Hugh Corbett 17 - The Mysterium (12 page)

‘Father!’ He glanced in horror at the red cut on the priest’s forehead.

‘Release me, my feet,’ gasped Parson John, pushing himself forward.

Fleschner immediately cut the bonds about the priest’s ankles, then sawed at the cords around his wrists.

‘I came in here, I wanted to pray for my father, I heard of his death.’ Parson John kicked his ankles free of the tangled ropes. ‘I was here in the sacristy when I was pushed . . .’

‘Father?’

‘I was pushed.’ Parson John pointed to the bruises on his head and face. ‘I was bound and gagged. All I saw and heard was a shadowy figure breathing noisily.’

‘How did he get in?’

Parson John grasped Fleschner’s shoulder. ‘Miles, for the love of God, that doesn’t matter. He carried a sack, which he took into the church. Then he came back. He drew his dagger and started to carve something on my forehead, then he must have heard you. He went out, came back then fled into the cemetery. I managed to break free of the gang. I must see . . .’ The priest, all confused, lurched to his feet and, followed by the still trembling parish clerk, went into the sanctuary and down the nave.

Fleschner swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He had, as he later told his wife, a presentiment of evil. Some great malignancy was lurking in the gathering murk. Both men walked slowly, fearfully, their footsteps echoing ominously. Fleschner wished he’d brought a lamp or candle. When they reached the far end of the church, Parson John went towards the still battered main door, while Fleschner rested against the great bowl of the baptismal font. A strange smell pricked his nostrils. Had the font been polluted? He glanced down, then gagged in horror as he saw the two severed heads, eyes half closed, nestling at the bottom of the huge bowl.

Corbett sat in the murder chamber at the Angel’s Salutation; that was what he called the room. He leaned back on the stool, eyes half closed. Across the floor, beneath the window, sprawled the corpses of Waldene and Hubert the Monk. The Friar of the Sack, the same who’d shriven the felons executed at St Botulph’s, was busy reciting the words of absolution. What did happen, Corbett wondered, to souls after death? Did the life essence of these two criminals still hover here in this chilly, dusty chamber? Did they plead for mercy? Did they wait for others to come and lead them? To what? The Friar of the Sack rose to his feet and crossed himself.

‘It’s done, Sir Hugh, their souls have gone to God and I must sate my appetite.’

Corbett smiled and handed over a silver piece. The friar bit the coin, grinned, sketched a blessing and went to join the rest gathered in the taproom downstairs, where the delicious details of these heinous slaying were being greedily picked at and sifted. An old beggar woman had offered to sing the song of mourning and was now doing so, the lugubrious noise echoing up the stairs. In between verses her companion, a cunning man, loudly declared that the beating heart of a mole would be sure protection against malignant chattering ghosts and offered, for a certain price, to get one for Minehost. The two whores, Robinbreast and Catchseed, were slurping their tankards of ale, smiling gratefully through their tears for the coins and free drinks offered by those who wanted to relish the gory details. Both whores wailed how the spirits of the two dead men hung close, ghosts in wolfskins. They could, they were sure, remember the details of the slaughterer, ‘dark in all things’, who’d slid silent as a viper into that dreadful chamber.

Corbett had questioned both the prostitutes and the others, but had learnt little except how the killer had declared himself to be Boniface Ippegrave, that he was of ragged appearance, his face ‘the colour of boxwood, with a look of dark-robed night about him’. In truth the two whores were more frightened of the King’s man, the royal clerk. Dressed in black, Corbett, had swept into the tavern, his heavy cloak folded over one arm, spurs jingling on his riding boots. His battle belt with its scabbarded sword and dagger made him ominous enough, but he also carried the royal warrant and wore the King’s seal ring on his right hand. The whores had been deeply unsettled by the clerk’s steady gaze, his black hair swept back, face all watchful, as Catchseed whispered, ‘A king’s hawk come to brood.’

Corbett sighed and rose to his feet, once again he examined the corpses of the two gang-leaders and that of their guard. A local physician, eyes all rheumy, nose dripping, had pronounced that Waldene and Hubert had been poisoned by a powerful infusion of hemlock. Corbett picked up the empty flask and sniffed the top; it still smelled of rich claret. The wine could have been bought at any vintner’s. He turned and glanced at the corpse of the ugly ruffian sprawled on the bed. The great open wound in the guard’s left side was now a thickening soggy mess. The physician had declared all three deaths unlawful, collected his coin and stomped off. Corbett tapped the hilt of his sword and turned as the door opened and Ranulf came in. He glanced at the cadavers and whistled under his breath.

‘So it’s true: Waldene, the Monk and one of their guards all gone to Heaven’s bench. The King will be pleased. Who will mourn their passing?’

‘Those who hired them,’ Corbett replied, ‘that tribe of serpents in the city who use such dagger men to ladle out the evil stored in their own baleful hearts.’

‘Master, you’re angry.’

‘No, Ranulf, my apologies, I’m confused, puzzled. Why all this? Why now? It was so easily done,’ he mused. ‘Waldene and Hubert left Newgate; their release was well known, as it was that both malefactors would come across here to cry wassail and toast their freedom. They hired a chamber, two ladies of the town, a jug of ale and a platter of cold meat and bread. According to the whores downstairs, this cowled, cloaked stranger entered. He caused no disturbance, silently knifing their guard. Waldene and Hubert, deep in their cups, thought he’d been allowed in.’ Corbett tapped the flask. ‘He brought this Bordeaux with a strong infusion of powerful hemlock. He mentioned something about Evesham’s treasure. He poured the claret, watched the poison swiftly paralyse his victims, carved his murderous mark on their forehead, announced that he was Boniface Ippegrave, threatened the whores and left.’ He paused. ‘Boniface Ippegrave,’ he repeated.

‘Did you know Ippegrave, master?’

‘Not really. I remember him as short, good-looking, neat and precise, with sharp eyes. Yes, that’s it.’ Corbett chewed the corner of his lip. ‘Now I remember. Yes . . .’ He wagged a finger as his memory was pricked.

‘Master?’

‘Dark reddish hair, rather singular, though that was twenty years ago.’

‘Do you think he has returned?’

‘Perhaps, why not? After all, he was a royal clerk.’ Corbett grinned, then stepped closer and touched Ranulf gently on the cheek with a gauntleted finger. ‘Resourceful, ambitious. Anyway, the Comfort of Bathsheba?’

‘Ignacio Engleat went there and then on to a tavern, the Halls of Purgatory. He drank deep and fell asleep. Someone, nobody knows who, helped him out,’ Ranulf shrugged, ‘hauled him off to his death. The tavern was very busy. The servants were only too pleased to see a drunk go.’ He paused at a tap on the door; it opened and Minehost, face all concerned, bustled in.

‘Sir Hugh, my lord,’ he gestured, ‘downstairs there’s a creature, Lapwing he calls himself. He wishes words with you, as does Parson John of St Botulph’s. He is here with Miles Fleschner, his parish clerk.’

Corbett raised his eyes heavenwards and gestured at Ranulf to follow. At the door he paused, crossed himself and pointed to the bloody mayhem on the far side of the chamber.

‘Minehost, the coroner and the ward catchpole will deal with those. Now, sir?’

The men were waiting for him in the taproom below. Lapwing, neatly dressed in a bottle-green cote-hardie, leggings and soft brown boots, was playing with the clasp of his dark blue cloak. A man of sharp but calm wit, Corbett thought. He had shaved his face and his hair was cropped close above his ears. Corbett went to speak to him, but Lapwing winked and pointed to a table in a shadowy recess where Parson John and Fleschner were greedily gulping wine.

‘I heard about the tumult,’ Lapwing whispered, ‘and hurried here. Parson John arrived close behind me; he is almost out of his wits.’

Corbett nodded, and approached the parson’s table, settling himself on a stool.

‘Parson John?’ Corbett touched the priest’s arm. ‘My condolences on your father’s death.’

‘Blood here, blood everywhere,’ murmured the parson, pushing his face forward. He looked ill and unshaven, and Corbett glimpsed the bloody line on his forehead. Fleschner was even more agitated, sitting back in the shadows, grasping his goblet as a child would a cup. Corbett let them drink and stared around. Minehost had wisely moved the two whores and their small spellbound audience into the scullery. The day’s trading had not yet ceased and the taproom was deserted except for a blind jongleur humming a lullaby to his pet ferret.

‘Parson John, why are you here? Tell me what has happened.’

The priest did so, words gushing out as he described the horrors perpetrated in his church. Corbett listened intently, comforted that Ranulf stood behind him. Here in this darkened tavern where savage murder had struck, another tale of terror was unfolding. He concealed his own spurts of fear, which pricked both his mind and his heart with their sheer coldness. As he listened to Parson John, he recognised that in the labyrinth of mysteries stretching before him prowled an assassin, a midnight soul. The hunt was on, dreadful and dark. The creeping flame of sudden slaughter would flicker around him. The twisted roots of long-buried sin would draw fresh sap and thrust up. The parson eventually finished and sat staring, mouth gaping in shock.

‘I took the heads,’ he mumbled. ‘I placed them in a sack, which I left in the sanctuary. What should we . . .?’ He glanced up fearfully.

‘The heads?’ Ranulf hissed. ‘You recognised them?’

‘Of course! My stepmother, my father’s second wife, Clarice, and her steward, the controller of her household, Richard Fink.’

‘Why should they die?’

‘I don’t know,’ Parson John wailed. ‘I must go there, I must see.’

Corbett pressed the agitated priest on the back of his hand.

‘You agreed to meet Master Fleschner about the third hour after midday in the sacristy of St Botulph’s?’ Parson John nodded.

‘We had certain business,’ mumbled the parish clerk.

‘You, Parson John, went into the sacristy. Your attacker followed you from outside.You were knocked to the floor, bruised, bound and gagged.’ The priest nodded. ‘Your assailant then went into the church with his bag and, for his own devilish reasons, placed the severed heads in the font. He returned to you, drew his dagger and was probably about to carve the letter “M” on your forehead?’

‘Yes,’ Parson John gasped, ‘but thank God Miles opened the corpse door. My attacker went out of the sacristy as if to flee through the church, but came back and left by the outside door of the sacristy, which leads into the poor man’s lot and on to the priest’s house.’

‘What did he look like?’ Ranulf asked.

‘He was cowled and visored. He whispered rather than talked; his clothes smelt rancid.’

‘What did he say?’ Ranulf demanded.

Parson John glanced wearily up.

‘That he was Boniface Ippegrave come again to seek vengeance against Evesham and all his kin. Sir Hugh, why are we staying here? My stepmother, Richard Fink?’

‘Their home?’

‘Off Clothiers Lane in Cripplegate, near the old wall. We’d best . . .’

Corbett agreed and got to his feet.

‘May I come?’ Lapwing pushed his way by Ranulf.

‘Yes, you may,’ retorted Corbett. ‘Indeed, sir, I wish to have close words with you sometime.’ He had already made his decision. Tomorrow he would summon a special commission of oyer and terminer, so that all involved in this dire business could answer on oath, but until then . . .

Corbett took his leave of Minehost and, with Ranulf and the rest following, left the Angel’s Salutation. He brushed aside the quack offering to cure worms in the ears with a poultice of fennel, plantain and mutton fat. Other tradesmen were just as insistent. The light was fading. The market bell would soon sound, the bailiffs would blow their horns and trading would cease, but until then, the stallholders and their apprentices were desperate to entice would-be customers. The air was bitterly cold, the mud and ordure beneath their feet hardening under a coating of ice. Troublemakers, all roped together, were being taken to the cage in Cheapside. A madman, manacled by his friends, was baying at the overcast sky as he was led across to a local church to be chained to the rood screen in the hope that his overnight stay before the Lord would cure his lunacy. A relic-seller offered to reveal the hand of a saint on which a finger would curl and point at the guilty. However, if the faithful were not interested in that, perhaps a scrap of unicorn blessed by St Ninias, a sure protection against poison? Only a little beggar boy seemed interested.

The crowds were thinning, and they scrambled quickly out of Corbett’s way. The citizens of the night along the runnels and alleyways were already being alerted. King’s men were on the prowl and no one dared impede the stride of these grim-faced clerks, hands grasping the hilts of their swords. People recognised Parson John and Fleschner and called out greetings, but only the parish clerk replied, lifting a tremulous hand in acknowledgement.

Corbett walked on, wary of the slippery trackways and narrow alleys leading off either side, where night-walkers and dark-prowlers gathered waiting for dusk. Shouts of abuse echoed. Doors slammed, shutters rattled. The foul smells of the cesspit faded abruptly as they passed a perfumer’s shop, where jars of
Manus Christi
, rosewater and ambergris stood unstoppered on the lowered shop fronts. Behind these the apprentices were busy with the perfume pans, and their delicious fragrances teased Corbett’s nostrils, recalling images of Lady Maeve. He stood aside as a little boy dressed in a black gown scurried by, ringing a skilla to warn people about the approach of a priest, head and shoulders covered by a red-gold cape, carrying the viaticum. Corbett knelt as he hurried on by to some sickbed, then rose and walked on.