‘You wanted to see me?’
Corbett turned and stared at the young man standing in the doorway.
‘My name is Gilbert Somerville. The maid said you were Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s Emissary.’
The young man offered a limp handshake. Corbett stared at the black, dishevelled hair, the white puffy cheeks, red-rimmed eyes and slack mouth and jaw. A wine toper, Corbett concluded. A son grieving for his mother but someone who loved his claret to the exclusion of everything else.
‘I am sorry.’ The young man tugged at his fur-lined robe as he ushered Corbett to a seat. ‘I slept late. Please sit down.’ The young man scratched his stubbled cheek. ‘My mother’s funeral was yesterday,’ he murmured. ‘The house is still not clean, I. .’ his voice trailed away.
‘My condolences, Master Gilbert.’
‘Sir Gilbert,’ the young man interrupted.
‘My condolences on your mother’s death, Sir Gilbert. But I believe you returned in the early hours of Tuesday, May twelfth, found your mother not in her chamber and organised a search?’
‘Yes. The servants found her near the scaffold at Smithfield.’
‘Before her death did your mother act, or speak, out of character?’
‘My mother hardly ever spoke to me so I left her alone.’
Corbett saw the anger and the hurt in the young man’s eyes.
‘She’s gone now,’ Corbett replied gently. ‘Why such a discord between a mother and her only son?’
‘In her eyes I was not my father.’
No, no, you’re not, Corbett thought. He had vague recollections of the elder Somerville. A tall, brisk fighting man who had given the kingdom good service in the closing years of the Welsh wars. Corbett vaguely remembered seeing him, striding through the chancery offices, or arm-in-arm with the King in some camp, or walking the corridors of a castle or palace.
‘Does the proverb “The cowl does not make the monk” mean anything to you?’
Somerville pulled a wry mouth. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Did your mother have any confidants here in her household?’
The young man looked sourly at Corbett. ‘No, she did not, she was of the old school, Master Corbett.’
‘Sir Hugh Corbett!’
‘Touche!’ the young man replied. ‘No, Sir Hugh, my mother kept herself to herself, the only people she spoke to were the Sisters of the Order of St Martha.’
Corbett stared at the young man. ‘So, you have no idea about the who, why or how of your mother’s murder?’
‘No, I do not.’
Corbett chilled at this arrogant young man’s curt dismissal of his mother’s violent death and stared around the chamber.
‘Did your mother have any private papers?’
‘Yes, she did but I have been through them. There’s nothing there.’
‘Don’t you want vengeance for your mother’s death?’
The young man shrugged one shoulder. ‘Of course, but you are Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Secrets. I have every confidence in you, Clerk. You will find the killer. You resemble my father. You scurry about like the King’s whippet, fetching this or carrying that. The killer will be found and I shall take a flagon of wine down to the Elms to watch the bastard hang.’
Corbett rose, kicking over the stool behind him.
‘Sir Gilbert, I bid you adieu.’ He turned and walked towards the door.
‘Corbett!’
The clerk carried on walking, he reached the foot of the stairs before Somerville caught up with him.
‘Sir Hugh, please.’
Corbett turned. ‘I am sorry your mother’s dead,’ he said quietly. ‘But, Sir, I find your conduct disgraceful.’
The young man’s eyes slid away. ‘You don’t understand,’ he murmured. ‘Father did this! Father did that! Yes, my mother’s dead. So what, clerk? In her eyes I was always dead.’
Corbett gazed at the young man and idly wondered if he had enough hate to commit murder. The young man’s bleary eyes caught his.
‘Oh, no!’ he muttered. ‘I can guess what you’re thinking, Master Clerk. In my eyes my mother didn’t exist so why should I kill her? But wait, I have something for you.’ He ran up the stairs and returned a few minutes later with a scrap of parchment in his hands. ‘Take this,’ he mumbled. ‘Study it and use it whatever way you wish. There’s no further reason for you to stay or return.’
Corbett sketched a bow, closed the door behind him and left.
He reached St Martin’s Lane before he stopped to examine the scrap of parchment. It was a list of clothing, probably drawn up by Lady Somerville in connection with her work at the abbey, but she had roughly etched crude drawings of monks with the hands joined as if in prayer. They were childish and clumsy except, now and again, instead of drawing the tonsured head of a monk, Lady Somerville had drawn the face of a crow, a fox, a pig or a dog. But what really fascinated him was that in the centre of this group, taller than the rest, was a figure dressed in a monk’s habit and cowl, the hood pushed back to reveal the slavering jaws of a fierce wolf. Corbett studied the piece of parchment and tried to follow the logic of the dead woman’s thoughts. Had she been listing items from the laundry and this had jolted a memory? Corbett shook his head.
‘Whatever it is,’ he mumbled, ‘the Lady Somerville’s perception of our brothers at Westminster left a great deal to be desired.’
‘What’s that? What’s that?’
Corbett stared as a small beggar woman, holding a battered wooden doll, jumped up and down in front of him.
‘What’s that? What’s that?’ she repeated. ‘Do you like my baby?’
Corbett gazed around and realised the crowds were thronging about him. He tossed a penny at the beggar woman and walked briskly back to Bread Street.
Corbett sensed the confusion as soon as he entered his house. He heard the shrieks from the solar, recognising the clear but powerful voice of Ranulf’s young son. Griffin dolefully confirmed the news: Ranulf and Maltote were busy playing with the young boy and were supposed to be looking after baby Eleanor whilst Lady Maeve was in the garden. Corbett followed him out. Maeve was busy amongst the lilies and marigolds, roses and gillyflowers. He stood and watched her. She was busy talking to the maid Anna and, in the dying sunlight, Corbett stood under the porch and admired how Maeve had transformed an overgrown moorland into a beautiful garden with gravel paths, sapling apple trees and climbing vines along a wall which caught the sun. Further down, beyond where a small orchard would grow, Maeve had directed the builders to erect a great white-washed dovecote next to a long row of beehives. Maeve turned as if she sensed his presence.
‘Hugh! Hugh! Come here! Look!’ She pointed towards the ground. ‘The herbs have lasted.’
Corbett gazed at the mustard, parsley, sage, garlic, fennel, hyssop and borage she had planted the previous year.
‘You see!’ Maeve cried triumphantly. ‘They have grown.’ She turned, her beautiful face flushed with the heat and exertions from her work. ‘If all goes well, at Michaelmas we’ll have more than salt to flavour the meat.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘You look tired, Hugh?’ Maeve took off the thick woollen gloves she was using and handed a small trowel to Anna who had been helping her weed amongst the sprouting herb beds. ‘Come.’ She wiped her brow on the back of her hand.
‘A cool tankard of ale. Anna and I have prepared supper.’
By the time he had washed and refreshed himself, Corbett felt better though the evening meal was a riotous one. Young Ranulf shouted all the way through and baby Eleanor, supposedly asleep in her cot, gurgled with laughter at his antics before bawling for her own food, pieces of sugar-loaf soaked in milk. Any conversation was impossible, for Ranulf had regained his good humour — too quickly, Corbett thought suspiciously — and insisted on telling everyone about Maltote’s recent clumsiness with a dagger. At last the meal ended, Corbett snapping that Maeve and Ranulf should join him in the solar.