Hugh Corbett 06 - Murder Wears a Cowl (21 page)

Corbett looked at his dishevelled manservant.

‘Well, you need a wash and I need something to eat and drink. So, for a while, it’s back to The Golden Turk to sit and take stock.’ He squeezed his servant’s arm. ‘Oh, by the way, I am grateful for you going down the tunnel. I may have gone in but I doubt if I would have returned.’

Ranulf was about to make some mischievous reply when, suddenly, Lady Mary Neville appeared, her black hair falling loose under her blue veil as she ran breathlessly towards them.

‘Sir Hugh, Master Ranulf, what is the matter?’

The young widow stopped in front of them, her face slightly red, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

‘What is happening?’ she repeated. ‘There are soldiers all over the abbey. They say some of the brothers have been arrested! Have you found the killer, Sir Hugh?’

Corbett took the young woman’s small, white hand in his, lifted it and brushed it softly with his lips.

‘Oh, more than that, Lady Mary. But for the moment, let the gossips have their way.’ He bowed and moved on, Ranulf trotting enviously behind him.

‘Oh, Master Ranulf!’

Corbett deliberately walked on as Ranulf stopped and returned to Lady Neville.

‘Yes, Lady Mary?’

The young widow looked at him coyly. She lifted her hand and Ranulf, with a flourish which would have been the envy of any courtier, caught it and raised it to his lips. The young woman laughed, withdrew her hand, turned and walked swiftly away. Only then did Ranulf realise she had pressed a small gold amulet into his hand with the phrase ‘Amor vincit omnia – Love conquers all’ inscribed on it. Ranulf gazed after her, speechless with amazement, until the roars of Master ‘Long Face’ shook him from his golden reverie.

After their journey down river, Corbett went into the tavern whilst Ranulf stayed to wash himself in the water butts near the horse trough. By the time he rejoined his master, the landlord was serving two bowls of hot spiced lamb and chunks of meat, roasted on a spit, floating in a thick gravy with onions, leeks and other vegetables. Corbett had bought a small jug of wine, the best the house could provide, and as he filled their cups commended Ranulf for his bravery, until his servant blushed crimson with embarrassment.

‘Do you think we’ve reached the end of the story, Master?’ Ranulf said trying to divert the conversation away from his own achievements.

‘I don’t know. What do we have here, Ranulf? Mischievous monks and a subtle thief who has stolen the royal treasure. These things we can prove but what is more difficult, is to make the logical leap and link the debauchery in the abbey with the robbery of the royal treasure house and then with the deaths of those poor prostitutes in London, not to mention the murder of poor Lady Somerville and Father Benedict.’ Corbett scraped his bowl clean with his horn spoon, then wrapped the spoon in a napkin and put it back in his pouch. ‘Everything we know seems to prove there is a link, but a good lawyer would demonstrate we have fashioned a net with as many holes as it has cords. Moreover, we do not know who the thief is.’

‘It must be Puddlicott?’

‘Oh, yes, we think it is; we
know
it is. You know; I know. We are all very knowledgeable,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Yet we have no proof. Who is Puddlicott, where is Puddlicott? We can’t even answer these questions.’ He picked up his wine cup and held it, gently rocking it to and fro. ‘Above all, we do not know who the
murderer
is.’ He took a generous swig of wine, and his servant glanced at him curiously – Corbett was known for his sobriety.

‘You are anxious, Master?’

‘Yes, Ranulf, I am anxious because when the King asks me to account, I’ll describe the problems but offer few solutions.’

‘You discovered the treasury was robbed.’

‘The king won’t give a fig for that. He will be more interested in getting his treasure back and hanging the bastard who stole it. No, no.’ Corbett loosened his tunic round his neck. ‘It’s the murders which fascinate me and I have two nightmares, Ranulf. First, are the murders connected to the abbey? And, secondly, are we talking of two or even three murderers? The prostitutes’ killer, the murderer of Lady Somerville and the silent assassin of Father Benedict.’

‘You have forgotten one thing, Master. Amaury de Craon, that cunning bastard must have some hand in all this dirt.’

Corbett looked sharply at Ranulf. His servant’s words jogged a memory and he realised he had forgotten all about his French opponent.

‘Of course,’ he breathed. ‘Amaury de Craon. Look, Ranulf, have you finished? Good! Then go to Cock Lane.’ He shook his head at the smile on his manservant’s face. ‘No, no, keep your lusts to yourself. I want you to stand outside the apothecary’s shop and search out a little beggar boy dressed in rough sacking. Take him to Gracechurch Street and tell him to keep a sharp eye on the house of the Frenchman. If anything untoward happens, such as an unexpected visitor or busy preparations for departure, the boy is to come and leave a message at my house in Bread Street.’

Ranulf agreed and hurried off. Corbett finished the rest of the wine and, feeling rather flushed and slightly sleepy, left the tavern and made his way to the main gateway of the Tower. He showed his warrants to the guards on duty, crossed the moat, went under successive arches and into the inner wards which surrounded the four-square central donjons, or White Tower. The clerk was challenged as he approached each gateway but, on producing the King’s writ, was allowed to proceed. At last he reached the inner bailey, quiet in the early summer heat though Corbett could see that building works in the Tower were now underway again as the King feared a French landing in Essex or even on the Thames estuary. Bricks were stacked around huge kilns, sand and gravel were piled high, and thick oaken beams lay in lopsided heaps.

The Tower was a village in itself, with rows of stables, dovecotes, open-fronted kitchens, barns and hen coops all huddled along the inner walls. A small orchard stood in one corner next to the wooden and plaster houses of the Officers of the Tower. Corbett passed huge mangonels and battering rams being prepared and was half-way across the green to the White Tower when he was challenged by a burly-faced officer. The fellow was still trying to read Corbett’s warrant when Limmer suddenly appeared and hurriedly intervened.

‘Sir Hugh,’ he announced, ‘the interrogation has begun.’ He shook his head. ‘But, so far, we have learnt little.’

He beckoned Corbett forward, leading him down a steep row of steps cut into the side of the White Tower and into a dungeon at the base of one of the turrets. Corbett shivered: the place was low-roofed, cold and damp and, despite the daylight, torches had been lit and were now spluttering against the darkness. He could smell the damp earth beneath his feet mingling with the stench of smoke, charcoal, sweat and fear. The chamber was bare of all furniture except for great iron braziers clustered together at each end. Chains and manacles hung on the walls but the clerk’s eyes were drawn to a small recess and the macabre group standing there. As Corbett approached, he glimpsed the torturers: men stripped to their waists, scraps of cloth wrapped around their foreheads to keep the sweat from running into their eyes. Their bodies glistened as if covered in oil and they lovingly stood over the braziers, pushing in and out long rods of iron, the handles wrapped in cloth to protect their hands. One of the torturers lifted a rod out, blew the red hot tip and moved to the shadowy recess. The fellow muttered something then Corbett heard a scream. He moved closer and saw that Adam of Warfield, Brother Richard and William the Steward had all been stripped of everything except their breeches, their outstretched hands being manacled to the wall. The torturer whispered something, then grunted and the iron was placed on a body that jerked in terror, the chains drumming against the wall. Another iron was placed, more whispers from a scribe sitting on a small stool keeping a faithful record of what was said. A curse, a scream, a cry, and so the questioning continued. Corbett turned away.

‘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?’