‘And the wall itself?’
‘Nothing but a hole. Apparently our thief simply hacked his way through, crumbling the stone by lighting a small fire then bringing it out in sacking and scattering it amongst the graves.’
‘It would take months!’ Limmer repeated unbelievingly.
‘It can be done,’ Corbett replied. ‘I have seen miners in the King’s army perform a similar feat against castle walls. Remember, it’s not natural rock but man-made slabs of stone. Once cracked, it’s a matter of scooping it out.’
‘And the final stone?’ Cade said. ‘The one Ranulf disturbed in the crypt?’
‘The tunnel ends there,’ Ranulf replied. ‘But if you brace yourself and thrust with your feet, the stone simply slides in and out. Our thief even fashioned a great hook to pull it back. Once pushed away there’s a natural door into the crypt and the King’s treasure.’
Corbett stared round the forlorn cemetery. ‘So, we have a man probably working at night. He begins here, digs through the soft clay until he reaches the base of the wall. He then hacks through the brickwork, probably weakened by fire, bringing out the results of his handiwork in sacks. The final stone is also attacked, weakened and an iron hook and ring placed in it so it can be pushed in and out. The thief helps himself to some of the royal plate, though his real quarry are those sacks of coins.’ He stared round. ‘And now they have gone.’
Corbett rubbed the side of his face with his hand. He’d felt pleased that his theory had proved correct. But two problems remained. First, the thief? He had no doubt it was Puddlicott but where the hell was the man? And, more importantly, where were his ill-gotten gains? Corbett squeezed his lips between his fingers. Secondly, although the secret life of these monks had been revealed in the full glare of day, he still had no evidence to link them to the murders. Nothing except the scribblings of an old woman and the eyewitness account of a beggar boy and a common prostitute. Corbett sighed and looked up at the blue sky.
‘Of course,’ he muttered. ‘There’s a final problem. Who will tell the King. .? We have done what we can here,’ he continued loudly. ‘Master Cade, you are to take the archers and secure the treasury room, fill in the stone, bring masons and carpenters from the city and do what you can. Master Limmer, I want you to forget the law! Our three prisoners are to be taken to the Tower and, short of loss of life or limb, they are to be interrogated until the full story is known.’
The soldier, nervous at what he was being involved in, spat and shook his head.
‘Sir Hugh, two of them are priests!’
‘I don’t give a damn if they are bishops!’ Corbett snarled. ‘Take them and do what you have to. This is treason, man. They have robbed a royal treasury. You would soon object if the King could not pay your wages.’
‘How do we know they were involved?’ Cade interrupted.
‘Oh, you will,’ Corbett replied. ‘Master William perhaps, Brother Richard maybe, but Adam of Warfield definitely. I also suggest you search the latter’s chamber. I am sure you will find more than an expensive pair of riding boots.’ Corbett clapped his hands. ‘Now, come on, there’s yet more to be done.’
Limmer and Cade hurried away. Corbett slapped Maltote on the shoulder and the young messenger, who was staring open-mouthed at the hole in the ground, jumped and blinked.
‘Yes, Master?’
‘Take two horses, Maltote. The fastest we have. You are to ride to Winchester and tell the King exactly what you have seen here. You are to ask His Grace to return with all speed to London. Do you understand? You have money?’
The young man nodded.
‘Then go now!’
Maltote hurried off and Corbett grasped Ranulf by the arm.
‘Take your care whilst you can, Ranulf,’ he murmured. ‘For, when the King returns, the city will buzz like an overturned beehive!’
They waited until Limmer sent archers round to guard the secret tunnel, then Corbett and Ranulf walked back through the abbey grounds.
‘What shall we do, Master?’
Corbett watched Limmer’s archers now hurrying backwards and forwards and noted with relief that fresh troops, men-at-arms, had also arrived from the Tower. Some of the abbey lay-brothers, officials, scullions and servants from the kitchens wandered about asking questions, whilst at the gates, archers with drawn swords were pushing back a small crowd of curious bystanders.
‘Master, I asked, what shall we do?’
Corbett looked at his dishevelled manservant.
‘Well, you need a wash and I need something to eat and drink. So, for a while, it’s back to The Golden Turk to sit and take stock.’ He squeezed his servant’s arm. ‘Oh, by the way, I am grateful for you going down the tunnel. I may have gone in but I doubt if I would have returned.’
Ranulf was about to make some mischievous reply when, suddenly, Lady Mary Neville appeared, her black hair falling loose under her blue veil as she ran breathlessly towards them.
‘Sir Hugh, Master Ranulf, what is the matter?’
The young widow stopped in front of them, her face slightly red, her eyes sparkling with excitement.
‘What is happening?’ she repeated. ‘There are soldiers all over the abbey. They say some of the brothers have been arrested! Have you found the killer, Sir Hugh?’
Corbett took the young woman’s small, white hand in his, lifted it and brushed it softly with his lips.
‘Oh, more than that, Lady Mary. But for the moment, let the gossips have their way.’ He bowed and moved on, Ranulf trotting enviously behind him.
‘Oh, Master Ranulf!’
Corbett deliberately walked on as Ranulf stopped and returned to Lady Neville.
‘Yes, Lady Mary?’
The young widow looked at him coyly. She lifted her hand and Ranulf, with a flourish which would have been the envy of any courtier, caught it and raised it to his lips. The young woman laughed, withdrew her hand, turned and walked swiftly away. Only then did Ranulf realise she had pressed a small gold amulet into his hand with the phrase ‘Amor vincit omnia — Love conquers all’ inscribed on it. Ranulf gazed after her, speechless with amazement, until the roars of Master ‘Long Face’ shook him from his golden reverie.
Chapter 11
After their journey down river, Corbett went into the tavern whilst Ranulf stayed to wash himself in the water butts near the horse trough. By the time he rejoined his master, the landlord was serving two bowls of hot spiced lamb and chunks of meat, roasted on a spit, floating in a thick gravy with onions, leeks and other vegetables. Corbett had bought a small jug of wine, the best the house could provide, and as he filled their cups commended Ranulf for his bravery, until his servant blushed crimson with embarrassment.
‘Do you think we’ve reached the end of the story, Master?’ Ranulf said trying to divert the conversation away from his own achievements.
‘I don’t know. What do we have here, Ranulf? Mischievous monks and a subtle thief who has stolen the royal treasure. These things we can prove but what is more difficult, is to make the logical leap and link the debauchery in the abbey with the robbery of the royal treasure house and then with the deaths of those poor prostitutes in London, not to mention the murder of poor Lady Somerville and Father Benedict.’ Corbett scraped his bowl clean with his horn spoon, then wrapped the spoon in a napkin and put it back in his pouch. ‘Everything we know seems to prove there is a link, but a good lawyer would demonstrate we have fashioned a net with as many holes as it has cords. Moreover, we do not know who the thief is.’
‘It must be Puddlicott?’
‘Oh, yes, we think it is; we know it is. You know; I know. We are all very knowledgeable,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Yet we have no proof. Who is Puddlicott, where is Puddlicott? We can’t even answer these questions.’ He picked up his wine cup and held it, gently rocking it to and fro. ‘Above all, we do not know who the murderer is.’ He took a generous swig of wine, and his servant glanced at him curiously — Corbett was known for his sobriety.