He paused and Corbett whistled through his teeth in disbelief.
‘And when did Puddlicott dig his tunnel?’
‘According to Warfield, at night, but because the cemetery was deserted, sometimes even during the day.’
Corbett’s hand flew to his mouth. ‘Good God!’ he breathed.
‘Sir Hugh,’ Limmer asked. ‘What is the matter?’
Corbett just shook his head. He did not want to confess that he had probably seen Puddlicott, for he remembered his first visit to the abbey and the old gardener, hooded, with his back to him. No gardener, Corbett thought bitterly, but Master Puddlicott in one of his clever disguises.
‘What else?’ he asked sharply. ‘Could they tell us anything about Puddlicott?’
‘No, the rogue was a master of the shadows. He always contacted them and never told them where he stayed. He was either late or very early and would disappear without a word to anyone. Sometimes he would be a regular visitor, at other times he would be absent for weeks.’
‘And the gold and silver which was stolen?’
‘They received their share but, naturally, Puddlicott took the lion’s portion.’
‘And the murderers?’
‘Ah.’ The scribe shook his head. ‘They deny any involvement in anyone’s death, be it Lady Somerville, Father Benedict or the whores in the city.’ The scribe plucked a quill from behind his ear and tapped the parchment. ‘However,’ he added hopefully, ‘Warfield is a killer. He is no more a man of God, Sir Hugh, than the creatures in the royal menagerie. I have attended many interrogations,’
Corbett looked into the flint-like eyes and could well believe it.
‘I have attended many similar interrogations,’ the scribe continued firmly. ‘Warfield is a murderer, he has killed once. I am sure he had a hand in the death of the prior. You know the way of the world, Sir Hugh? A man who kills once will always kill again.’ The scribe rolled the parchment up. ‘More than that,’ he concluded flatly, ‘I can tell you nothing.’ He smiled bleakly. ‘Of course, we still have further business with Brother Adam.’
Corbett thanked him and the little man waddled off, back to his duties.
‘What further can we do?’ Limmer asked.
‘As I have said, release Brother Richard into the hands of the church. Interrogate Warfield. I also want a message taken to the Sheriffs and Guildmasters. On the King’s authority, they are to make a thorough search of the city. They are to look for plate bearing the royal insignia and report any influx of freshly minted coins. The sheriffs are to hand over a summary of their findings to me at my lodgings in Bread Street. Do you understand that?’
Corbett waited until the soldier faithfully repeated his instructions, bade him adieu and left the Tower.
By the time he had reached Bread Street, Ranulf had returned from his errand. Maeve was absent, taking her small daughter and the maid Anna to one of the stalls at Cornhill. So Corbett, feeling tired and dejected, went upstairs to his bedchamber. He kicked off his boots and lay down on the red and white silk cover. He drifted in and out of sleep, his mind plagued by horrible nightmares, peopled by torturers, the walking corpses of young girls, their throats slashed from ear to ear, Adam of Warfield’s hate-filled eyes and the roars of wrath of his royal master. Corbett woke and stared at a hanging on the wall, depicting Salome’s dance before Herod. Why had Maeve hung it there? he wondered. He tossed and turned and thought about the death of the last whore, Hawisa. Why had she been killed at the time she had? Corbett had expected the next murder to have occurred sometime in the middle of June. He thought of the Lady Mary Neville and her same sweet smile as his first wife. Corbett drifted into a calmer sleep and was awoken by Maeve, bending over him, shaking him by the shoulder.
‘Hugh! Hugh! Supper is ready!’
Corbett yawned and swung his feet to the floor.
‘Come on, clerk!’ Maeve teased with mock severeness. ‘You stay in bed and there’s work to be done. More importantly, the table has been laid and the meal is ready.’
Maeve’s teasing eventually drew Corbett out of his dark depression. Moreover, his wife was determined that he now attend to certain household duties. Letters had come from the bailiffs of their manor at Leighton in Essex. She wished to discuss preparation arrangements about Lord Morgan’s stay. Would Hugh be free of his duties? So Corbett, at his wife’s insistence, spent the next few days in his own house. He played with baby Eleanor. He sat in the garden with his steward Griffin going through household accounts and, once again, tried to advise the impetuous Ranulf against his love tryst with the Lady Mary Neville. However, Ranulf was totally smitten and Corbett sensed the change; his manservant’s red hair was now groomed and carefully covered in oil, his doublet, hose and boots were the very best Cheapside could provide and Corbett secretly smiled at the richly perfumed oils Ranulf rubbed into his skin. Maeve enjoyed every minute of it and, when Ranulf hired a troupe of musicians to serenade the Lady Mary, she collapsed in a fit of giggles.
Such domesticity, however, was shattered by Maltote’s return from Winchester. He looked ashen-faced and highly nervous when Corbett and Ranulf met him in the clerk’s private chancery office.
‘You gave the King my news?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘And his reaction?’
‘He drew his dagger and, if the Lord de Warrenne hadn’t been there, he would have thrown it at me!’
‘What happened then?’
‘Most of the furniture in the chamber was ruined. The King took a great mace from the wall and smashed everything in sight. Master, I thought he had fallen into a fit! He cursed and ranted. He said he would hang every bloody monk in the abbey.’
‘And me?’
‘You’ll be exiled to the Island of Lundy, stripped of all offices and made to fast on bread and water.’
Corbett groaned and sat down on the chair. The King’s rages were terrible and Edward probably meant every word he uttered, at least until he calmed down.
‘And what now?’
‘I left Winchester the same evening. The King was in the palace yard screaming at the porters, grooms, men-at-arms and household officials. The chests were to be packed, sumpter ponies to be loaded and messengers sent out. He will be at Sheen tomorrow morning and demands your presence there.’
Corbett caught Ranulf’s evil grin.
‘You will be with me, Ranulf!’ he snapped. ‘Sweet Lord!’ Corbett muttered. ‘Tomorrow the King; the next day Lord Morgan! Believe me, Ranulf, Holy Mother Church is right when she says marriage is a state only the foolish will rush into!’
‘What shall we do, Master?’
Ranulf’s glee at hearing about the consternation amongst the great ones of the land faded now. Moreover, he always kept a wary eye on the King and, if he thought ‘Master Long Face’s’ career might be in jeopardy, became ever so solicitous. Corbett stared out of the window. The sun was setting and he could hear the bells of the city faintly tolling for vespers.
‘We shall go out,’ he said. ‘We shall act like three roisterers, drink ale and sack and come home singing. For, as they used to say in ancient Rome, when you are about to die you should enjoy yourselves.’
Ranulf glanced at Maltote and pulled a face. They both had plans to visit Lady Mary in Farringdon but Corbett was insistent so, seizing cloaks and belts, they slipped out of the house and up into a now deserted Cheapside. Corbett walked fast as if the exercise would clear the foreboding in his mind about his imminent meeting with the King. They entered the Three Roses tavern in Cornhill and, whilst Ranulf and Maltote talked about everything under the sun, Corbett drank as his mind probed the problems which faced him. The more he drank the greater grew his despair as he realised he had only proven two things. Firstly, the monks at Westminster had broken their vows and, secondly, the royal treasury had been plundered by the greatest thief in the kingdom.