‘How do you know the key was not in the lock?’ Cade asked.
‘Because if it was, Father Benedict would have survived and the murderer would have chosen another scheme.’ Corbett looked at the under-sheriff’s sword belt. ‘Your dagger, Master Cade, it’s of the Italian mode, thin and slender. Can I borrow it?’
Cade shrugged and handed it over.
‘Now,’ Corbett said. ‘Would you all stand outside? Ranulf, cup your hand beneath the keyhole.’
Corbett’s companions, rather bemused, stepped outside the burnt building. Corbett heaved the door closed, holding it fast with one hand before slipping Cade’s thin stiletto through the keyhole. At first it was blocked so Corbett carefully pushed until he heard Ranulf’s exclamation of surprise. The clerk pulled the door open and handed the dagger back.
‘Well, Ranulf, what do you have?’
His manservant showed him a thin strip of half-burnt wood, long and rounded as if cut by a master carpenter.
‘You see, what happened,’ Corbett concluded, ‘was that the murderer knew where Father Benedict kept his key. On the night he murdered the priest, he slipped this piece of wood through the keyhole, went quietly round to the window, threw in the oil and lighted torch then slipped away. Father Benedict reaches the door, the fire raging all around him; he inserts his key but the lock is blocked. He takes it out, perhaps tries again but it is too late.’ Corbett stared at the sacristan. ‘It couldn’t have been there earlier, otherwise Father Benedict wouldn’t have locked the door behind him. On, no, Master Sacristan, Father Benedict was cold-bloodedly murdered. I intend to discover why and by whom!’
Corbett turned at the sound of footsteps. A small, fat monk, the folds of his pasty face betraying both anxiety and self-importance, hurried out of the trees and across to the priest’s house.
‘Brother Warfield! Brother Warfield!’ he gabbled. ‘What is going on here?’ He stopped, his head going back, like that of a small sparrow, lips pursed, little black eyes darting round the group. ‘Who are these people? Do you need help?’
‘No, Brother Richard, I don’t!’ Warfield replied.
The portly monk stuck his thumbs inside the tasselled cord round his waist. ‘Well!’ he exclaimed, staring round the room. ‘I think you do!’
‘Go away, little man!’ Ranulf answered. ‘This is Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, Special Emissary of the King!’
‘I am sorry, so sorry,’ the portly monk stuttered, his eyes pleading with Warfield.
‘Don’t worry, Brother Richard.’ The sacristan clapped him hard on the shoulder. ‘Everything is well here!’ Warfield smiled at Corbett. ‘Brother Richard is my assistant and most zealous in his duties.’
‘Good,’ Corbett snapped. ‘Then both of you can show me the entrance to the crypt.’
Corbett turned away but not before he glimpsed the quick, warning glances which passed between Warfield and his portly assistant.
Chapter 5
Adam of Warfield took them over to the abbey church; the stone pillars and passageways stretched before them as silent as the grave. The air was musty and Corbett caught the bitter-sweet smell of incense and rotting flowers. The dappled shadows were broken by bursts of sunlight which poured through stained-glass windows high in the walls. They walked along a transept, their footsteps ringing hollow, even their breath seemed to echo in the vastness of the vaulted roof. At last they came to the south transept which was barred by a great oaken door reinforced with strips of steel and iron studs. The edge of the door, where it met the lintel, had been sealed with great blobs of scarlet wax and bore the imprint of the Treasurer’s seal. The door was fastened by three bolts and each of these was secured with two padlocks.
‘To each padlock,’ Adam Warfield explained, ‘are two keys. One is held by the King, the other by the Lord Mayor.’ He pointed to the keyhole. ‘This, too, has been sealed.’
Corbett crouched and stared at the great disc of purple wax which had been sealed by the Chancellor. Corbett examined everything carefully.
‘Nothing is broken,’ he said. ‘But what happens if the King wishes to enter?’
‘I asked that myself,’ Cade replied. ‘The barons of the Exchequer have made it very plain: the door is not to be opened except in the presence of the King himself. So far he has sufficient silver and gold and, if more is needed, he will melt down bullion still stored in the Tower.’ Cade made a face. ‘The peace with France,’ he continued, ‘has meant the King need not make a run on his treasury.’
Corbett nodded. Everything appeared secure and what Cade said nudged his memory about gossip at court: the treasury officials had boasted to him how the King, as yet, had no need to melt down cups of plate to pay his troops.
Corbett tapped on the door.
‘And beyond this there are the steps?’
Adam Warfield sighed in exasperation. ‘Yes, and they’re broken. Anyone who tried to force that door would soon be discovered. You did say you wished to meet the Sisters of St Martha?’
And, without waiting for an answer, the sacristan and Brother Richard led them out of the abbey and into the cloisters. A square, porticoed walk bounded the garth, a green island of lush grass with a fountain splashing in the centre around which birds sang and swooped. They went through a small doorway, down more passageways and into the Chapter Room.
Corbett heard the mumble of voices which stilled as soon as they crossed the threshold. He blinked as they entered. Although the windows were unshuttered, the room was dark and candles glowed in the shadowy recesses and along the oaken table where a group of women sat. Corbett sensed an atmosphere of sadness as they all stopped talking and looked towards him. At first they were indeterminate, indistinct in the poor light so he peered closer: all the women were dressed in dark blue head-dresses, fastened with pieces of gold braid. They were wearing dresses and smocks of different hues but these were covered in tabards which matched their head-dresses. He stared hard at the livery depicted on them and made out the figure of Christ with a woman kneeling beside him, presumably St Martha. He caught a glimpse of bare ankles beneath the table and realised these ladies, however high-born, were similar to many noble widows who followed a monastic rule in their spiritual lives. Self-conscious of his own boots thudding on the wood-panelled floor, Corbett led the rest of his group across the room though he noticed how both Cade and the monks hung back as if trying to hide themselves.
‘Do you think they always dress like this?’ Ranulf whispered.
‘I doubt it,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Just at meetings.’
‘Why are you whispering? What are you doing here?’ An old, white-haired lady at the top of the table stood cupping her hand to her ear. She challenged them again and a tall lady on her right repeated the question.
‘Gentlemen, this is a meeting of our Sisterhood. You did not knock or ask for entrance.’
‘My lady,’ Corbett answered. ‘We are here on the King’s orders.’
The rest of the seated group began to murmur amongst themselves but the old lady at the top of the table clapped her hands for silence whilst the tall woman on her right rose and swept down to meet them. Corbett glanced round quickly at her companions and counted seventeen in all.
‘I am the Lady Catherine Fitzwarren,’ the tall woman announced. ‘My superior, the Lady Imelda de Lacey, asked you a question. Who are you?’
Corbett studied her, noticing the grey hair escaping from beneath the coif yet the woman was not old; her face was smooth and clear without a wrinkle, high cheekbones emphasized eyes as grey as slate though her prim, pursed lips gave her a sour look. Corbett stood his ground; he was used to the domineering airs and graces of courtiers and the least said the better.
‘Well, I know who you are,’ Lady Fitzwarren’s eyes flickered her contempt at the monks. ‘And you,’ she pointed a long, bony finger at Cade, ‘are the under-sheriff who seems incapable of capturing the red-handed slayer of poor unfortunate girls!’