He strained his scrawny neck and Corbett suddenly noticed the faded purple mark on the right side of the sacristan’s throat. How, Corbett wondered, did an ordained priest and monk of Westminster get a love bite on his neck? He looked again and was sure the mark was not some cut or graze caused by shaving. Corbett rose and stared through the small, diamond-shaped window.
‘The Sisters of St Martha, Brother Adam, what do you know of them?’
‘They are a devoted and devout group of ladies who meet in our Chapter House every afternoon. They pray, they do good works, especially amongst the whores and prostitutes of the city.’
‘You support their work?’
‘Of course I do!’
Corbett half turned. ‘Were you shocked by Lady Somerville’s death?’
‘Naturally!’
‘I understand she did work in the laundry? What work, exactly?’ Corbett peered over his shoulder at the sacristan and noticed how pale the man’s face had become. Were there beads of sweat on his forehead? Corbett wondered.
‘Lady Somerville washed and took particular care of altar cloths, napkins, vestments and other liturgical cloths as well as the brothers’ robes.’
‘Do you know what Lady Somerville meant by the phrase “Cacullus non facit monachum”?’
‘The cowl does not make the monk?’ The sacristan smiled thinly. ‘It’s a phrase often used by our enemies who claim there’s more to being a monk than wearing a certain habit.’
‘Is that so?’ Ranulf spoke up. ‘And would you agree, Brother?’
Warfield threw him a look of contempt, and Corbett drummed his fingers on the window sill.
‘So you don’t know what she was referring to?’
‘No, my relationship with the Sisters of St Martha is negligible. I have enough matters in hand. Sometimes I meet them in the Chapter House but that is all.’
‘Well, well, well!’ Corbett walked back to the bench. ‘Nobody at Westminster seems to know anything. Am I right, dear Brother? Well, I wish to see three things: first, Father Benedict’s house; secondly, the door to the crypt and, finally, the Sisters of St Martha. You say they meet every afternoon?’
The sacristan nodded.
‘Then, my dear Brother, let’s go. Let’s begin.’
They walked out of the abbey buildings, Warfield leading them through overgrown gardens into a small orchard.
‘What has happened here?’ Ranulf whispered loudly. ‘This is the King’s abbey, the King’s house, yet nothing has been attended to.’
‘The fault is really the King’s,’ Corbett murmured. ‘He is too busy in Scotland to press Pope Boniface for the right to hold elections. He has withdrawn his household from Westminster; his treasury has no money to pay masons or gardeners. I do not think he knows how bad the situation is. When this matter is over, he will be enlightened.’
‘And the others don’t care,’ Cade added. ‘Our wealthy burgesses regard Westminster as a village, whilst the bishops of Canterbury and London are only too happy to see it decline.’
The orchard thinned and before them, in a small enclosure with its fence broken down, stood the blackened ruins of Father Benedict’s house. Corbett walked slowly around the building. It had not been built with wattle and daub but bricks quarried by the stone cutters, otherwise it would have been reduced to a smouldering heap. Corbett studied the wooden-framed window high in the wall, well over two yards above the vegetable garden.
‘That is the only window?’ he remarked.
‘Yes.’
‘And was the roof thatched, or tiled?’
‘Oh, tiled with red slate.’
Corbett walked up to the front door which still hung askew on its steel hinges. The door was oaken, about two inches thick and reinforced with steel strips.
‘And was there only one door?’
‘Yes! Yes!’
Corbett pushed it to one side and they entered the blackened, ruined house, wrinkling their noses at the stench of burnt wood and stale smoke. The inside of the building had been totally gutted, the white-washed walls blackened and scorched. The stone hearth at the far end had been reduced to crumbling brick.
‘A simple place,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Father Benedict’s bed must have been in the far corner? Next to the hearth? Yes?’
Warfield nodded.
‘He probably ate, slept and studied here?’
‘Yes, Master Corbett, there was only one room.’
‘And on the floor?’
‘Probably rushes.’
Corbett walked over to the near corner and sifted amongst the ashes on the floor. He pulled up a few strands and rubbed them between his fingers; yes, they were rushes and had probably been very dry and would have soon caught fire.
Corbett walked into the centre of the room and stared at the wall underneath the window, where the fire had burnt fiercely, turning the wooden window frame into black feathery ash; the flames had gouged deep black marks on the wall and reduced everything on the floor to a powdery dust. Corbett walked over to the hearth and to the remains of the wooden bed. He stood for a while, ignoring the impatient mutterings of his companions, and scraped his boot amongst the ashes.
‘Bring me a stick, Ranulf!’
The manservant hurried out to the orchard and brought back a long piece of yew which he pruned with his dagger. Corbett began to sift amongst the ashes, digging at the packed earth, concentrating on a line which ran directly from the window; then he went over to where they stood near the door.
‘Father Benedict was murdered,’ he announced.
The sacristan gasped.
‘Oh, yes, Brother Adam. Tell me again what happened when you tried to douse the flames?’
‘Well, we couldn’t get near the door, the heat was so intense. We threw buckets of water at the walls and through the window. It was the only thing we could do.’
‘And then?’
‘Well, the flames died and we forced the door.’
‘It was still locked?’
‘Oh, yes, but loose on its hinges.’
‘And you found the half-burnt body of Father Benedict?’
‘Just inside; the corpse of the cat beside him.’ The sacristan shook his head. ‘I can’t see how he was murdered. The door was locked, there was only one key. Father Benedict would hardly open the door for someone to come in, start a fire, leave and then lock the door behind him!’ The sacristan smiled in triumph as if he had presented some brilliantly lucid syllogism.
‘The murderer didn’t get in,’ Corbett replied. ‘If the fire had started near the hearth, the flames would have been the fiercest there. But look at the wall under the window and the wall directly opposite. Both are very badly burnt, as is the line of floor between. The fire started in the middle of the room. What happened was this; somebody tossed a jar, or skin, of oil, very pure oil because it is hard to detect, through the window into the middle of the room. The jar or skin burst, a tinder or candle was thrown and the dry, oil-drenched rushes soon turned into a raging inferno.’
‘Of course!’ Cade exclaimed. ‘That’s why the cat couldn’t jump through the window, it was too high for it and the floor beneath the window had been saturated by oil.’
‘And the far wall?’ Ranulf explained. ‘It’s badly burnt because of the breeze from the window, which would waft the flames that way.’
‘Nonsense!’ the sacristan exclaimed.
‘No, no,’ Corbett replied. ‘I have examined the floor in the centre of the room beneath the rushes. There’s nothing but packed earth yet the clay there is stained with oil, some of it slightly less burnt.’
‘But,’ the monk protested, ‘Father Benedict reached the door.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Corbett replied. ‘The sound of the oil hitting the floor, and the roar of the flames would have roused him. He seizes his cloak and the key by his bed and, holding the cat, runs towards the door.’
‘What about the wall of flames across the floor?’
‘They would be fierce but, probably, still not fully fanned. Father Benedict would be desperate, he had to brave them before they grew, roaring to the rafters.’