‘Your day went well, Ranulf?’ he asked innocently, closing the door behind him.
‘Yes, yes, it did.’
Corbett gazed round the beautiful room. Maeve stared at him curiously as if she failed to understand her husband’s irritation and bad temper.
‘I am sorry,’ Corbett muttered. ‘But this problem seems to pose few solutions. The killer could be anyone. All I have established is that he wears a hood and a cowl.’
‘So it could be a monk?’ Ranulf interrupted.
‘For God’s sake, Ranulf!’ Corbett snapped back. ‘Every man in the city possesses a hood and cowl!’ He settled himself on a stool. ‘And what have you done?’
Ranulf grinned from ear to ear. Corbett groaned to himself.
‘I used my initiative, Master. You may remember Lady Fitzwarren said we were welcome to view her work? Well, I paid a courtesy visit to the Lady Mary Neville.’
Maeve covered her mouth with her hand. Corbett stared down at the floor.
‘The day is not yet done, Master. Lady Fitzwarren has issued an invitation for you to join her at the hospital of St Katherine by the Tower. Who knows,’ Ranulf beamed, ‘we might find out more.’
Corbett covered his face with his hands.
Chapter 8
Corbett raised his head and gazed furiously at Ranulf.
‘I do not wish,’ he roared, ‘to be travelling round the city at the dead of night!’ He glared at Maeve who stood behind Ranulf, pushing the cuff of her sleeve into her mouth to stop her laughter.
‘But, Master, I thought it would help? We need to question both ladies, particularly Lady Mary. After all, she was the last person to see the Somerville woman alive.’
Corbett scuffed the toe of his boot on the carpet. Below, in the small hall, he could still hear Eleanor bawling and young Ranulf’s shrieks of delight. He glared at Ranulf and then at Maeve. Perhaps, he thought, it was best if they left; the house was in turmoil; Maeve had her mind set on her uncle’s imminent arrival and both children were in full voice. Corbett would have no peace and there were pressing matters to attend to.
‘Fine,’ he agreed. ‘But send Maltote ahead of us. Before we visit the Sisters of St Martha, I wish to meet the following: William of Senche, Brother Adam Warfield and his fat friend, Brother Richard. Tell these three redoubtable characters from Westminster that they are to meet me at The Three Cranes tavern in The Vintry. They will object, they will make excuses, they will inform you about what duties they have to perform, they may even be drunk. Tell them I don’t give a sod! They are summoned on the King’s authority and either they come or they spend the next two weeks in the Fleet, be they priest, monk or parish official!’
Ranulf, grinning from ear to ear, scampered off. In his chamber he washed carefully, changed his robes and preened himself in the metal disc which served as a mirror. ‘So far, so good,’ he murmured. He could not forget the Lady Mary and she had been so welcoming when he had paid her a courtesy visit on behalf of his master earlier in the day. Of course, Ranulf had told Lady Mary that Corbett had sent him. He only hoped his master didn’t interrogate the lady too closely, but, even in her dark house-gown, Lady Mary had been a vision of loveliness. She had sat opposite him in her small parlour serving him a cup of chilled Alsace wine and offering him sugared marzipan on a silver dish. Ranulf had acted his part, telling her how he was the son of a knight who had fallen on hard times. How he was now well placed in the Chancery, earned good fees and that he placed his good services entirely at her disposal. The Lady Mary had fluttered her eyelashes and he had trotted back to Bread Street like Galahad returning to Camelot.
Ranulf now pressed his damp hair into place and liberally sprinkled his doublet with rose water. He clambered downstairs to kiss his offspring good night and hustle a complaining Maltote out of the door and across to the tavern for their horses.
Corbett left the house an hour later, still disgruntled at Maeve’s total absorption with her uncle’s visit and nursing a sore elbow where young Ranulf, who had inveigled him into a short game in the buttery, had thrown his toy sword at him. ‘A sad day,’ Corbett grumbled, ‘when a man can’t find peace in his own home.’
Still muttering curses, he pulled his cloak around him and made his way across Trinity through the darkened streets to Old Fish Street and into The Vintry and the welcoming warmth of The Three Cranes tavern. He must have been there an hour, sitting in a darkened recess beside the great open hearth, before Ranulf and Maltote joined him, leading his three disgruntled visitors: William the Steward was half-drunk whilst the two monks looked peeved and red-faced at being unceremoniously dragged away from their evening meal. Corbett made them welcome and ordered tankards of watered ale for, by the looks of William’s flushed face, bleary eyes and fiery red nose, if the steward took any more wine he would fall into a drunken stupor. The sacristan was the only one of the three who appeared to have his wits about him.
‘We have been summoned here,’ he drew his dark robes about him, ‘without good cause or reason.’
Corbett made a face. ‘Monk, the King has summoned you here. So, if you object, take it up with him.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Honest answers to honest questions.’
‘I have answered your questions.’
‘What’s been happening at Westminster Abbey and Palace?’
‘What do you mean?’
Corbett drew Somerville’s drawing from his purse and tossed it at the sacristan, pushing the thick tallow candle closer so the monk could study it.
‘What do you make of that, Adam of Warfield?’
The sacristan studied it. ‘A crude drawing,’ he snapped.
Corbett saw he was blustering and sensed his fear. Brother Richard leaned over and, bleary-eyed, also examined the drawing.
‘Scandalous!’ he mumbled. ‘Whoever drew this offends the Church.’
‘Lady Somerville drew it,’ Corbett replied. ‘A high-ranking member of the Sisters of St Martha. She worked in the vestry and laundry of the abbey. What did she discover, this widow of good repute, this pious noblewoman? What did she see which made her draw such a cruel parody of so-called “men of God”? Master William, perhaps you can help?’
The steward shook his head and Ranulf, sitting behind Corbett’s visitors, smirked from ear to ear. He always enjoyed such occasions, when the so-called ‘pious’, the self-seeking, high and mighty, were brought to account. Corbett was forever quoting St Augustine: ‘Quis custodiet custodes?’ ‘Who shall guard the guards?’ Ranulf was forever repeating it and he couldn’t resist choosing this occasion to murmur it into the ear of Adam of Warfield. The monk turned, his lip curling like a dog.
‘Shut up, knave!’ he snarled.
‘Enough!’ Corbett ordered. ‘Brother Adam, Brother Richard, Master William, did you know any of the whores recently murdered in the city?’
‘No!’ they chorused in unison.
‘Do the names Agnes or Isabeau mean anything to you?’
Adam of Warfield shot to his feet. ‘We are men of God!’ he snapped. ‘We are priests, monks bound by chastity. Why should we have anything to do with whores, prostitutes and courtesans?’ He leaned over the table, his eyes glaring with hatred. ‘Do you have any more questions, clerk?’
Corbett made a face. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘But you still haven’t answered the ones I have asked.’
‘We don’t know any whores.’
‘And you know nothing about Lady Somerville’s death?’
‘No, we do not!’ the monk shouted, disturbing the other drinkers.
‘Or what she meant by “The cowl does not make the monk”?’
‘Master Corbett, I am leaving. Master William, Brother Richard?’
The monk swept towards the door, his two tipsy companions staggering behind him. As the monk’s robe swirled about him, Corbett caught a glimpse of his high-heeled, costly Spanish leather riding boots and the beautiful gilded spurs attached to the heels.