Lady Mary recoiled in fright and horror. Fitzwarren pursed her lips.
‘You speak gibberish, clerk!’
‘Oh, no, I don’t. Let’s go to another murder. Father Benedict. Someone blocked the keyhole of the poor priest’s door, threw a jar of oil through the open window then struck a tinder and flung that in as well. Go and look at the ruins of Father Benedict’s house. The window is high in the wall, someone well above average height threw that jar in.’
‘They could have stood on a log or a stone,’ Lady Mary whispered.
‘Yes, that’s true, but they didn’t. No log or stone was found near the window nor did the ground outside bear any such mark.’
‘You still haven’t produced any proof,’ Fitzwarren challenged.
‘Oh, I’ll come to that by and by. You see, when I examined the room, I found traces of the oil, clear and pure, of a very high quality. Only the wealthy purchase such oil for their food. I realised that this evening whilst watching my wife prepare our meal. The assassin used that oil because it was free of any reeking odour and, if spilt over dry rushes, would soon catch alight.’
‘The assassin could have bought it!’ Fitzwarren snapped.
Corbett steeled himself for the next lie to come.
‘Ah, yes, but in Newgate there is a man called Puddlicott, lying under sentence of death, who is responsible for the robbery of the King’s treasure. You must have heard of that? He was in the abbey grounds the night Father Benedict’s house was burnt down. He saw you, Lady Fitzwarren, throw a jar of oil through Father Benedict’s window.’
‘He’s a liar and a rogue!’ she hissed. ‘Who would believe him?’
‘The King, for a start. Puddlicott has no grievance against you. He seeks no reprieve or pardon. Both are out of the question. Lady Fitzwarren, he recognised you.’
The old noblewoman’s face lost some of its arrogant hauteur. Corbett leaned towards her, silently praying that his bluff would force a confession.
‘Even if Puddlicott’s story is rejected,’ he continued quietly, ‘others saw you. Do you remember the whore Judith? I believe you were hiding in a large cupboard in the garret she used? She opened the door and you lashed out with your knife. You did not stay to mutilate her body because she had screamed but, Lady Fitzwarren, she survived and is now under royal protection. Master Cade will swear to that.’
The under-sheriff, who was staring open-mouthed at Lady Catherine, nodded solemnly.
‘She, too, recognised you,’ Corbett insisted. ‘She caught the fragrance of your perfume, a glimpse of your face. I don’t bluff. Judith must have survived for only she or her would-be killer would know about the incident in the cupboard.’
Lady Fitzwarren drew back, hissing and muttering to herself.
‘I could go on,’ Corbett continued. ‘The whore Agnes, the one you killed in a church near Greyfriars, she also glimpsed you leaving the house where her friend had died. I believe she was on the point of sending a note to Lady de Lacey, here at Westminster, but the boy dropped the note down a sewer. Somehow you realised the poor girl posed a danger. She saw you, perhaps you glimpsed her. Anyway, you forged a note, probably in de Lacey’s handwriting and, dressed like a monk, you slipped it under her door. The poor girl fell into the trap. She would never dream that her killer was luring her to murder on consecrated ground. She was one of the few not killed on the thirteenth of the month. Because she had seen you leaving the corpse of one victim, Agnes had to be silenced as quickly as possible. Now, as regards Lady Somerville. .’
‘This is impossible,’ Lady Mary interrupted. ‘Why should the Lady Fitzwarren murder one of her sisters and poor Father Benedict?’
‘You are right to think both are connected. You see, our killer dressed as a monk. She carried with her the sandals, cloak, cowl and hood of a Benedictine monk. She took them from the vestry which adjoins this Chapter House. Now, I can only conjecture, but I suspect that Lady Somerville, whilst cleaning and laundering the vestments, came across a monk’s cowl, or gown, which bore marks of blood, perhaps traces of a woman’s perfume. Naturally, she would be puzzled, hence her constant quotation of the riddle “the cowl does not make the monk”. She was not referring to any moral platitude about our monkish brethren, though God knows she may have been right, she was being quite literal. Just because someone dons the cowl and hood, that doesn’t make the wearer a monk.’
‘And Father Benedict?’ Cade asked, reasserting himself.
‘Oh, I suspect Lady Somerville talked to him. Perhaps even conveyed her suspicions that the person killing the prostitutes and whores of London was one of her own sisters, someone from the Sisters of St Martha.’ Corbett glanced at Lady Mary Neville. ‘The shock of what Lady Somerville learnt made her sketch a caricature of what was happening at Westminster. The monks here may have been lax but, in their midst, they harboured a slavering wolf. It also explains why Lady Somerville thought of leaving the Sisters of St Martha.’
‘But why would the killer suspect Lady Somerville?’ Ranulf asked.
‘A matter of speculation, as well as logic. Lady Somerville was muttering mysterious riddles which only the killer could understand and, perhaps, the murderer realised the mistake she had made in returning a blood-stained gown. A gown quite singular because it had been designed for someone very tall in stature. The assassin would watch Lady Somerville and notice where she went. Now, Lady Somerville wouldn’t talk to the brothers in the abbey and her story was too incredible to take to any official, she was alienated from her own son so Father Benedict was the logical choice.’
‘He’s right,’ Lady Mary retorted, staring at Fitzwarren. ‘He’s right.’ Her voice rose in anger. ‘Lady Somerville and Father Benedict were very close.’
‘Yes, yes, they probably were,’ Corbett answered.
‘Everything else fits the picture,’ Ranulf remarked, rising out of his seat to go and stand behind Lady Fitzwarren. ‘Our murderer had two advantages: dressed as a monk, she could go anywhere and, being a member of the Sisters of St Martha, she knew which whores were more vulnerable, where they lived, their routine, their personal circumstances. Moreover, no woman would see another as a threat.’ Ranulf leaned over the woman’s chair and seized her by the wrists.
Fitzwarren struggled, her face snarling like a vixen.
‘You bastard!’ she hissed. ‘Take your hands off me!’
Ranulf drew Lady Catherine’s hands out of the sleeves of her gown and looked at Corbett in surprise, for there was no dagger there.
Corbett stared at the ugly, old face, full of venomous hatred. She’s mad, he thought. Like all killers she has let some canker, some rot, deep in her soul, poison her whole mind. Fitzwarren stared at him like some spiteful scold being caught in a misdemeanour.
‘Finally,’ Corbett concluded, ‘I became fascinated why the women died on or around the thirteenth of each month. You know the reason why. Your husband, Lady Catherine, died at Martinmas, the Feast of St Martin, pope and martyr, whose mass we celebrate on April thirteenth.’