Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle (37 page)

‘It was,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘I discovered a love poem that your father wrote as a farewell when he first entered the abbey.’

‘Did you?’ Perditus was now like a little boy. ‘Can I see it?’

‘Brother Francis?’ Corbett demanded.

‘Oh yes. He was kindly and studious but very much a busybody. I decided he should die quickly. He thought he was safe in the library but, during the day, I had loosened the shutter covering one of the arrow slit windows. That night, while the other monks were stuffing their faces, I took my bow and arrows and went towards the library. I rattled the shutter, removed it and strung my arrow. For a bowman, it was an easy target as Brother Francis had the light behind him. The rest you know.’ He grinned. ‘My eyesight’s better than I pretend.’

‘Didn’t you care?’ Brother Dunstan snarled.

‘Of course I cared, about my father. I would have taken you as well, you fat, lecherous monk! My father suspected your visits to the Lantern-in-the-Woods were not just on abbey business. Every day you should slump on your fat knees and thank God you are safe.’

Corbett glanced warningly at Ranulf. Perditus was enjoying himself. He hated these monks so much, he loved the taunting and the jibes describing how clever he was and the vengeance he had planned. But what would happen when it was all finished?

‘And the cat?’ Ranulf called out.

‘Oh, that was to emphasise the parallels with the Mandeville story,’ Perditus had now forgotten Dunstan. ‘I was sorry for the poor creature, but I had to test the powders I had taken from Aelfric. The cat died very quickly, and then I cut its throat, put it into a sack, with a hook tied to one of its legs by a piece of twine. The abbey church is full of shadows. I bided my time, slipped through the sacristry door and hung the cat up in the twinkling of an eye.’ He clapped his hands suddenly, making the monks jump. ‘You were all frightened, weren’t you?’

‘And the fire arrows?’

‘Again they came from the Mandeville story. I had to keep these monks on their toes. It was easy: a dish of burning charcoal and arrows dipped in tarred pitch. I slipped through the postern gate, knowing I would not be seen in the dead of night. I didn’t want anyone to forget. I didn’t want anyone to relax and think it was finished.’

‘That’s why you trapped us in the cellar, wasn’t it?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Yes,’ Perditus glanced sadly back. ‘I did warn you.’

‘Yes, you did,’ Corbett agreed. ‘You jammed the door to the Abbot’s lodgings that night. By the time I’d freed the wood and, as a new arrival at St Martin’s, found my way, you had left by a window. You were waiting for me behind that grille?’

‘I could tell, even then, you’d find the truth,’ Perditus sighed. ‘I didn’t really want to kill you but you moved fast, like a greyhound searching out its quarry, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards.’

‘You could have killed us in the cellar?’

‘True and the King’s anger would have blazed out against the Abbey of St Martin’s,’ Perditus smiled at Prior Cuthbert. ‘It will never be the same now. Corbett is going to report to the King. Oh, our prince will keep it secret, to protect my father’s name and that of Lady Margaret!’ He smirked. ‘However, I don’t think he’ll forget you, Prior Cuthbert! Your ambition to succeed as Abbot will never be realised.’

‘At least I’ll be alive!’

‘Stop it!’ Corbett interrupted. ‘You were frightened that we would discover the truth, Perditus.’

‘It was only a matter of time.’

‘But the fire?’ Richard the almoner spoke up. ‘I understand that when the fire broke out in the store room, Perditus was here, suffering from injuries.’

‘That was another defence.’ Corbett leaned forward. ‘Perditus had been a soldier and was used to knocks and bruises, so it wasn’t difficult to inflict them on himself. He’s also skilled in starting slow fires. I’ve seen the King’s men do the same: they take a long piece of heavy cloth and twist it into a rope. They smear it with tar and pitch, place one end in the building about to be destroyed, in a bucket of oil or something dry and combustible.’ Corbett paused. ‘You did inflict those cuts and bruises on yourself?’

‘A small price,’ Perditus retorted. ‘It gave me more time.’

‘Cuts and minor bruises,’ Corbett observed. ‘You then lit your oil-soaked rope and came hastening to me. I saw where you had practised,’ Corbett continued, ‘amongst the oak trees which ring Bloody Meadow.’

‘I had to make sure it would work,’ Perditus observed. ‘Do you know what I really planned? The death of every monk in this room.’ He pointed at the almoner. ‘You would not have escaped if it hadn’t been for that damnable vase! Oh, how I would have danced to view your corpse and this entire place in flames.’

‘You are mad,’ Cuthbert declared. ‘Wicked, steeped in sin.’

‘We truly are brothers in arms,’ Perditus jibed. ‘Given enough time I would have taken all your lives.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Snuffed them out like candle wicks!’

‘You really do believe you are lord of life and death?’ Corbett remarked. He noticed how Wallasby was sitting quiet and composed, a look of smug satisfaction on his face.

‘What do you mean?’ Perditus stamped his foot: that gesture alone warned Corbett. He was no longer dealing with a sane man. Perditus really saw himself as the Vengeance of God.

‘Do you consider yourself the reincarnation of Mandeville’s ghost?’ Corbett tried to keep the taunt out of his voice. ‘That you have become the lord of life and death in the Abbey of St Martin’s?’

Perditus looked puzzled.

‘You brand your victims,’ Corbett explained, ‘like a farmer would his cattle, marking his possessions – even dead they had to bear your imprint.’

‘Of course!’

‘Let us return to Taverner’s death,’ Corbett mused. ‘Why should you kill a man whom your father cherished and protected? A man who was going to help him in his study of demonology and provide the proof Abbot Stephen needed that an exorcism, a true exorcism, could take place?’

‘Taverner was a trickster. As you said, I eavesdropped on your conversation and overheard what he said. Taverner was a liar.’

‘But that’s not quite true, is it?’ Corbett declared. ‘This morning, after my return from Harcourt Manor, I visited Taverner’s chamber. I went inside, closed the door and stood where I had when I questioned the cunning man. Ranulf stayed outside. The doors and walls of this abbey are very thick. Ranulf could hear nothing, not even a murmur. If you
had
overheard Taverner, you would’ve rejoiced at what he said: the Cunning Man was not going to betray Abbot Stephen, he was going to help him.’

‘What are you saying?’ Prior Cuthbert demanded.

Corbett turned to Wallasby.

‘You really did hate Abbot Stephen, didn’t you?’

The Archdeacon swallowed hard, his smug smile had disappeared.

‘You were going to destroy him,’ Corbett continued, ‘and Taverner was your weapon. Perditus tried to eavesdrop on Taverner’s confession but couldn’t hear anything, whereas you, of course, knew the truth. Your treacherous plot had collapsed and Abbot Stephen was dead. You knew that, as a royal clerk, I would be reporting my findings to the King who would not be best pleased to learn that the Archdeacon of St Paul’s was involved in such trickery. But the only proof I had was Taverner.’

The Archdeacon scraped back his stool. Perditus, as if he was an accomplice, stretched out his hand, forcing him to stay still.

‘You’d sown the tempest,’ Corbett declared, ‘and now you had to reap the whirlwind. Instead of Abbot Stephen facing disgrace and humiliation, it was the turn of Adrian Wallasby, Archdeacon of St Paul’s.’

‘I didn’t . . .’

‘Oh, yes, you did,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘Taverner was a very dangerous man to you. He had been looking forward to a life of leisure at the Abbey of St Martin’s until his protector, Abbot Stephen, died. He could blackmail you. In fact, I suspect he already had. Amongst his possessions I found some silver and gold coins. The Abbot’s personal accounts showed no disbursements to Taverner, so that gold and silver came from you. You seized your chance when Abbot Stephen and Gildas had been murdered. It was clear that an assassin was loose amongst the monks so you thought one more death wouldn’t matter?’

‘You can’t prove anything!’ Wallasby regained his composure. ‘True, an arrow from my quiver was used but Perditus could have stolen it: he has already confessed to the crime.’

‘But he didn’t do it,’ Corbett replied. ‘You did. On the morning Taverner died, he took us down to the cellar to see the Abbot’s Roman mosaic. When we came back I met Perditus busy with some task. We walked a little further and then Taverner left us and was killed shortly afterwards. I have walked this abbey time and again, and this morning I measured the distances. No matter how athletic or nimble-footed Perditus might be, he could not possibly have gone to fetch a bow and arrows and return to lurk on that misty path. It was you, Archdeacon Wallasby. One well-aimed arrow and all the proof of your trickery, all the menaces Taverner could muster were silenced. Another death at St Martin’s, for which someone else could take the blame. No wonder you wanted to leave so urgently. Of course,’ Corbett concluded, ‘Perditus was glad Taverner was dead. In his own frenetic mind perhaps he believed he was responsible. You must have been relieved when Taverner’s forehead, as well as Hamo’s, was branded with the Mandeville mark.’

Perditus had now turned on his stool and was looking full at the Archdeacon, head slightly to one side. He glanced at Corbett, a puzzled look in his eye. The monks just sat shocked at the devastating revelations. The assassin was correct: these were broken men, monks who must bear some responsibility for the bloody events in this abbey.

‘Are you saying, Sir Hugh, that I did not kill Taverner? That this one was the culprit?’ Perditus tapped the Archdeacon’s hand. Wallasby removed it abruptly.

‘You can’t prove anything,’ Wallasby declared. ‘This man is the true assassin.’ His face turned ugly. ‘His hands should be bound like a common malefactor. He can be taken back to London and tried before the King’s Bench for murder, blasphemy and sacrilege. He’ll die at the Elms with the noose around his neck, face turning purple, feet kicking. A fitting end,’ he taunted, ‘for the son of our holy Abbot Stephen!’

‘Will I hang?’ Perditus asked, eyes rounded in consternation. ‘I am a cleric in holy orders.’

‘No, you are not!’ Wallasby jibed. ‘You are a—’

Corbett sensed the coming danger but it was too late. Perditus, taunted by Wallasby’s jibes, abruptly sprang to his feet. He picked up the stool and threw it at Corbett. The clerk moved sideways so that the stool crashed behind him. Wallasby was not so quick. Perditus drew a dagger from the sleeve of his gown and sliced the Archdeacon deeply across the neck, from underneath his right ear up under his chin. The Archdeacon sat slightly forward, hands to his wound, the blood pouring out between his fingers. Ranulf leapt to his feet but Perditus was already across the chamber. He knocked Brother Dunstan aside and, before the almoner could intervene, had seized the surprised Prior Cuthbert round the neck, pushing the dagger up under his chin.

‘Stand back!’

Ranulf looked at Corbett who shook his head. The clerk knew he had made a mistake. Perhaps he should have restrained Perditus from the beginning but then he would not have confessed. The assassin was now dragging Prior Cuthbert towards the door. He looked over his shoulder.

‘Open it!’ he shouted at Chanson.

Corbett gestured at his groom to obey. The door to the chamber swung open even as Archbishop Wallasby collapsed to the floor in an ever-widening pool of splashing blood. Aelfric hurried across and turned him over. The desperation on the Archdeacon’s face and the jerking of his body showed he was past help. Corbett watched in horror. At first he thought Perditus was going to release Prior Cuthbert. He drew his arm away but then swiftly slashed with his knife. Corbett closed his eyes. Prior Cuthbert stood, a look of horror on his face, hands clutching his throat. Perditus sent him crashing forward and was out of the door in an instant, pounding down the stairs.

Ranulf ignored the chaos and commotion. He thrust Chanson aside and followed in pursuit. Perditus had already cleared the steps and was out through the door. Ranulf, hastily drawing his sword, chased after him. As he slipped and slithered on the ice, Ranulf was almost unaware of the monks he pushed aside: he had eyes only for the hurtling figure ahead of him, grey robe hitched up, running like the wind, past buildings, across courtyards, twisting and turning. Ranulf followed. At first he thought the assassin was heading for one of the postern gates or even the stables. He shortened the gap between them. Perditus had reached the cellar steps and hastened down. Ranulf followed, surprised that the door wasn’t locked or bolted. He pushed it open and slipped into the darkness. The slap of sandals echoed back as Ranulf paused to regain his breath. He put down his sword, took out a tinder and lit one of the sconce torches. Once this was burning brightly, he grasped his sword and made his way gingerly down the passageway, hugging the wall, stretching the torch out in front of him. He passed the cavernous storerooms, wondering what Perditus intended. Behind him Corbett shouted his name.

‘Go back!’ Ranulf yelled.

Perditus was a skilled enemy, a trained soldier. Ranulf was fearful he’d taken a bow and arrow and was preparing an ambush. A pool of light glowed at the end of the corridor: Perditus was in the storeroom at the end where Abbot Stephen had found the mosaic. Ranulf watched the light carefully, expecting to see Perditus, armed with bow and arrow, appear in the doorway. Apart from a moving shadow, he could detect nothing. Closer and closer he crept. At the doorway he stopped and threw the torch in onto the floor. He slipped down the steps and paused in astonishment. Perditus, sword and dagger on the ground beside him, was kneeling, staring at the mosaic.