Ranulf re-sheathed his dagger and walked back to his stool. Corbett quietly admitted that it was rare for Ranulf to astonish him. He felt slightly embarrassed, Taverner had certainly fooled him.
‘Is this true?’ he demanded.
Taverner opened his mouth to reply but changed his mind. He sat in a crumpled heap on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap.
‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ he mumbled.
‘Oh come!’ Ranulf teased. ‘He was once famous in the city, Master. He has since spent a considerable part of his life abroad, one step ahead of the sheriff’s men, particularly after his success as a relic-seller in Cheapside. He forged letters and licences, stained his skin and claimed to have a box of rocks from the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. He fooled quite a few with his letters from the Patriarch and his marvellous tales about his pilgrimage. And, of course, there was the amazing jar of wine which he claimed to be Falernian, drawn from Pontius Pilate’s own cellar. The list of trickery is endless. Our friend has been everything: a pardoner, a summoner, a friar, a priest.’ Ranulf laughed and smacked his knee. ‘He provided more amusement in the taverns of Southwark than any troupe of jesters. What’s the matter, Taverner, are you becoming ill? I’ll call you Taverner, as it keeps things simple.’
His hapless victim continued to sit, head down.
‘I don’t want to hear anything more about Mandeville,’ Ranulf added. ‘Shall I tell you the truth, Sir Hugh? Our good friend here has become tired and old. He’s sick of trudging the lanes, keeping a wary eye out for the sheriff’s men. He wants a comfortable place to reside: some little burrow where he can nestle down and spend the rest of his days. Now, he can’t knock on a monastery door and declare himself to be a postulant or a novice, as enquiries would be made. I suspect our good friend came back here through the Eastern ports where he wouldn’t be noticed or recognised. He heard about Abbot Stephen at St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh and he prepared his charade, including the self-inflicted brand mark, and came seeking help.’
‘But he claimed to have met Archdeacon Adrian and the Dominicans at Blackfrairs?’
‘He may have done, over the years. However, I wager Master Taverner, as he now calls himself, would count on those busy men not recalling him. He arrived at St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh, where the other brothers ignored him but Abbot Stephen regarded him as a gift from heaven.’ Ranulf gestured round the chamber. ‘Our friend was shown every hospitality: good food and drink, a soft bed, a warm room. He had nothing to worry about. He could stay here for three or four years licking his wounds and leave whenever he wished.’
‘And Mandeville?’ Corbett asked.
‘If I remember correctly,’ Ranulf replied, ‘our friend was born in Essex. He’d know all about the legends. Of course, on his return he’d have refreshed his memory. St-Martin’s-in-the-Marsh does have chronicles and accounts. He probably volunteered to help Brother Aelfric and learnt a little bit more about exorcism and the black arts, not to mention his patron demon, Geoffrey Mandeville. Taverner is a good-enough scholar: he can read, write and, I suspect, is well versed in a number of tongues.’
Corbett got to his feet; he went and stood over Taverner.
‘Look at me,’ he demanded. ‘I am the King’s Commissioner.’
Taverner raised his head, his eyes filled with tears. He clasped his hands together as if in prayer.
‘Mercy, great lord!’ he wailed. ‘I was cold and lonely.’
‘Still acting!’ Ranulf laughed.
Corbett gazed down at the man.
‘Matthew Taverner, John Carrefour, Geoffrey Mandeville, whoever you are, I think you are a scoundrel, a rogue born and bred. You probably regard getting caught as simply a hazard of your trade.’ Corbett bit back his smile. ‘You’ve proved the old proverb: “It takes one rogue to recognise another”. Ranulf-atte-Newgate is correct, isn’t he? Don’t lie!’ Corbett pressed his finger against Taverner’s lips. ‘If you lie, Taverner, I shall drag you out and hang you!’
‘You can’t do that,’ the fellow whined. ‘I have done no wrong.’
‘You’ve stolen. You’ve defrauded. Come, Master Taverner, no one wants to hang you. I don’t even want you to leave the abbey. I am more interested in Abbot Stephen’s murder.’
The veteran cunning man sighed and stared down at his feet. He smiled slyly up at Ranulf.
‘I remember you now. God bless her, Ranulf, but I liked your mother. She died of a sickness, didn’t she? I always remember her red hair, thick and glorious, falling down beyond her waist, the tight dresses, the way she moved.’ He raised a hand.
Ranulf’s face was like cold stone.
‘I mean no offence. In many ways she had more courtesy than any lady at court.’
Ranulf’s face softened.
‘She did love you,’ Taverner continued. ‘Called you her pride and joy.’
‘Stop it!’ Ranulf snapped, making a cutting movement with his hand.
Corbett could see Ranulf was not far from tears.
‘She did love you,’ Taverner replied defiantly. ‘And I had forgotten all about you till now. You always sat watching in the corner when I visited: you reminded me of a little cat. Now, look at you. A fighting man, a clerk! God be blessed! Fortune’s fickle wheel is a thing to wonder at! You carry the King’s commission, eh? Not like poor me.’ He pressed his lips together. ‘God forgive me, Sir Hugh, but I have tried every cunning trick I know. I am not going to fool you. One of the great miracles of my life is that I’ve never been hanged. An old witch once told me: “You’ll never climb the ladder. Never feel the noose round your neck though you’ll die violently enough”. Everything turned to ashes in my mouth. All my plots and schemes came to nothing. I had to flee abroad. I even travelled into the German states for a while. I came back and landed in Hunstanton, cold, miserable and sick. I travelled inland and I knew I had to do something. I was tired of it all. I wanted a warm bed, a hot meal, a refuge from the law, the sheriffs, bailiffs and tipstaffs. I travelled to Ely and begged outside the cathedral, and there I heard about Abbot Stephen and St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh. I acted the madcap, the fey, the poor soul possessed by a demon called Mandeville and I travelled here.’
‘Did Abbot Stephen believe you?’
‘Listen to Ranulf, Sir Hugh. In my time I was the best. I have been taken for a bishop and, on one occasion, even a Royal Justice!’
Corbett hid his smile.
‘I felt guilty but what else could I do? Abbot Stephen was kind and gentle. Sometimes I’d catch him watching me carefully. You could see the smile behind his eyes. I even wondered if we were in a conspiracy together? He was so keen to prove a human soul could be possessed.’ He gestured round. ‘He gave me this chamber, warm clothes, good food. He said I could stay here if I wanted to when it was all finished. After a while I became aware of how determined he was to prove his theory. He was so generous, I did my best for him.’
‘And the night he was killed?’
‘I had nothing to do with that,’ Taverner retorted. ‘I was here, tucked up like a bird in its nest, snoring like a pig. Why should I want Abbot Stephen dead, or Prior Cuthbert and any of the others? They’ve left me alone till now but Cuthbert’s a hard man. He might ask me to move on. I would be grateful, sir, if you could do something for me.’
‘They are going to think it’s rather strange,’ Ranulf interrupted, ‘if Geoffrey Mandeville fails to reappear.’
Taverner grinned through chapped lips.
‘I’ve considered that. I was beginning to wonder whether I should go and pray before Abbot Stephen’s tomb, give one of the best performances of my life.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Corbett laughed. ‘A miraculous cure?’
‘Why not? I’d then go to see Archdeacon Adrian. Perhaps he could help?’
‘Do you know of any reason why the Abbot was murdered?’
‘No, Sir Hugh. The abbey here is a God-fearing community.’
Corbett recalled the hate-filled words hissed at him the previous evening. Taverner was a cunning man, who’d always lived by his wits, surely he’d sensed something was wrong?