Hugh Corbett 06 - Murder Wears a Cowl

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Stop it, Limmer!’ he hissed. ‘Stop it now! And tell the scribe to join us outside.’

  Corbett walked back into the open air. ‘Christ,’ he gasped. ‘From such terrors deliver me!’

  He sat on one of the wooden beams and wished he hadn’t drunk the wine for his throat was dry and he found it difficult to reconcile sitting on green grass under a clear blue sky with the terrors he had just witnessed. Limmer and the scribe joined him. The latter was a chubby, bald, red-faced man who seemed to enjoy his work and viewed the horrors he had to witness as one of the gruesome necessities of life.

  ‘Have the prisoners confessed?’ Corbett asked.

  Limmer shrugged.

  ‘Yes and no,’ the scribe replied thinly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, Sir Hugh, we must draw a line. Brother Richard is guilty of nothing except drinking too much wine and the violation of his monastic vows. He has been terrified but not tortured. I strongly recommend that he be released.’

  Corbett stared at the scribe’s hard blue eyes and nodded.

  ‘Agreed. But he is to be kept until even-tide, then released into the custody of the Bishop of London. What else?’

  ‘The steward, William of Senche, is guilty of gross misdemeanours against the King.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘Patience, Sir Hugh. He also confessed to knowing a well-known criminal, Richard Puddlicott. Master William has some knowledge of thieves for his brother is Keeper of Newgate Gaol. Now William of Senche was approached by Puddlicott and, together, he and Puddlicott planned to enrich themselves at everybody’s expense.’ The scribe licked his lips. ‘According to William’s confession, Richard Puddlicott – and before you ask, Sir Hugh, we have no clear description of the villain except talk of black hair and black beard, and of Puddlicott being constantly cowled and hooded.’ The fellow shrugged. ‘You can believe that if you wish – anyway, according to the confession, one day the steward and the rogue were wandering through the abbey cloisters. They greedily noticed the rich stores of silver plate carried in and out of the refectory by the servants who wait on the brethren at meals.’ The scribe laughed softly. ‘The happy idea struck them that such silver could be theirs. One night they put a ladder against the wall of the refectory and secured a rich booty of plate which they carried off and sold.’

  ‘And no one noticed it was gone?’

  ‘Well.’ The scribe smiled bleakly. ‘It’s the usual story. A sick, old abbot, no prior.’ He glanced up at Corbett. ‘Yes, Sir Hugh, the thought also occurred to me. I do wonder if the good prior was helped out of this vale of tears. Anyway, now we come to Adam of Warfield. He noticed the silver was gone. He also heard of the revelries William was holding in the palace, he demanded to be involved in these nefarious goings-on or he would go straight to the King. Master William and Puddlicott agreed. Warfield was given a third of the monies they had made in selling the abbey plate. Then they seized on a brilliant idea of robbing the royal treasury.’ The scribe moved the sheafs of parchment in his hand. ‘Their schemes were well laid. Sixteen months ago Adam of Warfield declared the cemetery was out of bounds; hempen seed, which grows quickly, was sown in profusion and Puddlicott began his tunnelling. About ten days ago he forced an entry; he did not want the plate, our good sacristan sold that.’ The scribe smiled. ‘I suspect, Master Corbett, that there are goldsmiths in our city who know full well that the plate they have acquired is stolen property.’

  He paused and Corbett whistled through his teeth in disbelief.

  ‘And when did Puddlicott dig his tunnel?’

  ‘According to Warfield, at night, but because the cemetery was deserted, sometimes even during the day.’

  Corbett’s hand flew to his mouth. ‘Good God!’ he breathed.

  ‘Sir Hugh,’ Limmer asked. ‘What is the matter?’

  Corbett just shook his head. He did not want to confess that he had probably seen Puddlicott, for he remembered his first visit to the abbey and the old gardener, hooded, with his back to him. No gardener, Corbett thought bitterly, but Master Puddlicott in one of his clever disguises.

  ‘What else?’ he asked sharply. ‘Could they tell us anything about Puddlicott?’

  ‘No, the rogue was a master of the shadows. He always contacted them and never told them where he stayed. He was either late or very early and would disappear without a word to anyone. Sometimes he would be a regular visitor, at other times he would be absent for weeks.’

  ‘And the gold and silver which was stolen?’

  ‘They received their share but, naturally, Puddlicott took the lion’s portion.’

  ‘And the murderers?’

  ‘Ah.’ The scribe shook his head. ‘They deny any involvement in anyone’s death, be it Lady Somerville, Father Benedict or the whores in the city.’ The scribe plucked a quill from behind his ear and tapped the parchment. ‘However,’ he added hopefully, ‘Warfield is a killer. He is no more a man of God, Sir Hugh, than the creatures in the royal menagerie. I have attended many interrogations,’

  Corbett looked into the flint-like eyes and could well believe it.

  ‘I have attended many similar interrogations,’ the scribe continued firmly. ‘Warfield is a murderer, he has killed once. I am sure he had a hand in the death of the prior. You know the way of the world, Sir Hugh? A man who kills once will always kill again.’ The scribe rolled the parchment up. ‘More than that,’ he concluded flatly, ‘I can tell you nothing.’ He smiled bleakly. ‘Of course, we still have further business with Brother Adam.’

  Corbett thanked him and the little man waddled off, back to his duties.

  ‘What further can we do?’ Limmer asked.

  ‘As I have said, release Brother Richard into the hands of the church. Interrogate Warfield. I also want a message taken to the Sheriffs and Guildmasters. On the King’s authority, they are to make a thorough search of the city. They are to look for plate bearing the royal insignia and report any influx of freshly minted coins. The sheriffs are to hand over a summary of their findings to me at my lodgings in Bread Street. Do you understand that?’

  Corbett waited until the soldier faithfully repeated his instructions, bade him adieu and left the Tower.

  By the time he had reached Bread Street, Ranulf had returned from his errand. Maeve was absent, taking her small daughter and the maid Anna to one of the stalls at Cornhill. So Corbett, feeling tired and dejected, went upstairs to his bedchamber. He kicked off his boots and lay down on the red and white silk cover. He drifted in and out of sleep, his mind plagued by horrible nightmares, peopled by torturers, the walking corpses of young girls, their throats slashed from ear to ear, Adam of Warfield’s hate-filled eyes and the roars of wrath of his royal master. Corbett woke and stared at a hanging on the wall, depicting Salome’s dance before Herod. Why had Maeve hung it there? he wondered. He tossed and turned and thought about the death of the last whore, Hawisa. Why had she been killed at the time she had? Corbett had expected the next murder to have occurred sometime in the middle of June. He thought of the Lady Mary Neville and her same sweet smile as his first wife. Corbett drifted into a calmer sleep and was awoken by Maeve, bending over him, shaking him by the shoulder.

  ‘Hugh! Hugh! Supper is ready!’

  Corbett yawned and swung his feet to the floor.

  ‘Come on, clerk!’ Maeve teased with mock severeness. ‘You stay in bed and there’s work to be done. More importantly, the table has been laid and the meal is ready.’

  Maeve’s teasing eventually drew Corbett out of his dark depression. Moreover, his wife was determined that he now attend to certain household duties. Letters had come from the bailiffs of their manor at Leighton in Essex. She wished to discuss preparation arrangements about Lord Morgan’s stay. Would Hugh be free of his duties? So Corbett, at his wife’s insistence, spent the next few days in his own house. He played with baby Eleanor. He sat in the garden with his steward Griffin going through household accounts and, once again
, tried to advise the impetuous Ranulf against his love tryst with the Lady Mary Neville. However, Ranulf was totally smitten and Corbett sensed the change; his manservant’s red hair was now groomed and carefully covered in oil, his doublet, hose and boots were the very best Cheapside could provide and Corbett secretly smiled at the richly perfumed oils Ranulf rubbed into his skin. Maeve enjoyed every minute of it and, when Ranulf hired a troupe of musicians to serenade the Lady Mary, she collapsed in a fit of giggles.

  Such domesticity, however, was shattered by Maltote’s return from Winchester. He looked ashen-faced and highly nervous when Corbett and Ranulf met him in the clerk’s private chancery office.

  ‘You gave the King my news?’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  ‘And his reaction?’

  ‘He drew his dagger and, if the Lord de Warrenne hadn’t been there, he would have thrown it at me!’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘Most of the furniture in the chamber was ruined. The King took a great mace from the wall and smashed everything in sight. Master, I thought he had fallen into a fit! He cursed and ranted. He said he would hang every bloody monk in the abbey.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘You’ll be exiled to the Island of Lundy, stripped of all offices and made to fast on bread and water.’

  Corbett groaned and sat down on the chair. The King’s rages were terrible and Edward probably meant every word he uttered, at least until he calmed down.

  ‘And what now?’

  ‘I left Winchester the same evening. The King was in the palace yard screaming at the porters, grooms, men-at-arms and household officials. The chests were to be packed, sumpter ponies to be loaded and messengers sent out. He will be at Sheen tomorrow morning and demands your presence there.’

  Corbett caught Ranulf’s evil grin.

  ‘You will be with me, Ranulf!’ he snapped. ‘Sweet Lord!’ Corbett muttered. ‘Tomorrow the King; the next day Lord Morgan! Believe me, Ranulf, Holy Mother Church is right when she says marriage is a state only the foolish will rush into!’

  ‘What shall we do, Master?’

  Ranulf’s glee at hearing about the consternation amongst the great ones of the land faded now. Moreover, he always kept a wary eye on the King and, if he thought ‘Master Long Face’s’ career might be in jeopardy, became ever so solicitous. Corbett stared out of the window. The sun was setting and he could hear the bells of the city faintly tolling for vespers.

  ‘We shall go out,’ he said. ‘We shall act like three roisterers, drink ale and sack and come home singing. For, as they used to say in ancient Rome, when you are about to die you should enjoy yourselves.’

  Ranulf glanced at Maltote and pulled a face. They both had plans to visit Lady Mary in Farringdon but Corbett was insistent so, seizing cloaks and belts, they slipped out of the house and up into a now deserted Cheapside. Corbett walked fast as if the exercise would clear the foreboding in his mind about his imminent meeting with the King. They entered the Three Roses tavern in Cornhill and, whilst Ranulf and Maltote talked about everything under the sun, Corbett drank as his mind probed the problems which faced him. The more he drank the greater grew his despair as he realised he had only proven two things. Firstly, the monks at Westminster had broken their vows and, secondly, the royal treasury had been plundered by the greatest thief in the kingdom.

  Three hours later, a fully depressed Corbett, aided and abetted by Ranulf and Maltote, staggered out of the tavern and began the long walk home through the black, deserted streets. Ranulf believed ‘Master Long Face’ was not drunk but slightly in his cups for he had spent the last hour lecturing Ranulf: how marriages between social unequals were never successful; how the Lady Mary Neville may be playing with him, just teasing his affections. Now Corbett had fallen silent for he suddenly remembered de Craon and was trying to recall what had been amiss when he visited the Frenchman. They reached the bottom of Walbrook and turned up Budge Row. They crossed the stream covered by a loose grating and were preparing to go down a narrow alleyway which ran alongside St Stephen’s church. Maltote was ahead of them, singing some silly song when the hooded men launched their attack. They had expected Corbett and Ranulf to be walking alongside the young messenger and, because they weren’t, Maltote bore the first brunt of their surprise attack and the scalding fistfuls of lime. Maltote screamed in agony as the burning fire turned his eyes to searing pain and he collapsed into the mud. The rest of the lime hit Corbett’s hair and the side of his face as it did that of Ranulf but it missed both their eyes. Now the hooded men, four in number, each carrying shield and sword, slipped further out of the shadows towards the surprised clerk and his companions. They ignored Maltote, screaming on his knees that he couldn’t see. Surprised and befuddled, both Corbett and Ranulf stepped back. Then the savagery of the attack dawned on Ranulf and, drawing both sword and dagger, he hit his assailants like a berserker. These were rifflers and roaring boys, used to the strange dance of street fights, not Ranulf’s foolish courage. He smashed into their leader, sending him winded and sprawling to the ground. Another took Ranulf’s dagger in his shoulder, he clutched the hot spurting wound and staggered back up the alleyway, whilst Ranulf attacked the third. By the time the fourth attacker regained his wits, Corbett, his mind cleared of the wine fumes, also joined the fray. The fight swirled to and fro. Corbett and Ranulf edged closer, fighting back to back, their swords and daggers flickering out until the dark alleyway rang with the clash of metal, the scrape of boots and the gasping grunts of struggling men. Once again Ranulf launched himself furiously into the fray, aware that Maltote, still clutching his eyes, desperately needed their aid. The attackers had enough and, like shadows, just faded away. Ranulf re-sheathed his sword whilst Corbett staggered after their wounded but still active opponents. Cursing and yelling at them, the clerk suddenly realised the futility of his temper and returned to where Ranulf sat squatting in the mud, cradling Maltote in his arms as he struggled to take the young man’s fingers away from his eyes.

  ‘The poor bugger’s blinded!’ Ranulf yelled. ‘It’s your fault, you bloody clerk! You and your maudlin moods. We should have gone to Farringdon!’

  ‘Shut up!’ Corbett rasped back.

  Corbett knelt beside Maltote and dragged the young man’s hands away from his face. In the poor light of the alleyway he could see how the skin round the eyes looked as if it had been marked by falling cinders, whilst the eyes themselves were inflamed and running with water. Corbett ran back up the Walbrook, banging on the doors until a householder, braver than the rest, opened up. Maltote was dragged into a lighted doorway, the damage to his eyes now more apparent as Corbett desperately poured jug after jug of cold water to clear the lime from them. The watch, four soldiers and an alderman, alerted by the noise of the commotion, entered the Walbrook. Corbett told them to piss off and not be officious unless they wanted to help. The alderman managed to secure two horses. Maltote was helped up and, with Ranulf trotting behind him, Corbett rode as fast as his wounded companion would allow, up Budge Row into West Cheap and along the Shambles to Newgate. The city guards let them through a postern gate, Maltote moaning and groaning, Ranulf running beside him, screaming at him not to touch his eyes.

  They never stopped until they arrived at St Bartholomew’s, bathed in sweat and covered in dirt as they banged on the gate, screaming for Father Thomas. They were given entrance and lay-brothers helped Maltote down from the saddle. Father Thomas, who had been in church, hurried out and took the young messenger away. Corbett and Ranulf were left to kick their heels in the long, empty corridor. Behind the sturdy, locked door they could hear Maltote’s screams interspersed with Father Thomas’s calm voice and the quiet reassurance of lay-brothers who hurried in carrying bowls of water and trays of herbal remedies and ointment. Corbett grew tired of Ranulf’s lectures and lay down on the bench to snatch an hour’s sleep whilst his servant paced restlessly up and down. The clerk awoke, revived and refreshed. He sent a lay-brother with me
ssages to Bread Street and waited for Father Thomas to finish working on Maltote’s eyes. Just after dawn the physician came out.

  ‘No, you can’t see him.’ he announced wearily. ‘He has had a cup of drugged wine and will sleep till mid-day.’

  ‘His eyes?’ Ranulf shouted, grabbing the priest by the sleeve. ‘Has he lost his eyesight?’

  The physician gently prised himself free.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he murmured. ‘The water you threw over his face saved him from further injury. I have cleaned his skin and the lime from his eyes; for the moment, that’s all I can do.’

  ‘His eyes?’ Ranulf repeated. ‘Will he go blind?’

  ‘I don’t know. Only time will tell. He may lose the sight of one eye or yes, Ranulf, he could be blinded for life.’

  Ranulf turned and pounded his fists on the passageway wall.

  ‘Corbett,’ Brother Thomas continued. ‘I must go. I will keep you informed.’