‘And then, your Grace?’
‘I want the bastard’s body skinned!’ the King hissed. ‘Do you understand me, de Warrenne? I want the skin peeled off and nailed, like that of a pig, to the abbey door so everyone knows the price for robbing Edward of England!’
Chapter 13
Corbett was relieved to find the Lord Morgan had not yet arrived at Bread Street.
‘He has been delayed,’ Maeve moaned. ‘Matters in Wales are not proving as easy to leave as he had thought.’
He’s bloody drunk, more like it, Corbett thought, and still can’t get his horse to take him across the drawbridge. However, he kept his unkind sentiments to himself for Maeve worried herself sick over the old rogue’s health and well-being.
Ranulf was absent when Corbett arrived but, on his return, declared that Maltote’s life was in no danger, though Brother Thomas could not say whether or not he would regain his sight.
Corbett retired to his small, chancery office, idly sifting through letters, memoranda, bills and petitions which the Chancery had sent on to him. Nevertheless, his mind was elsewhere: back in the abbey grounds watching that dark shape, so vividly described by Puddlicott, slip across to Father Benedict’s house to begin that dreadful fire.
Maeve came in with baby Eleanor, and Corbett cosseted and teased both until Anna arrived, talking volubly in Welsh. She seized the child, glared at Corbett, and mumbled something about the infant being too excited. Maeve stayed for a while as Corbett described his recent interview with the King and his frustration at being unable to catch the assassin and trap the murderer of the city whores.
‘It could be anyone,’ he muttered. ‘It could have been Warfield or another of the monks.’
Maeve seized him by the hand. ‘You are agitated, Hugh. Come, join me in the kitchen, I am cooking the evening meal.’
Corbett followed her down the passageway and helped prepare the meal, as Maeve chattered about this and that, trying to distract her husband. He always loved to watch her cook: she was so expert, so neat and tidy, and the dishes she served were always fresh and fragrant. After the hard-baked bread and rancid meat of London’s taverns and the royal kitchens, Corbett always appreciated whatever she cooked.
She deftly peeled the whitened flesh of a roasted chicken, dicing it with a small knife, scraping the portions into a bowl, mixing in oil and herbs. Then she looked up, startled, as her husband gasped. He stood, mouth open, staring at her.
‘Hugh!’ she exclaimed. ‘What is the matter?’
‘Of course!’ Corbett murmured, as if in a trance. ‘Oh, by Hell’s teeth, of course!’ He put down the knife he had been holding and moved like a sleep-walker towards the kitchen door.
‘Hugh!’ Maeve exclaimed again.
He just shook his head, leaving his wife puzzled and exasperated. Outside in the passageway, Corbett stared at the white plaster, so surprised by his own thoughts he leaned his hot face against the wall, relishing its coolness.
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘It can’t be, surely?’
Ranulf came running down the passageway. ‘Master, are you well?’
‘Yes,’ Corbett replied absent-mindedly. ‘I am glad Maltote’s well.’ He patted the surprised Ranulf on the shoulder. ‘Lady Maeve may need some help.’ Corbett shook himself and narrowed his eyes. ‘What did I say, Ranulf?’
The manservant just shook his head. ‘Have you been drinking, Master?’
‘No,’ Corbett murmured, striding down the passageway back to his office. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘But I wish to God I had!’ Back in his office, Corbett reached for the Calendar of Saints at the end of a Book of Hours then sat for an hour writing furiously as he developed the idea which had so surprised him in the kitchen. He tried to disprove his own theory but, whatever ploy he used, the conclusion reached was unshakeable and he cursed his own lack of logic.
‘So simple,’ he murmured to himself, lifting his head to stare out of the window. ‘I know the murderer. I can prove the murders, but what else?’
He rose, strode to the door and shouted for Ranulf.
‘Come on, man!’ Corbett urged. ‘We have business to do in the city. You will take the following message to the Lady Mary Neville.’
Corbett went back to his writing tray and scrawled a few words on a piece of parchment which he then deftly folded and sealed.
‘Give this to her; and watch her eyes. Then you are to go to the Guildhall and do the following. .’
Corbett heard Maeve’s footsteps coming along the passageway so he quickly whispered his instructions to an even more surprised Ranulf.
‘Master, that’s foolish.’
‘Do as I say, Ranulf. Go now!’
‘What is the matter, Hugh?’
Corbett seized his wife and kissed her on the forehead. ‘I have been a fool, Maeve, but bear with me.’
He walked back, collected his sword-belt, boots and cloak and, shouting farewells to his wife and daughter, ran into the darkening street. He took a barge from Fish Quay and, ignoring the boatman’s chatter, sat, wrapped in his cloak, as the skiff, helped by the pull of the tide, swept him down to the King’s Stairs at Westminster. The abbey and palace grounds were now packed with soldiers, men-at-arms and archers. They had constructed their own bothies from branches, cut from the nearby trees, whilst officers had set up their own coarse-clad pavilions.
Corbett was challenged at every turn but, when he showed his warrant, was allowed through the different cordons thrown around the abbey until he reached the Chapter House. An officer, now carrying the keys of the abbey, unlocked the door for him.
‘Collect three men and stay outside!’ Corbett ordered. ‘But allow any visitors in!’
The soldier obeyed and Corbett walked into the long, high-vaulted, deserted room, his footsteps ringing hollow and eerie in the watchful silence. Despite the warmth of a summer evening, the Chapter House was cold and dark so Corbett took a tinder and lit a few of the sconce torches, and wax candles on the table, where he sat in de Lacey’s chair and waited for the drama to begin.
Ranulf and Cade came first, the under-sheriff looking haggard and tired.
‘Sir Hugh, what is the matter?’
‘Sit down, Master Cade. Ranulf, did you deal with the other matter?’
‘I did.’
Corbett tapped his fingers on the table top. ‘Then let us wait for our guests to arrive.’
They must have sat for half an hour, Cade trying to make desultory conversation, when they heard a knock on the door.
‘Come in!’ Corbett shouted and Lady Mary Neville slipped into the room.
She had the hood of her cloak well forward, and, as she pushed it back and sat in the chair Corbett offered, he caught the woman’s nervousness. Her skin had lost its lustre, she kept licking her lips and her eyes darted to and fro as if she suspected that some great danger threatened.
‘You asked to see me, Sir Hugh?’
‘Yes, Lady Mary. The night Lady Somerville died, you went to St Bartholomew’s hospital?’
‘I have told you that.’
‘So you did. And who else knew you were going?’
Corbett watched the woman closely as he heard the Chapter House door quietly open. ‘I asked you a question, Lady Mary. Who else knew? Or shall I answer it for you?’ Corbett looked up and stared at the woman standing just inside the doorway.
‘Well, Lady Fitzwarren, can you answer?’
The tall, angular woman swept towards him; her stern face looked harsh, her eyes were like two pieces of hard slate in her angry, drawn face. Corbett saw her hands were tucked into the sleeves of her gown and he did nothing to stop Ranulf drawing his own dagger.
‘Master Cade, a seat for our second guest.’
Lady Fitzwarren sat down carefully.
‘As I was saying, Lady Mary and her companion went to St Bartholomew’s hospital on Monday, May eleventh. Now, I always believed that Lady Somerville’s death was some accident, but I have changed my mind. I realise my own mistake, a lack of attention to detail. Only someone who knew Somerville would know she would walk across Smithfield Common by herself.’ Corbett smiled at both women. ‘Oh, yes, Lady Somerville knew her killer. You see, the murder was witnessed by someone.’ He saw Fitzwarren’s eyes flicker in fear. ‘A mad beggar squatting at the foot of the scaffold saw Lady Somerville stop and wait for her killer, he heard her call out “Oh, it’s you!” Now,’ Corbett leaned his hands on the table, ‘I was far too clever. I should have listened to that beggar man more carefully. He described the killer as tall as the devil with horned feet. I dismissed that as some phantasm of his imagination but, of course, he was talking about you, Lady Catherine. You are taller even than most men. And you were dressed in cowl and hood when you carried out your bloody murders.’