Third: what did Lady Somerville mean by the phrase ‘the cowl does not make the monk’? Was this a reference to the double life of the killer? Was it the murderer she was talking about? Or did it refer to the private life of some priest or monk? Corbett bit his lip and shook his head. Lady Somerville could have been talking about some other scandal, perhaps something she had seen at Westminster? And was her murderer the same red-handed slayer of the prostitutes? Or someone else who wished to make it look that way?
Fourth: Father Benedict. What troubled him? Why did he send that cryptic message to Cade? Wasn’t it strange that Cade never managed to find him and discover the truth behind the priest’s concerns? And was Father Benedict’s murder linked to the death of the prostitutes?
Fifth: Richard Puddlicott? Was this master trickster involved in one of de Craon’s subtle schemes? Did this have anything to do with the deaths Corbett was investigating? Corbett leaned back in his chair, his mind whirling with the different possibilities.
‘How many mysteries here?’ he murmured to himself. ‘One, two or three? Are they separate or connected?’
‘Hugh!’
Corbett whirled round. Maeve, sleepy-eyed, stood in the doorway. She looked like a ghost in the white, woollen blanket wrapped round her. She tiptoed over and kissed him gently on the head.
‘You’re talking to yourself,’ she murmured.
‘I always do.’ He looked up at his wife. ‘Is Ranulf up and about?’
‘Sleeping like a pig, I heard him snoring from the foot of the stairs. He and Maltote were out last night. Don’t say anything, Hugh, but I think our Ranulf’s in love.’
Corbett smiled, though his stomach lurched.
‘Hugh, do you know who it is?’
‘No,’ he lied. ‘You know Ranulf, Maeve. His love-life is as intricate and complex as a piece of your embroidery.’
Maeve spun on her heel. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she called out over her shoulder, ‘Maltote brought me news. Dearest Uncle, the Lord Morgan, will be with us within a week!’
Corbett waited until the door closed behind her. ‘Oh, God,’ he sighed. ‘Ranulf loves the Lady Mary Neville and will do something foolish and Uncle Morgan will only make matters worse!’
‘I told you not to talk to yourself. So, it’s the Lady Mary Neville!’
Corbett spun round. ‘You fox!’ he shouted. ‘I thought you were gone!’
‘The Lady Mary Neville.’ Maeve’s eyes rounded. ‘I have heard of her. Ranulf aims high. Who knows,’ she slipped behind the door before Corbett could throw something, ‘next he will be wooing some Welsh princess!’
Corbett smiled and went back to his notes. He remembered his conversation with Cade and angrily scratched his head. He had searched for a pattern but, if there was one, why did it break down? He picked up his quill.
Item One: De Craon, what was his role?
Item Two: Where was Puddlicott? Why did he appear in Paris then in London? What was he doing? Was there some connection between him and de Craon? Did either or both have anything to do with the murders?
Item Three: What was Cade hiding?
Item Four: What was Warfield hiding?
Item Five: What did Somerville mean by her cryptic remarks about monks and something evil at Westminster? Did Father Benedict become her confidant? Was the same person responsible for their deaths?
Item Six: Was their murderer also the slayer of the prostitutes? If so, he must have been busy in the week beginning May 11th. Killing Somerville, Father Benedict and the whore Isabeau on subsequent evenings.
Item Seven: The last murder victim, Agnes, whose corpse he had viewed. She had been killed two days ago, just as Corbett was travelling back to the city. Her death had occurred on the 20th, not on the 13th. Why?
Corbett shivered. Was Cade correct? Was there really a pattern? Or were they hunting one, two or even three killers?
Chapter 7
An hour later a disgruntled, uneasy Corbett left the house quietly vowing he would have words with Ranulf who was still sleeping off the after-effects of last night’s drinking. Maeve was now engrossed in the preparations for ‘dear’ Uncle’s arrival and Corbett was determined to untangle the web of mysteries confronting him. He crossed the thronged marketplace of West Cheap, stopping to enquire from the beadles of any news in the city, but they shook their heads.
‘Nothing, sir.’ was the reply. ‘A house was broken into in Three Needle Street, two rogues armed with catapults broke a window in Lothbury and a student from Oxford became drunk and played the bagpipes in Bishopsgate.’
Corbett smiled his thanks and moved on across into Wood Street then Gracechurch Street, dodging and moving aside as the timber merchants opened their stalls and prepared for a brisk day’s business. He asked directions from a loud-mouthed apprentice, the boy shook his head, shouting that he didn’t know where any Frenchman lived. A maid, carrying buckets of fresh water up from the Conduit, showed him the house de Craon had rented, a small, two-storied building, tightly wedged between two shops, dishevelled and rather crumbling. Corbett grinned to himself, the bells of the church were still ringing for the first Mass of the day and he hoped he was early enough to rouse de Craon from a peaceful sleep. He lifted the great brass door-knocker and brought it down with a crash then quickly repeated the action. He heard footsteps, the door was thrown open and de Craon appeared, fully dressed in a dark red cote-hardie and leather breeches pushed into soft black riding boots. His cunning, foxlike face gave Corbett the falsest of smiles.
‘My dear Hugh, we have been waiting for you.’ He clasped Corbett’s hand, holding it tightly between his. ‘Hugh, you look tired. Or should it be Lord Corbett?’ The Frenchman’s close-set, green eyes glittered with amused malice. ‘Oh, yes, we’ve heard the news. Come in! Come in!’
Corbett followed the man, who would love to kill him, into a small, downstairs chamber. The room was shabby; the rushes on the floor were dirty, the fire a pile of cold ash, the walls cracked and peeled and the chair de Craon pulled out from a table looked splintered and wobbled dangerously.
‘Sit down! Sit down!’
Corbett, ever watchful, accepted de Craon’s invitation whilst the Frenchman sat on the corner of a table swinging his legs. The clerk just wished the Frenchman would wipe that sly malicious smile off his face. De Craon clapped his hands.
‘Well, Hugh, is this a courtesy call? Oh,’ he leaned forward and touched Corbett on the hand, ‘I have met the Lady Maeve. Your daughter, she is beautiful. She takes after her mother. You want some wine?’
‘No!’
De Craon’s smile faded. ‘Fine, Corbett, what do you want?’
‘Why are you here, de Craon?’
‘I bring messages of courtesy and friendship from my master, the King of France.’
‘That’s a lie!’
De Craon glared at Corbett. ‘One of these days, Hugh,’ he said in a mock whisper. ‘One of these days I’ll make you choke on your insults!’
Now Corbett smiled. ‘Promises, promises, de Craon! You still haven’t told me why you are in England and why you tarry in London.’
De Craon stood up and walked to the other side of the table.
‘We have French merchants living here, they have interests which affect King Philip. You English are known for being hostile to foreigners.’
‘Then, de Craon, you should be careful!’
‘Oh, Hugh, I am and so should you. Where’s your shadow, Ranulf?’
‘At the top of the street,’ Corbett lied. ‘Sitting in a tavern with a group of royal archers waiting for me to return.’
De Craon cocked his head to one side. ‘You were in Winchester, now you are in London. Why should the King send his most trusted clerk and Keeper of the Secret Seal back to the city?’ De Craon held a finger to his lips. ‘There are the murders,’ he continued, as if talking to himself. ‘I know the fat ones in the city do not want their secret sins brought to light. There’s the death of Lady Somerville and, of course, the mysterious fire at the house of the King’s old chaplain, Father Benedict.’ De Craon preened himself, running a hand through his thinning red hair. ‘Now what else could there be?’ he asked in mock wonderment.