by Paul Doherty
Corbett climbed back to his chamber and poured himself a generous cupful of wine. He sat on the edge of his bed holding the goblet between his hands, now and again taking deep draughts as he tried to control the trembling in his body and calm his churning stomach. He felt he might disgrace himself and vomit due to a mixture of fear and relief at his unexpected deliverance from death. The darkness drew in and Corbett, now fearful of the night, lit the candles. He refilled the goblet and collected his thoughts; the assassin had been sent by someone, undoubtedly one of the priests of St Paul's. Corbett realized he must be close to the solution of the mystery, or else the assassin would never have been sent. Once again he wondered what he had learnt but had so far misunderstood. He looked down at the goblet and swirled the wine around absent-mindedly. Suddenly, like an arrow speeding out of the darkness, Corbett knew what he had missed. He became so excited he refilled his cup, took five or six deep draughts and swirled the lees of the drink around the cup before replenishing it again. He now remembered what he had seen on the high altar the day de Montfort had died and, at the same time, remembered the stain on the cope in the cupboard in the sacristy. He would have liked to have returned to St Paul's but realized that the people he wanted to question had probably left. Moreover, the rapid gulps of wine were making their presence felt. He was tired, sleepy, so he extinguished the candle, bolted the door and sat in the darkness trying to calm the excited beating of his heart.
In St Paul's Sir Philip Plumpton was likewise excited. It had first begun while singing vespers in the choir. He had intoned the responsorial verses along with the other canons, letting his mind drift back to the events earlier in the day. He gazed up into the sanctuary, recalling how he had laid out the chalice, patens, monstrances, cruets and candles for Corbett. He remembered every item and how the altar had looked after de Montfort's death. – That was his job and Sir Philip was proud of how carefully he had replicated matters for that sanctimonious clerk. Even minor details like the cruets. Sir Philip stopped his mindless chanting. No, he had forgotten something. He gasped in surprise. 'No,' he murmured to himself. 'It had been the same as on the morning de Montfort had died but it shouldn't have been. Oh, no!'
Sir Philip's excitement was such that he dropped the book from which he was chanting the responses and, gazing around apologetically, stooped down to pick it up. He continued the divine service but with his mind on the murderer's flawed plan. Had Corbett realized it? And if he told the clerk what would happen?
During the meal in the refectory of the chapter-house Sir Philip's excitement grew so much that he could hardly eat. He was nervous, agitated, refusing food but drinking deeply, so he drew the curious glances of his colleagues though he would not be drawn. He could hardly wait to gabble through compline, not bothering, as was his wont, to stay in the cathedral to pray and reflect on the day's events. Sir Philip was not a bad man but one always in a hurry and that night more than most. Alone in the chamber, still obsessed with his discovery, he heard a knock on the door.
'Come in,' he called and turned back to his desk, pen in hand as he prepared to write his thoughts down on a piece of parchment. If Sir Philip had turned, perhaps he would have lived. However, so immersed was he in his own thoughts that he let the visitor into his chamber – allowing Death to wrap the cord round his neck, pull it dght and, after a few gasping, throttling seconds, Sir Philip's life was extinguished as quickly and as effortlessly as the murderer licked his fingers and doused the candles in the chamber.
14
Corbett was up early the next morning, the fears, anxieties and tremblings of the previous evening quite gone. The wine had soothed his nerves and Corbett was intent on resolving the mystery of de Montfort's death once and for all. It had hung around his neck like a whetstone and he was angry at how his blindness had kept him caught like some criminal in the stocks. He roused Ranulf and questioned the sleepy servant on what he had done the previous evening, satisfying himself that the ward's watch had been notified of the assassin's death and the body taken away. Corbett then roughly instructed Ranulf to follow him to St Paul's and, ignoring his servant's grumbles and muttered protests about the base ingratitude of certain masters, especially high-ranking clerks from the Chancery, bundled him out of the door. Ranulf protested meekly at the lack of breakfast so they stopped at a baker's stall and bought a fresh, hot loaf, which Corbett thrust into Ranulf's hands, telling him to eat as they walked along.
The morning mist was beginning to lift and a faint sun was already making its presence felt when they entered the deserted courtyard of St Paul's. They found the cathedral locked, but the chapter-house was in uproar.
The Scotsman, Ettrick, solemnly informed them of what had happened. The canons had risen at dawn to sing divine office and heard the terrible news that Sir Philip Plumpton had been brutally murdered, the wire of the garrotte still round his throat. Corbett closed his eyes and murmured a quiet requiem for the fat, rather silly priest's soul, now going to meet its maker. Corbett allowed the Scotsman to take him up to the dead priest's chamber on the second storey of the chapter-house. Corbett gave Plumpton's poor corpse a cursory examination: the priest's eyes were still wide open, little attempt having been made to remove the horror and shock of death. Corbett crossed himself and, turning, asked Ettrick if he could question certain servants. He brushed aside the Scotsman's protests, insisting such an interrogation was essential and should be done immediately. The clerk secretly hoped he was not talking to the murderer but, even if he was, this might only hasten matters and perhaps help flush the assassin out into the open.
The servants named were brought to him and ruthlessly questioned; Corbett took them back to the days after de Montfort's death. Who had approached them? Who had assigned their duties? When he had satisfied himself, Corbett told them to leave the cathedral and not to return for at least four days. He gave the two servants in question three silver coins, to buy their silence and arrange their swift departure from the cathedral precincts. After which, Corbett, with Ranulf in tow, quietly left St Paul's for a nearby tavern. Corbett, armed with sword, dagger and a mail shirt hidden beneath his tunic, was confident that de Montfort's murderer would not try an assassination attempt so soon after the failure of the first. Provided he stayed with the crowd and away from solitary places, Corbett felt safe. In the tavern he surprised Ranulf with his generosity, ordering the best ale and food the place could serve. Once his servant had eaten Corbett asked him to find a young friend, an acquaintance and bring him to the tavern as soon as possible. The servant looked at his strange master and was about to protest, but one look at Corbett's stern face and hard eyes convinced him it would be useless.
The clerk had to wait for at least two hours before
Ranulf returned. The young man he brought was personable enough for Corbett's uses. The fellow introduced himself as Richard Tallis but Corbett, brushing aside his friendly greetings, entrusted him with a message: he was to go to the Cathedral of St Paul's and seek out a certain priest Corbett named and ask if that priest would be kind enough, before vespers, to hear the confession of someone who believed he had committed a terrible sin and wanted to confess it to him alone. Tallis looked surprised and Corbett thought he was about to protest but, after two gold coins had exchanged hands, Richard promised he would do his utmost and, unless Corbett heard to the contrary, everything would happen as arranged.
For the rest of the afternoon Corbett stayed in the tavern replenishing his drink as he carefully went over what he had learnt in the last few days. Corbett believed he had found the murderer of de Montfort, the would-be regicide, the slayer of Plumpton and the man who had attempted to kill him by proxy the previous evening. Corbett felt as satisfied as he ever would in this world that he had uncovered the truth, but believed it would be futile to confront the culprit with his evidence. Better to allow the man to confess his own guilt and thus meet his just rewards.
The hours seemed to drag but at last Corbett gauged the time had come fo
r him to return to St Paul's. Ranulf, who had spent the afternoon wandering in and out of the tavern on a number of minor errands, was asked to go with him. His servant, of course, agreed willingly, for he sensed that his master was close to the kill. Ranulf knew Corbett, with his own devious sly ways, was about to bring a murderer to justice and he, who hated the fat priests and their grasping hypocritical ways, fully intended to see matters reach their climax. Corbett, however, insisted that although Ranulf was to accompany him into the cathedral, he was to stay in the background.
St Paul's was empty when they entered. Because of winter, business finished early in the afternoon and the place was so cold that few people bothered to linger longer than necessary. Corbett went up to the confessional, the place where the priest would sit and shrive the sins of those seeking repentance. It was really a wooden trellis screen attached to a pillar. The priest sat on one side with his back to it, while the penitent would knee on a small wooden stool on the other. Corbett knelt and waited. He heard a sound from far beyond the sanctuary, a door opening and closing and the soft slithering sound of a man walking towards the screen. The priest sat down murmuring the 'In nomine Patris' followed by the 'benedicte' and quietly invited Corbett to begin his confession. The clerk, in a whisper to disguise his voice, began with the usual ritual.
'Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.' Corbett stated the last time he had been shriven and mentioned a number of sins, those which immediately sprung to mind and, even though he was in danger, Corbett smiled wryly as he realized that most of his offences were either lustful thoughts or anger towards Ranulf. He heard the priest stir angrily at being called out to absolve such minor offences. So Corbett, steeling himself, his hands now dropping to the hilt of his dagger, began the most dreadful confession he had ever made.
'Father, I know a murderer, the name of the man,' he continued hurriedly, 'who has killed two men, plotted to murder the king, the Lord's anointed, and has tried to murder someone else.' The priest stirred but Corbett continued remorselessly. 'Father, what am I to do? In justice, should I keep this information to myself? Or should I hand it over to the authorities?'
The priest turned towards the screen.
'No, Master Corbett,' Robert de Luce hissed through the screen. 'You have come to the right place.'
In the faint light of the cathedral, Corbett stared through the holes of the lattice screen at de Luce's hard, angry eyes. He sensed the man was mad, not witless like some fool in the streets, but a man driven to insanity by hate. The look of malice in de Luce's eyes was something tangible. Corbett felt sudden dread, and wondered whether this dramatic confrontation of the murderer was the wisest possible course of action.
'I have come,' Corbett said, dropping all pretence, 'to tell you what I know. To ask you to confess to what is true. You, Robert de Luce, treasurer of the Cathedral of St Paul's, the senior canon in this church, murdered Walter de Montfort during the sacrifice of the mass, attempted to murder me because I was near the truth and certainly killed Philip Plumpton because he too discovered it. I also believe deep in my heart, though I cannot prove this, that you intended to murder His Grace the King: the poisoned chalice was meant for him.'
'And how do you know all this, my clever clerk?' de Luce rasped.
'The chalice,' Corbett replied, 'first went to those on the Dean's right, de Eveden and Ettrick, before being passed on de Montfort's left to Plumpton, yourself and Blaskett. You knew de Eveden only pretended to drink the wine so enough would be left to disguise the poison you sprinkled as you grasped the chalice after Blaskett had drunk. And who would glimpse this sleight of hand? Your colleagues had just taken the sacrament and would stand heads bowed, eyes closed. Logic dictates either you or Plumpton was the poisoner. Plumpton's dead so it has to be you. You forgot one thing: the Hostiam pacis – the kiss of peace. De Montfort had to offer the chalice to the king and, before doing so, drink from it again. This is where your plot to slay the king went wrong. De Montfort drank the poisoned chalice and immediately fell dead. In the confusion you took de Montfort's chalice and, under your chasuble, dashed the lees of the poisoned wine onto your own garments. It wouldn't be much. After all, five men had drunk from it -de Montfort twice. The chalice bowl was small, it would contain little wine. Yet when I went up to the altar, after de Montfort's death, I found the chalice almost full. I suggest, Sir Priest, that after you dashed the chalice against your cope, you seized a cruet and refilled the chalice with wine. Actually, you needed only to put in a few drops, but, of course, you filled it too full. Yesterday Sir Philip Plumpton realized that the chalice was full when it should have been empty, and, secondly, that there was no wine left in the cruet. Of course there wasn't – you had poured what was left into de Montfort's chalice!'
De Luce sniggered. 'Very clever. But surely there would have been a trace of poison in the chalice?'
'Oh, yes, but you made sure it was gone. Beneath your chasuble, in the confusion following de Montfort's death, you wiped the chalice completely clean. Only it left a stain on both the chasuble and alb. I saw them when I met you and the other canons in the sacristy. After Sir Philip's death it was simply a matter of interrogating the two laundresses who work here. They told me that in the afternoon of the same day de Montfort died, you gave them an alb to clean, giving them strict instructions to remove all stains. The chasuble you ignored: it is too heavy to clean, such stains were commonplace and no one could really prove they had been acquired when you wore it at that fatal mass. The alb was different. Isn't it strange, priest, that in your arrogance, you never thought of washing it yourself? Mind you,' Corbett continued, 'there were other signs. The drops of poisoned wine on the altar frontal. They were still there after you dashed the wine under your chasuble. Finally, the wine on the carpet, to the left of where de Montfort had stood. In your haste to refill the chalice after de Montfort's death, some wine had fallen on the ground. It must have been spilt then. You know Canon Law, and de Montfort was a rigid disciplinarian. If consecrated wine had been spilt during mass there would have been an elaborate ritual to clean it up afterwards.'
'Is that all, Clerk?' de Luce hissed.
'Oh, no,' Corbett replied. 'You hoped that once de
Montfort was dead, the dean's scandalous private life would cloud the identity of his murderer. You even tried to pass the blame on to other people. De Montfort, ever the boastful man, had declared that the king had sent him a pannikin of wine. Once you had refilled the chalice, and while de Montfort's body was being taken to the sacristy for anointment by Blaskett, it was simply a matter of slipping up to de Montfort's room, poisoning the wine and, under your heavy ceremonial cope, bringing it down to the small vestry in the sacristy. I am right, am I not, Sir Priest?'
'Oh, you are, Clerk,' de Luce replied, his eyes glittering with malice behind the screen.
'Only one problem remains, de Luce,' Corbett snapped – 'why?'
De Luce cocked his head to one side as if this was a real problem. 'Oh, it is quite easy,' he said in a sing-song whisper. 'You see, I did not intend de Montfort to die, though I did not mourn his death, but our beloved king was a different matter. You see, Corbett, have you ever lost someone you loved? I did. I had a brother. I loved him more than any other person in the world. I do not know if you have studied my background, Corbett. Perhaps you will and will find I was born in Flanders. I came here and was promoted in the English king's service. Edward himself offered me the benefice here and, in doing so, I extended the royal favour to my own brother. A merchant, he came over to England, expanded his business and, because of Edward's involvement in Scodand, went to Berwick. He was there, in the Red House, when Edward put it to the sack as if he was some new Attila or Genghis Khan. My brother died, so did his pleasant-faced, innocent wife,' de Luce's voice cracked under the strain, '… their lovely children. You see, Corbett, the king had to pay for these murders. No one gave him the right to sack cities. No one gave him the right to slay an innocent man, a beloved brother, his wife
and young children just because the burgesses of Berwick were stupid enough to hold out longer than they should have done. When I heard the news I resolved that Edward should die. Not quietly. But in the open. In the sight of the Church, of Edward's parliament, and in the eyes of God, if there is one. Edward would fall dead and my brother's death would be avenged.' De Luce picked at the screen absent-mindedly with his finger, a half smile on his lips, a faraway look in his eyes. Corbett felt afraid. The man was completely mad but hid it under a mask of cold reasonableness.
'You see, Corbett, I had forgotten that de Montfort would drink from the chalice again. If that fool Ettrick had not reminded him, my plan would have worked and de Montfort would have been blamed. Men would have seen it as proof that the de Montfort family had not forgotten their persecution at the hands of King Edward. But,' he shrugged as if it was a matter of little importance, 'de Montfort did drink it again and my plan was thwarted. But then I saw further possibilities. If I wanted men to believe that de Montfort had killed the king, why should not the king kill de Montfort during the sacrifice of the mass? The scandal, the blasphemy, the sacrilege, would weaken Edward in the eyes of everyone in Western Christendom, not only in England.'
Corbett watched de Luce intently and saw the madness in the priest's eyes.
'You are right,' the priest continued smoothly. 'Everything was confusion after de Montfort collapsed. It was simply a matter of going to the altar, as if to arrange certain items, and pick the chalice up. I lifted my chasuble and dashed what was left of the wine against my alb, rubbing it clean before refilling it. Nobody would notice and, if they did, I would have some satisfactory explanation. I thought it would work until your interfering questions began but, even then, I thought I was safe. After all no one loved de Montfort. His whore had been present at mass. Blaskett and de Eveden feared him, Plumpton envied him and, of course, dear Ettrick, the Scotsman, he was the one who reminded de Montfort to drink the wine a second time.' De Luce now looked directly at Corbett. 'And you, with your meddling ways! And your half-finished questions. By all rights you know,' de Luce continued conversationally, 'you should be dead now. I knew Plumpton had deduced something. The fat fool's excitement last night convinced me that the farce you made him go through yesterday morning had awakened his usually dormant brain and fitful memory. So I killed him.'