Hugh Corbett 06 - Murder Wears a Cowl (13 page)

‘Don’t go!’ Corbett called.

Ranulf seized the man by the shoulder. The beggar whimpered; his twisted, lined face contorted into a pitying plea.

‘For pity’s sake, let me go!’ he cried. ‘I am a poor beggar man!’

Corbett came up and crouched before him. He stared into the bright half-mad eyes, noting the unshaven cheeks and jaw, the lines of saliva from toothless gums running down either side of the mouth.

‘You come here every night, don’t you?’

The fellow still tugged at Ranulf’s hand.

‘We mean you no harm.’ Corbett added soothingly. ‘Indeed.’ He stretched out his hand where some pennies and two silver coins caught the beggar’s eyes. The man relaxed and grinned.

‘You mean well,’ the fellow said. ‘You come to help old Ragwort.’

He sat rocking on his wooden slats and Corbett felt uneasy as if he was talking to someone half buried in the dark earth.

‘You mean me no harm,’ he repeated and Corbett saw the fellow’s dirty hand come up for the coins.

‘These are yours,’ Corbett whispered, ‘if you tell us what you saw.’

‘I sees visions,’ the beggar replied, more composed now, settling down as Ranulf released his grip. ‘I sees the devil walk. That’s why I hide with the dead. They protect me. Sometimes I talk to them. I tell them what I know, what I see and sometimes they talk to me. They say how sorry they are.’ The fellow grinned slyly. ‘Never alone am I. Even in winter.’ He pointed to the lights of St Bartholomew’s. ‘When the sun goes, so do I. I sleep in the cellars but I don’t see my visions there.’

‘And what did you see?’ Corbett persisted. ‘The night the old lady died?’

The fellow screwed up his eyes. ‘I forgets now.’

Coins exchanged hands.

‘Now I remember!’ he yelled, almost deafening Corbett with his shout.

‘Hush!’ Corbett raised a finger to his lips. ‘Just tell me, and the rest of the money is yours.’

Ragwort twisted his neck and nodded towards the scaffold. ‘I am sitting there talking to my friends.’

Corbett suddenly realised he meant the people hanging from the ropes.

‘When suddenly I hears footsteps and sees a figure coming out of the darkness. It’s the woman.’

‘Then what?’

‘I hears other footsteps.’

‘What did they sound like?’

‘Oh, heavy. The devil is heavy, you know.’

Corbett glanced in exasperation at Ranulf. The beggar was half mad and the clerk wondered how much of what he was saying was true and how much the product of a fevered imagination.

‘What happened then?’ he muttered.

‘I knows it’s the devil,’ the fellow repeated. ‘I wants to warn the woman but she stops. She looks back into the darkness and cries out, “Who is it?” The devil draws closer and the woman says, “Oh, it’s you”.’

‘Repeat that.’

‘The old woman says, “Oh, it’s you”.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘The devil draws near. I hear the slash of the knife and the devil has gone.’

‘What did the devil look like?’

‘Oh, he wore a cloak and great black sandals on gnarled feet.’

‘Sandals?’ Corbett exclaimed and looked at Ranulf. ‘One of our monkish friends!’

‘Oh, no!’ the beggar cried. ‘It was the Lord Satan for he flew off, his great bat wings beating the night air.’

Corbett sighed and handed the rest of the coins over.

‘Too good to be true,’ he murmured. ‘Come on, Ranulf, we’ve done enough!’

Corbett and Ranulf walked back through the darkened city to Bread Street. They found the household in turmoil. Maltote had returned and he and Ranulf fell on each other’s necks like long-lost brothers. Corbett, raising his eyes heavenwards, kissed Maeve and baby Eleanor now staring up at him, round-eyed in excitement, and went upstairs to his bedchamber. Maeve followed with a cup of wine and sat beside him on the bed.

‘It’s dark out there!’ Corbett said wearily. He looked at the lattice window. ‘Dark as hell,’ he added. ‘There’s something evil, nasty, brutish. Not human evil, not like de Craon who likes power, or Edward who wants to be seen as the new Justinian of the west!’ Corbett grasped his wife’s wrist. ‘You are never to go out by yourself, certainly not at night, not until this business is finished!’

Then he put the wine cup down and hugged his wife, kissing her gently on the neck but, when he looked up, the darkness still pressed against the window.

Corbett rose early the next morning, broke his fast in the buttery, told Griffin, who was stumbling about the kitchen, that he was not to be disturbed and went to his small writing office at the back of the house. He took out a small piece of parchment, smoothed it with pumice stone and began to list everything he knew.

First: sixteen prostitutes had been killed. One dying every month, usually on or around the thirteenth of the month. They were all killed in the same way: throats slit and bodies mutilated. Most had been killed in their own chambers, though the last one had been in a church. Corbett bit the end of his quill. What else did he know? According to Cade the victims were all young, more courtesans than common street-walkers. So why did the killer select just these rather than the old hags and raddled whores who slept in the stinking alleyways? Corbett threw back his head. If most were killed in their chambers they must have opened their doors, allowing their killer to get close, so it must be someone they trusted? And who could that be? Someone rich? A customer common to them all? Or a city official? Or a priest? Corbett scratched his brow. Yet Cade had reported that no one had seen anything. Who was this killer? Who could slip like the shadow of death, stab, hack and disappear like some demonic will-o-the-wisp? And why the thirteenth? Was it some Satanic feast? Was the date significant? And why just one a month? What motive was there? Corbett recalled Father Thomas’s words and shivered. He dipped his quill in the ink and continued writing.

Second: Lady Somerville’s death. She had been killed out in the open. If the mad beggar could be believed, and Corbett distrusted the fellow’s ramblings, Lady Somerville must have known her killer for she called out in the darkness to him. Did this provide any clue to the murderer? Again, Corbett was brought to the common denominator. Whom would Lady Somerville know? Whom would she stop for in the darkness? A priest? A monk? A city official? Someone from her own class? Someone she could trust?

Third: what did Lady Somerville mean by the phrase ‘the cowl does not make the monk’? Was this a reference to the double life of the killer? Was it the murderer she was talking about? Or did it refer to the private life of some priest or monk? Corbett bit his lip and shook his head. Lady Somerville could have been talking about some other scandal, perhaps something she had seen at Westminster? And was her murderer the same red-handed slayer of the prostitutes? Or someone else who wished to make it look that way?

Fourth: Father Benedict. What troubled him? Why did he send that cryptic message to Cade? Wasn’t it strange that Cade never managed to find him and discover the truth behind the priest’s concerns? And was Father Benedict’s murder linked to the death of the prostitutes?

Fifth: Richard Puddlicott? Was this master trickster involved in one of de Craon’s subtle schemes? Did this have anything to do with the deaths Corbett was investigating? Corbett leaned back in his chair, his mind whirling with the different possibilities.

‘How many mysteries here?’ he murmured to himself. ‘One, two or three? Are they separate or connected?’

‘Hugh!’

Corbett whirled round. Maeve, sleepy-eyed, stood in the doorway. She looked like a ghost in the white, woollen blanket wrapped round her. She tiptoed over and kissed him gently on the head.

‘You’re talking to yourself,’ she murmured.

‘I always do.’ He looked up at his wife. ‘Is Ranulf up and about?’

‘Sleeping like a pig, I heard him snoring from the foot of the stairs. He and Maltote were out last night. Don’t say anything, Hugh, but I think our Ranulf’s in love.’

Corbett smiled, though his stomach lurched.

‘Hugh, do you know who it is?’

‘No,’ he lied. ‘You know Ranulf, Maeve. His love-life is as intricate and complex as a piece of your embroidery.’

Maeve spun on her heel. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she called out over her shoulder, ‘Maltote brought me news. Dearest Uncle, the Lord Morgan, will be with us within a week!’

Corbett waited until the door closed behind her. ‘Oh, God,’ he sighed. ‘Ranulf loves the Lady Mary Neville and will do something foolish and Uncle Morgan will only make matters worse!’

‘I told you not to talk to yourself. So, it’s the Lady Mary Neville!’

Corbett spun round. ‘You fox!’ he shouted. ‘I thought you were gone!’

‘The Lady Mary Neville.’ Maeve’s eyes rounded. ‘I have heard of her. Ranulf aims high. Who knows,’ she slipped behind the door before Corbett could throw something, ‘next he will be wooing some Welsh princess!’

Corbett smiled and went back to his notes. He remembered his conversation with Cade and angrily scratched his head. He had searched for a pattern but, if there was one, why did it break down? He picked up his quill.

Corbett shivered. Was Cade correct? Was there really a pattern? Or were they hunting one, two or even three killers?

An hour later a disgruntled, uneasy Corbett left the house quietly vowing he would have words with Ranulf who was still sleeping off the after-effects of last night’s drinking. Maeve was now engrossed in the preparations for ‘dear’ Uncle’s arrival and Corbett was determined to untangle the web of mysteries confronting him. He crossed the thronged marketplace of West Cheap, stopping to enquire from the beadles of any news in the city, but they shook their heads.

‘Nothing, sir.’ was the reply. ‘A house was broken into in Three Needle Street, two rogues armed with catapults broke a window in Lothbury and a student from Oxford became drunk and played the bagpipes in Bishopsgate.’

Corbett smiled his thanks and moved on across into Wood Street then Gracechurch Street, dodging and moving aside as the timber merchants opened their stalls and prepared for a brisk day’s business. He asked directions from a loud-mouthed apprentice, the boy shook his head, shouting that he didn’t know where any Frenchman lived. A maid, carrying buckets of fresh water up from the Conduit, showed him the house de Craon had rented, a small, two-storied building, tightly wedged between two shops, dishevelled and rather crumbling. Corbett grinned to himself, the bells of the church were still ringing for the first Mass of the day and he hoped he was early enough to rouse de Craon from a peaceful sleep. He lifted the great brass door-knocker and brought it down with a crash then quickly repeated the action. He heard footsteps, the door was thrown open and de Craon appeared, fully dressed in a dark red cote-hardie and leather breeches pushed into soft black riding boots. His cunning, foxlike face gave Corbett the falsest of smiles.

‘My dear Hugh, we have been waiting for you.’ He clasped Corbett’s hand, holding it tightly between his. ‘Hugh, you look tired. Or should it be Lord Corbett?’ The Frenchman’s close-set, green eyes glittered with amused malice. ‘Oh, yes, we’ve heard the news. Come in! Come in!’

Corbett followed the man, who would love to kill him, into a small, downstairs chamber. The room was shabby; the rushes on the floor were dirty, the fire a pile of cold ash, the walls cracked and peeled and the chair de Craon pulled out from a table looked splintered and wobbled dangerously.

‘Sit down! Sit down!’

Corbett, ever watchful, accepted de Craon’s invitation whilst the Frenchman sat on the corner of a table swinging his legs. The clerk just wished the Frenchman would wipe that sly malicious smile off his face. De Craon clapped his hands.

‘Well, Hugh, is this a courtesy call? Oh,’ he leaned forward and touched Corbett on the hand, ‘I have met the Lady Maeve. Your daughter, she is beautiful. She takes after her mother. You want some wine?’

‘No!’

De Craon’s smile faded. ‘Fine, Corbett, what do you want?’

‘Why are you here, de Craon?’

‘I bring messages of courtesy and friendship from my master, the King of France.’

‘That’s a lie!’

De Craon glared at Corbett. ‘One of these days, Hugh,’ he said in a mock whisper. ‘One of these days I’ll make you choke on your insults!’

Now Corbett smiled. ‘Promises, promises, de Craon! You still haven’t told me why you are in England and why you tarry in London.’

De Craon stood up and walked to the other side of the table.

‘We have French merchants living here, they have interests which affect King Philip. You English are known for being hostile to foreigners.’

‘Then, de Craon, you should be careful!’

‘Oh, Hugh, I am and so should you. Where’s your shadow, Ranulf?’

‘At the top of the street,’ Corbett lied. ‘Sitting in a tavern with a group of royal archers waiting for me to return.’