‘Well?’ Ranulf put his blackjack down. ‘Are we going to walk round Oxford or sit here on our arses looking at each other?’
Corbett smiled. ‘I was thinking about chance, Ranulf. Luck, the throw of the dice. Take Edward’s great victory over de Montfort at Evesham - oh, Edward’s a fine general but he was lucky. Or the outlaw we hanged at Leighton. What was his name?’
‘Boso.’
‘Ah yes, Boso. How did you catch him?’
‘He decided to flee,’ Ranulf replied, ‘but took the wrong path. You can’t run far when you are trapped fast in a marsh.’
‘And if he had taken another path?’
‘We’d have lost him. As you know, an army could hide in Epping Forest.’
‘It’s the same here,’ Corbett replied. ‘We can use logic and deduction but what brings results is luck.’
‘Is it, Master?’ Ranulf cradled the blackjack in his hands. ‘In a few months it will be November, the feast of the Holy Souls. I keep remembering the story you told me about the murder in your parish when you were a boy. Think of all the dead, all the victims of the Bellman crying to God for justice.’
Corbett toasted him silently with his own pot of ale.
‘Quite the theologian, Ranulf. Divine intervention is a possibility but God also helps those who help themselves. Let’s go through the list of victims.’ Corbett put his ale down.
‘Copsale died in his sleep, probably poisoned or smothered like Appleston.’
‘And Ascham?’
‘Was foolish enough to open the window shutters: he probably didn’t even think.’
‘And Passerel?’
‘I don’t know why Passerel was killed except that as he and Ascham were close friends, the Bellman might have feared that the archivist had shared his anxieties with him.’
‘And Langton?’
‘Again, very easy. People were gathered in the library and cups of wine stood on the table; an easy target. What I can’t understand is how the dead man had a letter for me from the Bellman in his wallet?’ Corbett stared at a chicken which was pecking at the mud-packed floor.
‘And Appleston?’ Ranulf asked. ‘It must have been someone strong to keep that bolster over his face.’ Ranulf called across to the tapster to fill their blackjacks. ‘But who, Master, and why?’
‘According to Aristotle,’ Corbett replied, ‘man is naturally good. This confused your favourite philosopher Augustine: how could Man, who must be good if he is created by God, do evil?’
‘Did he resolve the problem?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Yes, Augustine did: he said that when a man sins, he is seeking a selfish good. He is in fact saying, evil be thou my good.’
‘And the Bellman is doing that?’
Corbett finished off his ale. ‘Perhaps? Anyway, enough theory, Ranulf. Let me reflect for a while.’
Corbett rose and walked into the yard behind the small ale house: he sat on a turf-built bench, staring into the oval-shaped carp pond as if fascinated by the fish. Ranulf let him be. He supped his ale and, making himself comfortable in a corner, dozed for an hour. He was woken by Corbett tapping his boot.
‘I am ready now.’
They returned to Sparrow Hall, where Corbett sought out Tripham.
‘Master Alfred, I would be most grateful if you could keep your colleague Churchley under close supervision. However, I must first have words with Lady Mathilda.’
Corbett, followed by a still-mystified Ranulf, climbed the stairs. A servant directed them to Lady Mathilda’s chamber at the far end of the gallery. Corbett knocked.
‘Come in!’
Lady Mathilda was seated by the hearth, a piece of embroidery on her lap, needle poised in mid-air. On a stool opposite sat Master Moth, his ghost-like face and watchful eyes reminding Corbett of an obedient lapdog.
‘Sir Hugh, how can I help?’
Lady Mathilda waved him to a chair. She dismissed Ranulf with a cursory glance.
‘Lady Mathilda.’ Corbett pointed to her writing desk. ‘I need to see Sir Walter Bullock urgently. If I could borrow pen and paper, would Master Moth take my message to the castle?’
‘Of course. Why, is there something wrong?’
‘You are the King’s spy at Sparrow Hall,’ Corbett replied, sitting down at the desk, ‘so, you should know before the others do; I believe that Master Churchley has a great deal to answer for as, perhaps, does his colleague Barnett.’
Corbett seized a quill, dipped it into the inkpot and wrote a short note asking the Sheriff to come as quickly as he could. He sanded the paper, folded and neatly sealed it with a blob of hot wax. Lady Mathilda made her strange hand signs to Master Moth who nodded solemnly.
‘The Sheriff may not be at the castle,’ Dame Mathilda pointed out.
‘Then ask Master Moth to wait until he returns. Lady Mathilda, I have some questions, which I believe you may be able to assist me with.’
Corbett watched and waited as Moth took the letter, knelt, kissed Lady Mathilda’s hand then quietly left the room. Once he was gone, Corbett locked and bolted the door behind him. Lady Mathilda looked up in alarm, placing the piece of embroidery on the small table beside her. Ranulf watched fascinated.
‘Is that really necessary, Sir Hugh?’ Lady Mathilda snapped.
‘Oh, I think so,’ Corbett replied. ‘I don’t want Master Moth coming back, Lady Mathilda, for I have never seen a man, anyone, being so close to a manifestation of someone else’s soul.’ Corbett sat down in the chair opposite and picked at the hem of his cloak. ‘On any other occasion, Lady Mathilda, I would have gone back to my chamber, written out my conclusions and reflected on what I should do. But I can’t do that here: with you, time is very dangerous!’
Lady Mathilda’s face remained impassive.
‘No one suspects you,’ Corbett continued, ‘old and venerable, resting on a cane. How could Lady Mathilda go out and stab someone in an alleyway or send a crossbow bolt into a man’s chest? Or place a bolster over Appleston’s face and keep it there?’
‘This is preposterous!’ Lady Mathilda protested.
‘No, it’s not preposterous,’ Corbett replied. ‘But, when you have someone like Master Moth to do your bidding for you...’
‘Foolish!’ Lady Mathilda cried. ‘Your brains are addled!’
‘Ah mea Passerella - my little sparrow - isn’t that what your brother called you so many years ago, Mathilda, when you and he fought for the King against de Montfort? You, by your own admission, were a royal spy in London where you collected the tracts and broadsheets of de Montfort’s followers and sent them to your brothers. “Per manus P.P.”’ Corbett watched Lady Mathilda’s pebble-black eyes. ‘I noticed that on the back of various tracts in the book I found in Appleston’s chamber was scrawled “Per manu P.P.” - “by the hand of his parva passera”: “little sparrow”, as your brother called you. I have been through the other books in the library,’ Corbett continued, ‘as Ascham did. ‘But, although you tried to remove any letters which betrayed your brother’s sweet epithet for you, his little sparrow, you missed one place.’ Corbett paused. ‘He had a book of the Lives of the Saints, in which Ranulf wanted to read about the life of Monica, mother of Augustine. The first saint to appear under ‘M’ was “Mathilda”’ and beside the name your brother had written “Soror mea, Passerella mea”: my sister, my little sparrow. Ascham knew that, didn’t he? And when he was dying, his mind confused, he tried to scrawl the word on a piece of parchment.’
‘Sir Hugh.’ Lady Mathilda picked up the piece of embroidery. She jabbed the needle as if it were a dagger. ‘Are you accusing me of being the Bellman? Of trying to tear down what my brother built? Are you saying that I - FEEBLED, resting on a cane - killed my colleagues here at Sparrow Hall?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, Lady Mathilda: that’s why I asked Master Moth to leave. In my note to Bullock, I wrote that he should keep Master Moth with him and take his time getting here. Master Moth is more dangerous than he loo
ks: the silent assassin. You don’t even need to make those strange gestures at him; he would know, just by watching your face, that you were in grave danger and act accordingly. By the time he returns with our good Sheriff I will be finished and you, Lady Mathilda, will be under arrest for high treason and murder.’
‘This is nonsense!’ Lady Mathilda spat back. ‘I am the King’s good friend. His most loyal subject.’
‘You were the King’s good friend and loyal subject,’ Corbett declared. ‘Now Lady Mathilda, your soul seethes with malice. You want revenge: revenge on the King; revenge on those here at Sparrow Hall who, when you die - and die you shall - will soon forget your brother’s memory, change the name of your precious Sparrow Hall and obtain royal confirmation of different statutes and regulations. In a way, the mad anchorite’s curse will be fulfilled.’
‘A witless harridan,’ Mathilda interrupted. ‘I should have dealt with her years...’ She paused and smiled.
‘You were going to say, Lady Mathilda?’
‘What proof?’ she asked quickly. ‘What proof do you have of this?’
‘Some. Enough for the Royal Justices to begin their questioning.’
Corbett studied this small, passionate woman. Years ago, at St Paul’s, a priest had attacked him in the confessional with a knife. Corbett knew that Lady Mathilda, despite her apparent frailty, was just as dangerous. Murder didn’t always need brute strength - just the will to carry it out.
‘I asked for proof, Sir Hugh?’
‘I’ll come to that by and by, Lady Mathilda. Let’s go back to the root and cause of it all, forty years ago when Henry Braose and his sister Mathilda decided to support the King. Both of them were skilled, ruthless and determined. Henry was a brave soldier and Mathilda, who adored her brother as if he were God himself, was also accomplished: a woman of great cunning and deception, well versed in writing and reading, she acted as the King’s spy in London. She and her brother were opportunists with the ambition of eagles, to climb and soar as high as they could. The only obstacle was de Montfort. Glorious days, eh, Mathilda? While Henry fought with the King, you spied upon the King’s enemies. God knows how many men paid with their lives for trusting you.’
Lady Mathilda smiled but she bowed her head and continued to sew.
‘At Evesham it all ended,’ Corbett continued. ‘De Montfort’s defeat was final and the Braoses came forward to collect their reward: land, tenements, treasure and the King’s personal favour. Men like de Warrenne and de Lacey were content just to grab and hold, but not the Braoses. Brother and sister shared a dream - to found a college, a Hall in Oxford.’
Lady Mathilda looked up. ‘Golden years, Sir Hugh. But those who gambled and won ...?’
‘You, Lady Mathilda, were the source of your brother’s energy and ambition. He shared everything with you, didn’t he?’
Lady Mathilda gazed back unblinkingly.
‘And you ensured that his dream was fulfilled. Land was bought here and across the lane, people were cleared out, and your lavish treasure was spent on building Sparrow Hall.’
‘It was our right,’ Lady Mathilda intervened. ‘Those who bear the sweat of the plough have every right to reap the harvest.’
‘And so you did,’ Corbett replied. ‘Your brother’s dream became a reality. But, towards the end of his life, he began to regret his avaricious acquisitions. Your brother died and, to your fury, you realised that what he had built had passed into the hands of others who wanted Sparrow Hall to break from the past. The King, your old master and friend, was no longer concerned, was he? There were no more grants, no more preferment. And the Masters here not only wanted to forget your brother, but heartily wished you elsewhere.’
‘You’ve still not mentioned any proof!’
‘Oh, I’ll come to that by and by. What I want to establish -’ Corbett rose and pulled his chair closer ‘- is why you did it? I think I know the reason. Like a child, Lady Mathilda, you felt that others should not possess what you could not have. You decided to destroy what you and your brother built up and, in so doing, waged a terrible war against your former friend the King. Revenge was your motive, the evil you called your good!’
Chapter 14
Corbett looked at Ranulf, who just stood with his back to the door, arms crossed, staring down at the floor. There was no excitement, none of his usual desire to participate in the questioning. Corbett hid his unease.
‘Are you going to tell me the rest?’ Lady Mathilda broke in, ‘Or should I pass you a piece of embroidery, Sir Hugh, so you can help me?’
‘I will weave you a tale,’ Corbett retorted, ‘of treason and bloody murder. Full of malice, Lady Mathilda, and angry at the King’s lack of support, you sat and brooded. You, above all, know the nightmares which haunt our King’s soul. You chose your tune and played it skilfully. You studied that book I found in dead Appleston’s chamber: all the old claims and challenges of de Montfort and his party. You became the Bellman.’
‘And, if I did, why should I name Sparrow Hall?’
‘Oh, that was the heart of your plot - to teach the King a lesson, never to forget you or Sparrow Hall. The crisis began: at the same time, you offered yourself as a spy to the King.’
‘And what did I hope to gain?’
‘Royal attention. Perhaps the removal of certain Masters who had plans to change the name and status of the Hall. To create suspicion and distrust, to strengthen your hand here.’
‘And I suppose I just slipped out of Sparrow Hall to post my proclamations on church doors?’
‘Of course not. Your servant did that - the ever silent Master Moth. I have seen where your chamber is positioned, it would be easy for him to slip out of a window, cross the yard and over the wall.’
‘But Master Moth can’t read or write.’
‘Oh, I think he was perfect for your plans,’ Corbett replied. ‘He’s young, able and vigorous. He could steal like a shadow along the streets and lanes of Oxford. And if he wanted to, be dressed for the part, act the beggar...’
‘Whatever he is, Sir Hugh, he still cannot read or write!’
‘Of course he can’t: that’s why you drew the bell at the top of each proclamation. He would understand that, and know where to pierce it with a nail.’ Corbett paused. ‘Every proclamation had the same symbol: each proclamation was pinned through that symbol. I wondered why. Now I know the reason.’
Corbett was pleased to see he had gained Lady Mathilda’s attention: her needle no longer stabbed the piece of embroidery.
‘Murder is like any game,’ Corbett continued. ‘As in chess, you begin the game and you plan your moves. I doubt if your mind was bent on murder at first: more on catching the King’s eye and getting your own way here at Sparrow Hall... until Ascham became suspicious, God knows why or how? He was your brother’s friend. He, too, remembered the tracts and writings of de Montfort’s faction. He knew you were a trained clerk.’ Corbett pointed to her stained fingers. ‘That’s why you snatched your fingers away when I tried to kiss them once. A busy scribbler, eh, Lady Mathilda? Ascham was perceptive. He knew the Bellman was in Sparrow Hall with ready access to de Montfort’s writings. Perhaps he voiced those suspicions? And so you decided to kill him. On the afternoon he died, you were with Tripham - or so you said - but I suspect you murdered Ascham before you met the Vice-Regent. You, and Master Moth, had to move quickly before Ascham’s suspicions hardened into certainty. You went down into the deserted garden and there, hidden by the line of bushes, you and Moth committed dreadful murder. Moth tapped on the shutters, and when Ascham peered through, he did not see him as any danger and so opened. But you were there, as well, hidden beneath the sill or to the side. Anyway, you killed him with a crossbow bolt and then threw in that piece of parchment. Ascham, his mind drifting, tried to write down the name of his murderer with his own blood on that same scrap of parchment. He was still thinking about Henry Braose and Mathilda, his sister, the “Parva Passera”. He never finished.’
; Corbett glanced towards Ranulf who was staring at Lady Mathilda. Corbett hoped Moth would not return though he was confident that, if he did, Moth would be no match for Ranulf. Corbett wetted his lips.
‘Now, as in a game of chess, mistakes can occur when you make your moves. Ascham should have died immediately: however, you seized on his dying message as a stroke of good fortune - Passerel would take the blame. But then you started to brood: Ascham and the bursar had been friends, perhaps Ascham had voiced his suspicions about you to Passerel. So you arranged for a little legacy to be handed over to David Ap Thomas and his students, and the rest was easy. They blamed Passerel and he fled for sanctuary, but you knew the King was sending one of his clerks to Oxford, and that Passerel must not have the chance to talk with me. So, out went Master Moth with a jug full of poisoned wine and Passerel was no longer a danger. I know it was Master Moth, for when he entered St Michael’s by the side door, the anchorite saw him hit his leg against the iron boot bar but he did not cry out. Being a deaf mute, Moth would simply have to bear the pain.’
‘And Langton?’ Lady Mathilda asked.
‘Before I left for Oxford,’ Corbett replied, ‘I hanged an outlaw called Boso. Before I sentenced him to death, I asked him why he killed? His answer had its own strange logic: “If you have killed once,” he replied, “the second, the third and all other murders follow on easily enough.” You, Lady Mathilda, have a great deal in common with Boso. You are the Bellman, the avenger of all the insults over the years. You would carry out sentence of death against those Masters who had dared even to consider changing the Hall founded by your beloved brother. At the same time, you would prick the King’s conscience.’
Lady Mathilda smiled and put the embroidery on the side table.
‘You talked of chess, Sir Hugh. I enjoy a good game: you must visit me some day and play against me.’
The Devil's Hunt (A Medieval Mystery Featuring Hugh Corbett) Page 21