‘Do you believe that, Father?’
‘No, not really!’
‘So, what explains our killer?’
Father Thomas stared at his hands. ‘Let us go back a step. These Arabs maintained the brain, the mind, is moulded by its own experiences. If a person as a child, for example, is brutalised, he will become a brutal man. Now some priests would reject that. They will claim that all evil is the work of Satan.’
‘And you, Father?’
‘I believe it is a combination of the two. If a man drinks wine inordinately,’ Father Thomas grinned at Ranulf, ‘his belly becomes bloated, his face red, his mind hazy. Now, to continue the analogy, if a mind is fed on hatred and resentment, what would happen then?’
‘I am sorry, Father, I don’t know!’
‘Well, the killer of these girls could be someone who has satiated every sexual desire and now wishes to expand his power. He acts as if he has the power of life and death.’
‘So the cutting of their throats is part of the sexual act?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Then why the mutilation?’
‘Ah.’ Father Thomas raised his eyebrows. ‘That might contradict my theory. Perhaps the killer is someone who has lost his sexual potency or, indeed, can only achieve it by such a dreadful act.’ Father Thomas ran his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘I do not know all the details but I suspect the latter theory is the more correct. Your killer, Hugh, hates women, prostitutes in particular. He blames them for something, holds them responsible and feels empowered to carry out sentence against them.’
‘So the killer is mad?’
‘Yes, probably, driven insane by the canker of hate growing within him.’
‘Would such a person act insane all the time?’
‘Oh, no, quite the opposite. Indeed, such killers possess tremendous cunning and use every trick and foible to draw a curtain over their evil deeds.’
‘So, it could be anyone?’
Father Thomas leaned closer. ‘Hugh, it could be you, it could be me, Ranulf, the King, the Archbishop of Canterbury.’ Father Thomas saw the puzzlement in Corbett’s eyes. ‘Oh, yes, it could be a priest, even someone living an apparently saintly life. Have you ever heard of the Slayer of Montpellier?’
‘No, no, I haven’t.’
‘About ten years ago in France in the city of Montpellier, a similar killer was at large. He slew over thirty women before being captured and you know his identity? A cleric. A brilliant lecturer in law at the university. I do not wish to frighten you, Hugh, but the killer could be the last person you suspect.’
‘Father Thomas,’ Ranulf leaned forward, his inertia now forgotten as he listened to the chilling words of the priest. ‘Father Thomas,’ he repeated, ‘I can understand, perhaps, such a man killing whores; but why Lady Somerville?’
Father Thomas shook his head. ‘Ranulf, I cannot answer that. Perhaps she was the only woman available at the time.’
‘But she wasn’t mutilated?’
‘Perhaps the killer felt angry at the way she helped the victims of his malice or. .’
‘Or what, Father?’
‘Perhaps she knew the true identity of the killer and had to be silenced.’
Corbett put his tankard down. ‘It’s strange you say that, Father, because Lady Somerville kept repeating the phrase, “The cowl does not make the monk”.’
‘Ah, yes, quite a popular one now and rather fitting to your task, Hugh. No one is what he or she may appear.’ Father Thomas rose and tightened the cord round his middle. ‘I cannot help you with Lady Somerville’s death, but wait.’ He went to the door, summoned a lay brother and whispered instructions to him. ‘I have sent for somone who might be able to assist you. Now, come, Hugh, what do you think of the ale?’
They were halfway through a discussion on brewing when a knock on the door disturbed them and a young monk, sandy haired and fresh faced, entered the room.
‘Ah, Brother David.’ Father Thomas made the usual introductions.
The monk gave Corbett a gap-toothed smile which made his freckled face look even more boyish. ‘Sir Hugh, how can I help you?’
‘Brother, on Monday, May eleventh, two women came here, Sisters of the Order of St Martha. Lady Somerville and Lady Mary Neville.’
‘Oh, yes, they came to visit two sick patients, women we had taken in.’
‘And what happened?’
‘They stayed about an hour, chatting and talking, then Lady Somerville said she had to go. Lady Mary tried to stop her, offered to accompany her across Smithfield but the older one, Lady Somerville, said no, she would be safe. She left and that was it.’
‘When did Lady Mary Neville leave?’
‘Oh, shortly afterwards.’
‘And what route did she take?’
The young brother smiled. ‘Sir Hugh, I cannot help you with that.’
Corbett thanked him and Brother David was halfway out of the room when he suddenly turned.
‘I heard about Lady Somerville’s murder,’ he remarked. ‘Her body was found near the scaffold in Smithfield?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s correct.’
The monk nodded towards the window. ‘It’s growing dark, the horse fair is now ended. If you wish, and this may help, I know there’s a beggar, a half-crazed man, who lost his legs in the King’s war. At night, he sleeps beneath the scaffold; he feels he is safe there.’ The young monk shrugged. ‘He may have seen something. I heard him one night, as he passed the priory gates, screaming that the devil was stalking Smithfield. I asked him what he meant but he lives in a world of his own. He is always claiming to see visions.’
The young monk closed the door behind him and Corbett stared first at Father Thomas then at Ranulf.
‘Chilling,’ he murmured. ‘The killer could be anyone but somehow I believe that Lady Somerville’s death does lie at the root of it all.’
They took their farewells of Father Thomas. Corbett paused awhile in the hospital to visit the wizened crones whom the Ladies Neville and Somerville had visited on the night of May the eleventh. These, however, proved witless, their minds wandering, their speech rambling so Corbett let them be. In the hospital courtyard he readjusted his cloak and looked at Ranulf who still appeared subdued, lost in his own thoughts.
‘Ranulf,’ Corbett teased gently. ‘What is the matter?’
‘Nothing, Master.’
Corbett linked his arm through his companion’s and pulled him closer. ‘Come on, man, you’ve been quiet as a nun!’
Ranulf shook himself free, stepped away and stared up into the gathering darkness; the blue sky was tinged with the dying rays of the setting sun and a faint breeze carried the fading sounds of the city towards them.
‘There’s something,’ he muttered. ‘But I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘And the rest?’
Ranulf sighed. ‘Perhaps I am growing old, Master. I go out drinking and roistering in the taverns. I rub shoulders with the kind of girls this killer has slain. I see their eyes dance with merriment. I tease them and pay them gold.’ He blew his cheeks out. ‘Now I see another side to their lives and. .’
‘And what?’
‘What really frightens me, Master, is what Father Thomas said. The killer could be anyone. If you and I hadn’t been in Winchester, like every other man in the city, we’d be under suspicion and that includes our friend Alexander Cade.’
Corbett’s face hardened. ‘What do you mean, Ranulf?’
‘Well, Cade’s a good law officer. He never takes bribes. He is thorough and ruthless. So why was he so quiet at the abbey? And I noticed that at St Lawrence Jewry he soon left the death house, he kept his distance. Perhaps I am wrong, Master, yet, I agree with you, he is hiding something.’
‘I suggest everyone is hiding something,’ Corbett answered. ‘You have heard Father Thomas. We are dealing with a man who leads two lives; an upright life in the daylight but, at night, he crawls the streets and alleyways hell bent on murder. Well, Ranulf, hold your nose and harden your stomach. It’s time we visited the scaffold.’