs to kiss his offspring good night and hustle a complaining Maltote out of the door and across to the tavern for their horses.

  Corbett left the house an hour later, still disgruntled at Maeve’s total absorption with her uncle’s visit and nursing a sore elbow where young Ranulf, who had inveigled him into a short game in the buttery, had thrown his toy sword at him. ‘A sad day,’ Corbett grumbled, ‘when a man can’t find peace in his own home.’

  Still muttering curses, he pulled his cloak around him and made his way across Trinity through the darkened streets to Old Fish Street and into The Vintry and the welcoming warmth of The Three Cranes tavern. He must have been there an hour, sitting in a darkened recess beside the great open hearth, before Ranulf and Maltote joined him, leading his three disgruntled visitors: William the Steward was half-drunk whilst the two monks looked peeved and red-faced at being unceremoniously dragged away from their evening meal. Corbett made them welcome and ordered tankards of watered ale for, by the looks of William’s flushed face, bleary eyes and fiery red nose, if the steward took any more wine he would fall into a drunken stupor. The sacristan was the only one of the three who appeared to have his wits about him.

  ‘We have been summoned here,’ he drew his dark robes about him, ‘without good cause or reason.’

  Corbett made a face. ‘Monk, the King has summoned you here. So, if you object, take it up with him.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Honest answers to honest questions.’

  ‘I have answered your questions.’

  ‘What’s been happening at Westminster Abbey and Palace?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Corbett drew Somerville’s drawing from his purse and tossed it at the sacristan, pushing the thick tallow candle closer so the monk could study it.

  ‘What do you make of that, Adam of Warfield?’

  The sacristan studied it. ‘A crude drawing,’ he snapped.

  Corbett saw he was blustering and sensed his fear. Brother Richard leaned over and, bleary-eyed, also examined the drawing.

  ‘Scandalous!’ he mumbled. ‘Whoever drew this offends the Church.’

  ‘Lady Somerville drew it,’ Corbett replied. ‘A high-ranking member of the Sisters of St Martha. She worked in the vestry and laundry of the abbey. What did she discover, this widow of good repute, this pious noblewoman? What did she see which made her draw such a cruel parody of so-called “men of God”? Master William, perhaps you can help?’

  The steward shook his head and Ranulf, sitting behind Corbett’s visitors, smirked from ear to ear. He always enjoyed such occasions, when the so-called ‘pious’, the self-seeking, high and mighty, were brought to account. Corbett was forever quoting St Augustine: ‘Quis custodiet custodes?’ ‘Who shall guard the guards?’ Ranulf was forever repeating it and he couldn’t resist choosing this occasion to murmur it into the ear of Adam of Warfield. The monk turned, his lip curling like a dog.

  ‘Shut up, knave!’ he snarled.

  ‘Enough!’ Corbett ordered. ‘Brother Adam, Brother Richard, Master William, did you know any of the whores recently murdered in the city?’

  ‘No!’ they chorused in unison.

  ‘Do the names Agnes or Isabeau mean anything to you?’

  Adam of Warfield shot to his feet. ‘We are men of God!’ he snapped. ‘We are priests, monks bound by chastity. Why should we have anything to do with whores, prostitutes and courtesans?’ He leaned over the table, his eyes glaring with hatred. ‘Do you have any more questions, clerk?’

  Corbett made a face. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘But you still haven’t answered the ones I have asked.’

  ‘We don’t know any whores.’

  ‘And you know nothing about Lady Somerville’s death?’

  ‘No, we do not!’ the monk shouted, disturbing the other drinkers.

  ‘Or what she meant by “The cowl does not make the monk”?’

  ‘Master Corbett, I am leaving. Master William, Brother Richard?’

  The monk swept towards the door, his two tipsy companions staggering behind him. As the monk’s robe swirled about him, Corbett caught a glimpse of his high-heeled, costly Spanish leather riding boots and the beautiful gilded spurs attached to the heels.

  ‘Monk!’ Corbett bellowed, now rising.

  ‘What is it, clerk?’

  ‘You also took a vow of poverty. You have eaten and drunk well before you came. Your companion, Brother Richard, is tipsy and you wear boots even the King himself would envy.’

  ‘My business, clerk.’

  Corbett waited until the priest was almost at the door.

  ‘One last question, Adam of Warfield!’

  The sacristan turned and leaned against the lintel, a smug smile on his face. After all, he had come
to see this clerk, he had answered his questions and the matter was now ended.

  ‘For God’s sake, clerk, what is it?’

  Corbett walked across the quiet tap room and grasped the half-open door. He pushed his face close to the monk’s. ‘Do you,’ he hissed, ‘know anyone called Richard Puddlicott?’

  ‘No, I do not.’ Warfield turned and walked into the tavern yard, slamming the door behind him.

  Corbett rejoined his companions. Ranulf still smirking, Maltote, as usual, sitting, mouth half-open, he was still unused to his strange master dealing so brusquely with the great ones of the land. Corbett sat down and leaned back against the bench.

  ‘You learnt nothing, Master?’ Ranulf taunted slyly.

  ‘No, I learnt three things. First, Adam of Warfield and his companions, or at least one of them, knew the dead whores. You see, Ranulf, although he was angry, Brother Adam never queried why I asked him. I never actually told him that Agnes and Isabeau were two whores, so why did he reach that conclusion?’

  Ranulf’s smile faded. ‘Yes, yes, he did. And what else?’

  ‘Secondly, something is going on in the abbey. I don’t know what. Again, Adam of Warfield didn’t ask me the reason for that question. Like any guilty man he wanted to keep his answers short and brief.’

  ‘In other words,’ Maltote interrupted like some school-boy solving a problem, ‘least said soonest mended!’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘What else?’ Ranulf asked crossly, glaring at Maltote.

  ‘More importantly . . .’ Corbett looked across the tavern at a slattern in the corner clearing a table. ‘Girl, come here!’

  The serving girl hurried over. Corbett slipped a penny into the pocket of her dirty apron.

  ‘Tell me, girl, do you know Richard Puddlicott?’

  ‘No, sir, who is he?’

  ‘It does not matter,’ Corbett replied. ‘I just wondered. You see,’ Corbett murmured as the girl walked away, ‘when I asked her about Puddlicott, she immediately answered my question with another one. Our good sacristan never did that about the whores, about their names, about what might be going on in the abbey and, most importantly, why I should be asking about a complete stranger named Richard Puddlicott.’ Corbett drained his tankard, picked up his cloak and got to his feet. ‘At last we have made some progress,’ he murmured. ‘But God knows where it will lead us.’