Bullock raised his head - there were tears in his eyes.
‘When I was young,’ the Sheriff replied, ‘a mere lad, a stripling, I was my father’s squire in de Montfort’s army. Did you ever meet the great Earl?’
Corbett shook his head.
‘He spoke to me once,’ Bullock replied. ‘He got down off his horse and clapped me on the shoulder. He made you feel important. He never stood on ceremony and, when he talked, it was like listening to music - your heart skipped a beat and the blood began to pound in your veins.’
‘And yet you are now the King’s good servant?’ Corbett asked.
‘Some of the dream died,’ Bullock replied. ‘Part of the vision was lost but the good of the commonality of the realm is still a worthwhile idea. Of course, there’s Edward our King - well, that’s the tragedy, isn’t it?’ Bullock continued. ‘In his youth, the King was like de Montfort. But come, I’m gossiping like an old crone - we should go.’
Corbett and Ranulf followed Bullock down and out of the hostelry. The lanes and streets were thronged but Bullock marched purposefully, the people parting like waves before a high-prowed ship. The Sheriff looked neither to the right nor the left. Corbett was amused at how quickly scholars, beggars, even the powerful tradesmen, kept well out of the little Sheriffs path. They paused on the corner of Bocardo Lane where the bailiffs were putting street walkers into the stocks. Corbett seized Ranulf’s sleeve.
‘Maltote? He died peacefully?’
‘I did what was necessary, Master.’ He glanced sideways at Corbett. ‘And, when that happens to me, I expect you to do the same.’
They continued, following Bullock out of the town, across the drawbridge and into the castle. Sir Walter led them into a hall, and told them to sit behind the table on the dais whilst he waddled off into a corner where he filled cups of white wine.
‘I’m sorry about the mess,’ he apologised, bringing the wine back and clearing away the chicken bones and pieces of bread from in front of them. ‘Bring the prisoners up!’ he bawled at a soldier on guard just inside the door. ‘And tell them I want no insolence!’ Bullock sat down between Corbett and Ranulf. He picked up a napkin and started cleaning his fingers. He saw Corbett watching him. ‘It’s the grease,’ he explained, gesturing at the mess on the table.
‘No, no,’ Corbett replied. ‘Sir Walter, you’ve ...’ Corbett shook his head. ‘It’s nothing, just something I have seen.’
He glanced up as the doors were flung open and Bullock’s soldiers dragged a line of sorry-looking scholars into the hall.
‘I’ve released the whores,’ Bullock whispered. ‘Smacked them on the bottom and let them go. They were causing dissension amongst my men.’
The scholars were lined up; their faces were dirty, and some bore red, angry bruises on the cheek or round the mouth.
‘Well, you’re sober now, are you? David Ap Thomas, step forward!’
The Welshman, still dressed in a grey, shabby gown, his hands tied securely before him, shuffled forward. He had lost his arrogance, and there was a cut on the side of his mouth, whilst his left eye was half-closed and beginning to bruise. Nevertheless, he began with a protest.
‘I am a scholar at Sparrow Hall,’ he declared. ‘I am also a clerk. I can recite the psalm, I claim benefit of clergy. You have no right to try me before a secular court.’
‘Shut up!’ Bullock growled. ‘You are not being tried.’ He jabbed a finger. ‘When I have finished with you, I am handing you over to the Proctors’ court. It’ll be back to Wales for you, my lad!’
Ap Thomas’s bluster faded. Corbett snapped his fingers and beckoned him forward.
‘Master Ap Thomas,’ he began quietly. ‘Last night one of my men was murdered by the Bellman. That’s treason and you know the sentence for a traitor?’
Ap Thomas licked his lips. ‘I know nothing about the Bellman,’ he muttered. ‘Put me on oath.’
‘After having watched you last night, I know that would mean nothing!’ Bullock snapped.
‘Put me on oath,’ Ap Thomas repeated. ‘I know nothing.’
‘But you hounded poor Passerel to death?’
‘That’s because we thought he’d killed Ascham.’
‘And why, oh why -’ Ranulf jibed ‘- did David Ap Thomas care for a poor old librarian?’
‘Asham favoured us,’ Ap Thomas replied.
‘Yes, yes,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘He told you about the ancient lore?’
‘He also gave us money,’ Ap Thomas replied. ‘He gave us silver for our festivities.’
‘Why should he do that?’ Corbett asked. ‘Ascham wasn’t a wealthy man.’
Ap Thomas shrugged. ‘It wasn’t much. Just after he died, I received a purse of silver coins with a short note stating that Ascham wished it to be mine.’
‘Where’s the note?’
‘I destroyed it. It was in a scrawled hand.’
‘But who delivered it?’
‘Actually, Passerel himself did.’
‘Ah, I see,’ Corbett replied. ‘I suppose the letter was sealed?’
‘Yes, it was. Passerel handed it over with the small purse of silver; he claimed to have found it amongst Ascham’s possessions.’
‘You realise, of course,’ Corbett asked, ‘that the money probably came from the Bellman and you fell directly into his trap? Your favourite Ascham, the source of knowledge for your pagan rites, had been brutally murdered, and then even in death proves his generosity with his gift of money. The Bellman knew exactly how you’d react: you’d drink, you’d mourn and then you’d look for a scapegoat. Passerel was no more guilty of Ascham’s murder than I am,’ Corbett continued remorselessly.
‘Did you leave the poison for Passerel?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Of course not. The night he died we were...’ Ap Thomas’s voice trailed off.
‘Out in the woods?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I am sorry,’ Ap Thomas mumbled.
‘You’ll be sorrier yet,’ Bullock spoke cheerfully. ‘Do you know anything about the murders of these poor beggar men?’
Ap Thomas flailed his bound hands. ‘Nothing,’ he protested. ‘Brakespeare and Senex were sometimes seen near Sparrow Hall but I know nothing of their murders.’
‘Oh, take them to the stocks!’ Bullock shouted to the captain of his guard.
‘Sir Walter,’ Corbett intervened, ‘Master Ap Thomas has been helpful. His crimes are due more to foolishness than treason or any malice. Let him and his companions be handed over to the University Proctors.’
Bullock sipped from his cup. ‘Agreed. Take the buggers away!’ he bawled. ‘I’ve had enough of them!’
The guards pushed Ap Thomas and his companions through the door. The Sheriff got to his feet and drained his cup.
‘I’ll have the guards around Sparrow Hall by tonight. Sir Hugh?’
Corbett looked up. ‘I apologise, Master Sheriff. My mind was elsewhere.’ He got to his feet. ‘I was thinking,’ Corbett looked down at his boots. ‘You could tell from their clothing that Ap Thomas and his companions had been out in the countryside.’ He paused. ‘But these corpses which were brought in, Sir Walter - did you notice any mud, soil or grass on them?’
Bullock shook his head.
‘Now these beggars,’ Corbett added, ‘were old but I doubt if they would give up their lives lightly. Moreover, if a man was pursued through a wood, his legs, hands and certainly his face would be scored by brambles and gorse.’
‘I never saw any of that,’ Bullock replied. ‘But come, Sir Hugh, Ranulf, I still have the clothes and belongings of these beggars: they are kept in the store room next to my private chamber.’
The Sheriff led Corbett out of the hall and up a narrow, winding, stone staircase. Now and again Bullock grasped the ropes alongside, stopping to catch his breath. At last they reached a broad stairwell and Bullock took a ring of keys from his belt and opened the chamber on the right. Corbett fought to hide his surprise. The Sheriff’s private chamber was clean
and spacious: the floor was scrubbed and covered with woollen rugs. Above the diamond-shaped window was a triptych of Christ’s Passion, with Mary and St John on either side. A four-poster high bed dominated the room; there was a desk under the window with a large box chair, and stools and covered chests. However, what caught Corbett’s gaze were the shelves from floor to ceiling on either side of the window, all well stocked with books.
‘Never judge a book by its cover,’ Bullock joked. ‘You are looking at my pride and joy, Sir Hugh. Some of the books I have bought myself but quite a few were a legacy from my uncle, who was Prior of Hailes Abbey.’ He went to a bookshelf and pulled out a tome, dusting it carefully before handing it to Corbett.
The clerk recognised the title: Cur Deus Homo - Why God Created Man; a work by the great Norman scholar Anselm.
‘The jewel of my collection,’ Bullock breathed, coming up beside him. He pointed to the cursive calligraphy and beautiful small pictures which marked the beginning of each paragraph. ‘Copied direct from the original,’ the Sheriff whispered. ‘Those bastards at Sparrow Hall know I own it. Tripham offered me gold by the ounce but I refused to sell.’
He put the book back on the shelf, took a key from a hook on the wall and led Corbett to the store room, which was a long, narrow place, full of chests and wooden boxes. It was dark and musty. Bullock grabbed a box and pulled it out on to the stairwell.
‘If you don’t mind,’ he explained, ‘I prefer if these are kept out of my room.’ He stirred the contents, raising a cloud of stale dust.
The Sheriff went back to his chamber whilst Corbett began to take out the pathetic rags.
‘I ordered the bodies to be stripped,’ Bullock shouted. ‘Those poor bastards could not afford coffins but I made sure they were buried in proper shrouds.’
Corbett laid the different pieces of clothing on the ground: some battered, old boots; torn and patched hose; a leather jerkin; a jacket, rather moth-eaten, the mole fur on its edge eaten away; a woollen shirt, holed and dirty. Corbett tried to ignore the smell as he carefully examined the boots and hose.
‘Not a blade of grass,’ Corbett murmured, looking at Ranulf. ‘Or a leaf. Nothing! I don’t think these men were killed where they were found.’
Ranulf picked up one piece of hose and examined the worn woollen threads.
‘Look, Master.’ Ranulf pointed to the small, grain-like pebbles caught there.
‘We have the same here.’ Corbett pointed to another pair of faded, bottle-green hose. He then examined the boots: again there was no mud or anything to indicate the beggars had been killed in a field or wood.
‘Put them back,’ Corbett ordered.
He helped Ranulf do so, and Bullock came out.
‘You are finished?’
‘Yes.’
The Sheriff kicked the box back into the store room and slammed the door shut.
‘Well, Sir Hugh, what do you think?’
‘I suspect,’ Corbett replied, ‘that these men were not killed in some Satanic rite. I doubt if they were lured out on to some desolate heath or lonely field: they were killed here in Oxford. Perhaps in some street or alleyway?’
‘But why?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Perhaps for pleasure,’ Corbett replied. ‘Some sick soul who liked to see an old man beg for his life before he is killed? That’s why they were chosen. Who’d ever miss a beggar?’
‘Sheer malice?’ Bullock exclaimed. ‘A simple lust for killing.’
‘Something like that,’ Corbett replied. ‘A devil’s hunt. Someone who goes out into the streets at night, chooses his victim and stalks him like you would a rabbit or a pheasant.’
‘Yet no one has heard or seen anything,’ Bullock retorted.
‘Think of all the lonely places in the city,’ Corbett replied. ‘There’s the old Jewish cemetery, not to mention the great open spaces of common land.’
‘But what happened to the blood?’ Ranulf asked.
‘We have had summer rains, which couid have washed it away,’ Corbett replied.
‘But, if that’s the case,’ Bullock intervened, ‘why weren’t the corpses left where they were killed? Why does the assassin risk capture by taking them outside the city and leaving the heads tied to the branches of some trees?’
‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. ‘But, Sir Walter -’ he extended his hand ‘-- from now on, Sparrow Hall is to be guarded every night until this business is finished.’
The Sheriff agreed and Corbett and Ranulf left.
‘Have you told the Lady Maeve that Maltote’s dead?’ Ranulf asked as they made their way along an alleyway to Broad Street.
‘Yes, I have,’ Corbett murmured. He stopped and stared up at the blue sky between the row of houses. ‘I am sorry, Ranulf. I am deeply sorry that Maltote’s dead but I will grieve for him when this is over and his killer is punished.’ He rubbed the side of his face. ‘His corpse will be sent out to some abbey for embalming and then back to Leighton. There’s an old yew tree in the graveyard. He can be buried beneath that.’ Corbett walked on. ‘What puzzles me now,’ he continued, ‘are the deaths of these beggar men. I always thought Ap Thomas was responsible.’
Ranulf was about to reply when he heard a sound behind him. The alleyway was a lonely, narrow thoroughfare and he heard the slither of a boot. He grabbed Corbett, dragging him towards the wall, and as he did so, something smacked into the side of a house where it jutted out a bit further along. Ranulf peered up the alleyway - nothing, though he noticed a cat leap across as if it had been disturbed. Then he glimpsed a dark shape move out of a doorway, and an arm being brought back and again he pulled Corbett aside. Once more there was the smack of a stone hitting a wall deeper down the alleyway.
Ranulf pulled out his dagger and edged forwards but, by the time he’d reached the place he’d glimpsed the figure, there was nothing except the sound of the faint patter of feet down the narrow runnel which led off the alleyway. Ranulf crouched and picked up some small, well-smoothed pebbles. Corbett came up.
‘Slingshot,’ Ranulf explained, getting to his feet with one of the pebbles in his hand. He threw the pebble up and caught it, allowing it to smack against the palm of his hand. ‘If one of these had caught us, Master ...?’
‘Would it have killed?’ Corbett asked.
‘I’ve seen it happen,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Have you forgotten the bible story: David slaying Goliath?’
‘No,’ Corbett replied, taking the pebble from Ranulf’s hand. ‘I have also seen boys at sowing time, following their fathers, armed with a slingshot to drive away the marauding crows.’ He stared down the narrow, darkened runnel. ‘And that’s how the Bellman regards me,’ he continued. ‘A noisy, interfering crow that should be brought down.’
They continued on their way. Corbett paused where the jutting wall of a derelict house had stopped the first pebble: he noticed how the slingshot had pierced deep into the plaster.
‘That’s it!’ he declared. ‘Unless we have to go out, Ranulf, we’d best stay indoors.’
‘It could have been Bullock,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘He knew we had left the castle.’
‘Aye,’ Corbett replied. ‘Or the Bellman. Or, indeed, one of Ap Thomas’s friends.’
Corbett was relieved to reach Carfax, crossing the busy thoroughfare, shouldering his way past the crowds; he kept one hand on his wallet, the other on his dagger, wary of the pickpockets who clustered there. Ranulf followed behind. Now and again he’d turn, standing on tiptoe to look over the crowd but he could glimpse no one who appeared to be following them. They reached the hostelry, entering by the rear entrance because the front was thronged with scholars and Corbett wanted to avoid any confrontation over Ap Thomas. Norreys was in the yard, standing by the well, cleaning out some casks.
‘Ah Sir Hugh.’ He came over. He smiled but his eyes looked anxious, his face haggard and white. ‘The news about Ap Thomas’s arrest is now all over Oxford,’ he stammered. ‘Master Tripham and his colleagues have asked to
meet you in the library.’ Norreys wiped his hands on his leather apron. ‘They asked if you’d be so kind as to go across immediately?’
‘We noticed the scholars in the lane,’ Corbett remarked. ‘So we decided to come this way.’
‘Oh, there’ll be no trouble,’ Norreys explained. ‘Ap Thomas and his henchmen were not well liked. They are now more a source of laughter than anything else.’ He returned to the cask he was cleaning, put the lid firmly back on, hammering in the wooden pegs. He took off his apron. ‘I’ll fetch my cloak and follow you.’
Corbett walked through the hostelry. This time he found the atmosphere much lighter and the scholars more respectful, the bachelors and commons standing aside as he passed. They crossed the lane to the hall where a servitor ushered them into the library. A short while later they were joined by Tripham, Master Barnett, Churchley and Appleston. Dame Mathilda came in last, her black polished cane tapping the floor, her head held as regally as a queen’s. Ranulf watched as Moth helped her into the high chair at the top of the library table; he then glanced curiously at Corbett who seemed to be lost in a reverie. Norreys came over, huffing and puffing, wiping his hands on his gown. Tripham told them to take their seats.
‘I would offer you some wine, Sir Hugh, but,’ he added sardonically, ‘Master Churchley has told us how wary you would be of eating or drinking anything here.’
‘I think the same applies to all of you,’ Corbett replied. ‘There’s no rhyme nor reason for the deaths of Ascham or Passerel. Or, indeed, that of my good servant Maltote. The Bellman strikes when he wishes, not just to safeguard himself but to heap insult upon injury. You asked to see me?’
‘I...’ Tripham stammered. ‘We would like to protest - the Sheriff has informed us that Sparrow Hall is to be placed under curfew from dusk till dawn. Is that really necessary?’
Corbett shrugged. ‘That is a matter for you and the University,’ he replied. ‘But Maltote was a king’s servant and was brutally murdered. Furthermore, a number of your scholars, Master Tripham, are to face serious charges of debauchery, and perhaps even dabbling in the black arts.’
The Devil's Hunt (A Medieval Mystery Featuring Hugh Corbett) Page 16