They left the priory and crossed the now deserted ground of Smithfield market. A few people still tarried; a horse coper, desperately trying to sell two old nags who looked so exhausted they could hardly stand; a huckster with his barrow almost empty of apples; two boys kicked an inflated pig’s bladder, whilst a drunk leaned against one of the elms and chanted some ribald song. The darkness was now gathering. They passed the spot where criminals were burnt and climbed the gently sloping hill where the great three-branched scaffold stood. The night breeze wafted down the bittersweet smell of corruption. Corbett and Ranulf immediately lifted the hems of their cloaks to cover their mouths and noses for in the poor light they could see the bodies still dangling from their ropes. Corbett told Ranulf to stay and went ahead to inspect. He kept his eyes away from the lolling heads, tried not to glimpse the bloated stomachs, the bare feet dangling as if still trying to grasp the earth. He looked round the scaffold: nothing. But then he heard the clatter of wooden slats so he stopped and waited. A strange-looking creature was making his way up the beaten track towards the scaffold. In the gathering dusk he looked like some dwarf swathed in rags. He stopped when he saw Ranulf, one hand went out, followed by a whine for alms. Then he glimpsed Corbett striding purposely down the track towards him. The hand fell away and the fellow turned as quick as a rabbit, despite the wooden slats fastened to the stumps of his knees.
‘Don’t go!’ Corbett called.
Ranulf seized the man by the shoulder. The beggar whimpered; his twisted, lined face contorted into a pitying plea.
‘For pity’s sake, let me go!’ he cried. ‘I am a poor beggar man!’
Corbett came up and crouched before him. He stared into the bright half-mad eyes, noting the unshaven cheeks and jaw, the lines of saliva from toothless gums running down either side of the mouth.
‘You come here every night, don’t you?’
The fellow still tugged at Ranulf’s hand.
‘We mean you no harm.’ Corbett added soothingly. ‘Indeed.’ He stretched out his hand where some pennies and two silver coins caught the beggar’s eyes. The man relaxed and grinned.
‘You mean well,’ the fellow said. ‘You come to help old Ragwort.’
He sat rocking on his wooden slats and Corbett felt uneasy as if he was talking to someone half buried in the dark earth.
‘You mean me no harm,’ he repeated and Corbett saw the fellow’s dirty hand come up for the coins.
‘These are yours,’ Corbett whispered, ‘if you tell us what you saw.’
‘I sees visions,’ the beggar replied, more composed now, settling down as Ranulf released his grip. ‘I sees the devil walk. That’s why I hide with the dead. They protect me. Sometimes I talk to them. I tell them what I know, what I see and sometimes they talk to me. They say how sorry they are.’ The fellow grinned slyly. ‘Never alone am I. Even in winter.’ He pointed to the lights of St Bartholomew’s. ‘When the sun goes, so do I. I sleep in the cellars but I don’t see my visions there.’
‘And what did you see?’ Corbett persisted. ‘The night the old lady died?’
The fellow screwed up his eyes. ‘I forgets now.’
Coins exchanged hands.
‘Now I remember!’ he yelled, almost deafening Corbett with his shout.
‘Hush!’ Corbett raised a finger to his lips. ‘Just tell me, and the rest of the money is yours.’
Ragwort twisted his neck and nodded towards the scaffold. ‘I am sitting there talking to my friends.’
Corbett suddenly realised he meant the people hanging from the ropes.
‘When suddenly I hears footsteps and sees a figure coming out of the darkness. It’s the woman.’
‘Then what?’
‘I hears other footsteps.’
‘What did they sound like?’
‘Oh, heavy. The devil is heavy, you know.’
Corbett glanced in exasperation at Ranulf. The beggar was half mad and the clerk wondered how much of what he was saying was true and how much the product of a fevered imagination.
‘What happened then?’ he muttered.
‘I knows it’s the devil,’ the fellow repeated. ‘I wants to warn the woman but she stops. She looks back into the darkness and cries out, “Who is it?” The devil draws closer and the woman says, “Oh, it’s you”.’
‘Repeat that.’
‘The old woman says, “Oh, it’s you”.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘The devil draws near. I hear the slash of the knife and the devil has gone.’
‘What did the devil look like?’
‘Oh, he wore a cloak and great black sandals on gnarled feet.’
‘Sandals?’ Corbett exclaimed and looked at Ranulf. ‘One of our monkish friends!’
‘Oh, no!’ the beggar cried. ‘It was the Lord Satan for he flew off, his great bat wings beating the night air.’
Corbett sighed and handed the rest of the coins over.
‘Too good to be true,’ he murmured. ‘Come on, Ranulf, we’ve done enough!’
Corbett and Ranulf walked back through the darkened city to Bread Street. They found the household in turmoil. Maltote had returned and he and Ranulf fell on each other’s necks like long-lost brothers. Corbett, raising his eyes heavenwards, kissed Maeve and baby Eleanor now staring up at him, round-eyed in excitement, and went upstairs to his bedchamber. Maeve followed with a cup of wine and sat beside him on the bed.
‘It’s dark out there!’ Corbett said wearily. He looked at the lattice window. ‘Dark as hell,’ he added. ‘There’s something evil, nasty, brutish. Not human evil, not like de Craon who likes power, or Edward who wants to be seen as the new Justinian of the west!’ Corbett grasped his wife’s wrist. ‘You are never to go out by yourself, certainly not at night, not until this business is finished!’
Then he put the wine cup down and hugged his wife, kissing her gently on the neck but, when he looked up, the darkness still pressed against the window.
Corbett rose early the next morning, broke his fast in the buttery, told Griffin, who was stumbling about the kitchen, that he was not to be disturbed and went to his small writing office at the back of the house. He took out a small piece of parchment, smoothed it with pumice stone and began to list everything he knew.
First: sixteen prostitutes had been killed. One dying every month, usually on or around the thirteenth of the month. They were all killed in the same way: throats slit and bodies mutilated. Most had been killed in their own chambers, though the last one had been in a church. Corbett bit the end of his quill. What else did he know? According to Cade the victims were all young, more courtesans than common street-walkers. So why did the killer select just these rather than the old hags and raddled whores who slept in the stinking alleyways? Corbett threw back his head. If most were killed in their chambers they must have opened their doors, allowing their killer to get close, so it must be someone they trusted? And who could that be? Someone rich? A customer common to them all? Or a city official? Or a priest? Corbett scratched his brow. Yet Cade had reported that no one had seen anything. Who was this killer? Who could slip like the shadow of death, stab, hack and disappear like some demonic will-o-the-wisp? And why the thirteenth? Was it some Satanic feast? Was the date significant? And why just one a month? What motive was there? Corbett recalled Father Thomas’s words and shivered. He dipped his quill in the ink and continued writing.
Second: Lady Somerville’s death. She had been killed out in the open. If the mad beggar could be believed, and Corbett distrusted the fellow’s ramblings, Lady Somerville must have known her killer for she called out in the darkness to him. Did this provide any clue to the murderer? Again, Corbett was brought to the common denominator. Whom would Lady Somerville know? Whom would she stop for in the darkness? A priest? A monk? A city official? Someone from her own class? Someone she could trust?