‘How many?’ Corbett murmured.
‘Scaribrick and two others, the rest fled. They have learnt a lesson which will last for many a day. I met them in the Lantern-in-the-Woods tavern.’ Ranulf shrugged. ‘You can imagine the rest.’
Corbett could: Ranulf dancing like a cat, nimble as a monkey, sword and dagger snaking out.
‘Ah well!’ Corbett pushed away the manuscript.
‘I also found something else when I went through Scaribrick’s wallet. The coins I will give to the poor but I also discovered this.’
Ranulf came across and threw a greasy scrap of parchment onto the desk. Corbett picked it up and smoothed it straight. One name was scrawled on it: Archdeacon Adrian Wallasby.
‘What is this?’ Corbett handed it back. ‘Why would an Archdeacon from St Paul’s in London be dealing with a marsh outlaw?’
‘He is going to flee,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Brother Dunstan explained how it could be done.’
‘Yes, I believe you are correct,’ Corbett agreed. ‘Our Archdeacon intends to leave sooner than we think. He’s persuaded a member of the Concilium to write out his name and, through Brother Dunstan, passed it to Scaribrick for safe passage along the roads. Yet,’ Corbett mused, ‘would Brother Dunstan really have much to do with him?’
‘I have been thinking about that.’ Ranulf pulled up a stool. ‘Whenever I kill, Master, by sword or dagger, be it on a trackway, in a tavern, or some filthy London alley, memories come back. The way I used to fight when I was a boy, or the time when I was taken and was for the hangman’s cart, ready for that hideous jogging down to The Elms at Smithfield. Do you remember?’ Ranulf’s eyes grew softer. ‘You came into Newgate Yard and pulled me out.’
‘I remember.’
‘Well, it was the same after I met Scaribrick. Truly, Master, I didn’t want to kill him, not really.’
Corbett held his gaze.
‘Well, perhaps I did,’ Ranulf laughed abruptly. ‘I couldn’t forget how close we were to death this morning. Anyway, Scaribrick’s dead. As I rode back, I was thinking about what Taverner had said about my mother and about his disguise as a possessed man.’ Ranulf ran his finger round his lips. ‘It appeared as if he was frothing at the mouth. Now,’ Ranulf scratched his chin, ‘in my lawless youth I saw similar tricks in London. You have to be very careful what you chew, lest you choke or rot your guts.’
‘You mean, someone here supplied him with a powder?’
‘He wouldn’t have arrived with it,’ Ranulf declared. ‘Abbot Stephen was sharp and keen-witted: he would have had Taverner searched from head to toe.’
‘He didn’t find those licences bearing Wallasby’s name?’
‘Ah no,’ Ranulf gestured with his hand, ‘but they could be explained away. Abbot Stephen was really looking for the usual tricks; paints and dyes, powders, to change the colour of the face.’
‘Or to make a man froth at the mouth?’ Corbett added.
‘Taverner wasn’t skilled in physic,’ Ranulf continued, ‘so he must have obtained the powder from someone in St Martin’s which, logically, brings us to the infirmarian Aelfric.’
Corbett sat back in the chair.
‘Ranulf, if you’re correct, some of these monks were plotting against Abbot Stephen. Wallasby was at the root of it. He disliked Abbot Stephen and concocted a plot. But, to be successful, he’d need help here in St Martin’s.’
‘Prior Cuthbert?’
‘Perhaps. Certainly Aelfric. If Wallasby and Aelfric would go to such lengths as this, one must speculate as to whether murder was also in their minds? Ranulf, fetch them. Bring them now!’
Whilst his henchman went searching, Corbett paced up and down the room until Ranulf ushered a sombre-faced Wallasby and an agitated Aelfric into the Abbot’s chamber.
‘I’ll come swiftly to the point.’ Corbett sat down and rubbed his hands together. ‘Abbot Stephen, in many ways, was a compassionate father to his community. On one matter he would not be moved: that of the burial mound in Bloody Meadow! He was an exorcist.’ He pointed at Wallasby. ‘You not only opposed his views, you didn’t like him as a man. You didn’t tell us you were born in these parts, Archdeacon, and that your enmity with the Abbot ran so deep?’
Wallasby cleared his throat and shuffled his feet.
‘Where’s the crime in that, Sir Hugh? There’s many a man I don’t like, be they clerk or priest.’
Corbett smiled thinly.
‘You were trying to disgrace him, I know, under the guise of scholarship and academic friendship. You, Aelfric — infirmarian and a member of the Abbot’s Concilium at St Martin’s — you were Wallasby’s spy. You corresponded secretly and told him when Taverner had arrived and about Abbot Stephen’s reaction. You also supplied our cunning man with the necessary powders and potions to assist in his mummery. Is that why Abbot Stephen died? Because he turned the tables on you? Does this account for the arrow in Taverner’s heart? Because your well-laid plots and schemes went awry?’ Corbett banged his fist on the table. ‘The truth, Brother!’
Aelfric looked as if he was going to faint: without a by your leave he went and sat on a chair against the wall and put his face in his hands.
‘Peccavi! Peccavi!’ he intoned, striking his breast. ‘I have sinned and sinned again!’
‘Oh, don’t be so weak!’ Wallasby snarled.
‘Be quiet!’ Aelfric hissed. ‘It was your plan! Sir Hugh, you are correct. Abbot Stephen would not be moved on the matter of the guesthouse. Above all, he would not allow us to search for a holy relic. Like others on the Concilium, I dreamt of St Martin’s being a second Glastonbury, a shrine to rival Walsingham or even Canterbury. It wasn’t just the guesthouse. . it was the shrine, the pilgrims. .’
‘Of course,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘And, where there’s a shrine, miracles occur. And where miracles flourish there has to be a physician to attest to their worthiness, not to mention a hospital well furnished with beds and the best medicines. You were all dreaming of greatness, weren’t you?’
‘Archdeacon Wallasby was born in these parts,’ the infirmarian continued, staring at the floor. ‘Seven months ago he came here, supposedly visiting his family, and the plot was laid. I corresponded with him. The rest you’ve surmised. Taverner arrived at St Martin’s and I supplied him with the necessary potions and powders. I also wrote to Wallasby, using our own code, informing him that Abbot Stephen was much impressed. I didn’t mean any harm.’ The infirmarian wiped tears from his eyes. ‘I know I have sinned. Trickery was perpetrated. It would have broken Abbot Stephen’s heart and he didn’t deserve that. I was almost relieved when Taverner turned the tables. He said he would act the part through and not disgrace our Abbot’s name.’ The infirmarian spread his hands. ‘What could I do? The hunter had become the hunted. Taverner said if I told the truth, I’d be disgraced. How could I continue as infirmarian without the trust of Father Abbot? But I had nothing to do with Taverner’s murder, I swear. I have confessed my sin. I was going to let matters take their course until the. .’
‘Until these murders began,’ Ranulf interrupted.
‘Yes,’ the infirmarian muttered. ‘Wallasby here wanted to get away. He needed a secure passage along the lanes so I went to Brother Dunstan, and Scaribrick was advised to let him pass.’
‘Sir,’ Corbett pointed at Wallasby, ‘I have told you once and I will tell you for the last time: you will remain here until my investigations are finished!’
‘I am a clerk in Holy Orders!’ Wallasby bellowed.
Ranulf made to rise.
‘Lay a hand on me,’ Wallasby threatened, ‘and I’ll have you excommunicated from St Paul’s Cross!’ He walked to the door and paused, his hand on the latch. ‘I am no assassin, Corbett,’ he jibed over his shoulder.
‘Yes, you are, Archdeacon. You are a man of deep malice. You intended to kill the Abbot’s spirit, turn him into a laughing stock. Tell me,’ Corbett got to his feet, ‘why was it you hated Abbot Stephen so much?’
He knew Wallasby couldn’t resist the opportunity. The Archdeacon leaned against the door, face contorted with anger and hate.