Corbett studied the dead man’s corpse closely. Scrope’s tawny bed-robe was drenched with congealed blood. Ranulf brought across a candelabra, the weak flames deepening the hideousness of that corpse, gruesome in death, the face like a gargoyle mask. Some blood stained Scrope’s fingers; a little more was on the floor.
‘The bed chest!’ Ranulf whispered.
Corbett walked over. The curtains to the four-poster bed had been pulled back, the counterpanes and sheets also; the bolsters were slightly pressed. Scrope had apparently adjourned to bed before murder came visiting. The trunk at the foot of the bed had been ransacked. The metal-rimmed caskets and coffers inside were empty, their lids thrown back. Corbett returned to the corpse. He leaned over, trying to avoid that popping, glassy dead glance. He felt beneath the rim of the bed-robe and gently lifted the silver key-chain up over the head, then went back to the chests and coffers. Sounds from outside echoed through. He glanced over his shoulder. More people had crossed to the Island of Swans, including Lady Hawisa. Dame Marguerite recollected herself andwent out to help. Servants were also milling about; apparently both ferries had been used to bring them across. Corbett quickly tried the keys in the chests; they all fitted. He handed them to Ranulf and went outside. The island now thronged with the gawping and the curious, with more gathering on the far bank. Lady Hawisa stood at the foot of the steps, leaning on the arm of a maid. Scrope’s widow was half listening to a silver-haired man with a wan face, bushy eyebrows over deep-set eyes, his shaven cheeks sharply furrowed.
‘Lady Hawisa?’ Corbett came down.
‘Ah, you must be Lord Corbett.’ The silver-haired man blinked and smiled, though his face and eyes remained keen. He stared over Corbett’s shoulder into the darkness of the reclusorium.
‘I am who you say I am, and you, sir?’
‘Physician Ormesby late of Balliol Hall, Oxford, now spending my autumnal days on the outskirts of Mistleham. In brief, sir, I am or was,’ Ormesby added, ‘physician to Lord Scrope. My main care now is for Lady Hawisa.’
Corbett glanced around. Dame Marguerite was ordering servants here and there. Father Thomas was walking backwards and forwards, ave beads strung from one hand. Brother Gratian stood on the jetty, fingers to his lips, like a man who’d lost his wits. Across the water Corbett glimpsed the arrival of Master Claypole and members of the town’s council, resplendent in their ermine-lined robes and glittering chains of office. He groaned and plucked at Ormesby’s sleeve.
‘Physician, I want you to stay here. Father Thomas and you, madam,’ he gestured at the abbess, ‘must also stay, together with the servant who rowed you across.’ Corbett then grasped LadyHawisa’s hand, listless and ice cold. Eyelids fluttering, she opened her mouth to speak but then shook her head. ‘Lady Hawisa,’ he urged, ‘you must leave.’ He gently squeezed her hand. ‘No, no, your husband, God assoil him, is dead, cruelly murdered. You must not see him like that. You,’ Corbett turned to the maidservant, ‘look after your mistress. My lady, you must leave.’
Lady Hawisa nodded in agreement. Corbett strode up the steps beckoning to Ranulf, who quickly joined him outside. Corbett drew his sword and banged on the bronze gong dangling from its chain beside the door post. Eventually he obtained silence.
‘Good people,’ he shouted, ‘I am Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s man. I have authority here under the royal seal. Lord Scrope, God pardon him, is dead, cruelly murdered. I must ask you to leave the Island of Swans immediately, except for those I ask to stay.’
People looked askance at him. There were shouts, a few catcalls and mocking cries. Ranulf drew his sword. The clamour died and people drifted towards the jetty. Corbett called across Physician Ormesby, Dame Marguerite, Father Thomas and the servant who’d rowed them across, a small beetle-browed character who rejoiced in the name of Pennywort. Corbett respectfully asked all these to stay outside whilst he and Ranulf returned to inspect the corpse, the chests, the windows and the only door. All the windows except one were firmly shuttered, their bars down, the pegs on each shutter at top and bottom firmly in place, their velvet and leather drapes undisturbed.
‘There is no other entrance,’ Corbett breathed. ‘The main door is secured by bolts at top and bottom, its lock definitely the work of some guildsman.’
He inspected the broken window. The shutters were smashed,the lintel scuffed and scraped. He and Ranulf went outside, apologising for the delay to those waiting. They walked round the reclusorium. Corbett admired what Scrope had done. A ring of vegetation ran along the rim of the island, with clumps of trees, including beautiful bending willows, but the area immediately around the house itself had been provided with a clear view, no other obstacle except for a narrow channel dug from under the reclusorium to carry waste down to the lake. The icy ground was now pitted with the footprints of those who’d come across. Corbett glanced down at the lake. It must be, at every point, at least six yards across and undoubtedly deep. He could see no other landing place or sign of any bridge, raft, ferry or boat. He and Ranulf returned inside. He covered Scrope’s face with a cloth, instructed Ranulf to build up the meagre fire and then invited his guests, Dame Marguerite, Father Thomas, Pennywort and Physician Ormesby, to the stools he placed in front of the fire. The physician excused himself and went across to scrutinise the corpse. He removed the face cloth, exclaimed in horror, then busied himself near the table on which Corbett had glimpsed the exquisitely carved wooden goblet brimming with red wine. The physician picked this up, sniffed at it, then muttered a prayer.
‘What is it?’ Corbett went across.
‘Smell but don’t drink, Sir Hugh.’
Corbett did so. Beneath the rich odour he caught a bitter tang.
‘Belladona,’ Ormesby murmured. ‘Deadly nightshade. But look, Sir Hugh, the cup seems untouched, the wine not drunk. I’ve observed Scrope’s face, and it betrays no symptoms of poisoning.’ Again that cold, knowing smile. ‘Sir Hugh, I know poisons. Ifnightshade had killed him, its effects would be obvious; he would have died in frenzied convulsions.’
Corbett nodded and handed the goblet back. ‘Was Scrope first poisoned before being stabbed?’
‘I doubt it.’ The physician stepped closer. ‘We only smell it now because it has fermented, being mixed with the wine for hours. That’s why the victim drinks it and physicians like myself later detect it. Belladona is a cruel assassin; Lord Scrope would have convulsed like an imp in hell. Of course I need to inspect his corpse more closely. There are other symptoms.’ Ormesby patted his own stomach. ‘Discoloration of the belly, stains on the flesh.’
He paused and went back to sniff at the silver-chased wine flagon.
‘The same,’ he declared. ‘The flagon, I suspect, was poisoned, the wine later poured into the goblet. Oh, by the way, the goblet is fashioned out of yew, an ill-omened wood.’ He lifted the cup. ‘I know the texture of woods. My father was a verderer in these parts.’
‘Very well,’ Corbett replied. ‘Give the goblet to Ranulf to keep.’
The physician obeyed and joined the rest at the fire, handing the goblet to Ranulf and whispering at him to be careful. The clerk placed the cup on the floor.
‘What happened?’ Corbett asked.
Father Thomas glanced at Dame Marguerite, then fearfully over his shoulder as if he expected the corpse to stir.
‘I was repelled by him in life,’ the priest murmured, ‘and so in death, Sir Hugh. Must we stay here with his corpse?’
‘The dead are beyond us now,’ Corbett replied. ‘What I must do, Father, is discover who murdered this loyal subject of theKing, and, more importantly, who plundered those coffers and caskets. I believe, Dame Marguerite, though I have yet to establish this, that the Sanguis Christi and other precious items were kept here.’
The abbess, eyes closed, nodded in agreement.
‘According to what I see,’ Corbett continued, ‘Lord Scrope came over here last night. You, sir,’ he pointed to Pennywort, ‘brought him across?’
‘Oh yes.’ Pennywort was pleased at the importance being shown him. ‘Oh yes, Sir Hugh, ever since his hounds were killed, Lord Scrope ordered some of his men out beneath the trees. I suppose I was in charge, Robert de Scott being killed in the marketplace. My task was to row him across. I did so.’
‘When?’
‘Oh, late last night, sir, after he returned from the town. It must have been well after Compline.’
‘And how was Lord Scrope?’
Pennywort closed his eyes and smiled, his teeth nothing more than little stumps. ‘I would say he was morose, withdrawn. He said we would have visitors in the morning, Dame Marguerite and Father Thomas. We reached the jetty. As usual he did not thank me but went straight up the steps.’
‘Did you follow him?’
‘Yes, yes, I did,’ Pennywort replied. ‘I always had to. Lord Scrope wanted to make sure there’d be no disturbance. He unlocked the door and went inside. I helped build up the fire as I always did, made sure everything was as it should be. Lord Scrope sat in that chair drumming his fingers on the arm, impatient for me to go. I lit the candles. Lord Scrope growledat me to keep a close and careful watch that night with the rest. He missed his two dogs, Romulus and Remus. Perhaps he felt wary. I left. Now as I went down the steps, I definitely heard him draw the bolts and lock the door behind me. As I rowed across, I could see lights glowing between the shutters. I then joined the rest of the guards in the clump of oak trees further up the hill; you know, sir, where the dogs used to lie. We built a fire. There was a full moon last night. It was bright.’
‘Did you patrol the banks of the lake?’
‘No, we watched,’ Pennywort replied, glancing away, ‘but we saw nothing.’
‘And there is no other way across,’ Corbett insisted, ‘between the two jetties, except by boat?’
‘None, Sir Hugh.’
‘Dame Marguerite, you know this island – you came across as a child?’
‘There was a bridge where the jetties now stand. A rickety wooden affair more dangerous than useful. My brother totally destroyed it.’
‘And the lake,’ Ranulf asked, ‘how deep is it?’
‘Very deep indeed, sir,’ Pennywort replied. ‘I would say at least three yards in places. It would swallow you up. It is weed-encrusted, a dangerous stretch; not even Satan himself could swim across such an icy lake at the dead at night. If someone crossed they would have to use one of those boats. If they did, I would have seen them. I would certainly have noticed something wrong this morning but I didn’t.’
‘Did you observe anything untoward?’ Corbett asked. ‘Anything at all, Pennywort?’ He opened his purse and took out a coin.
Pennywort almost sighed with pleasure, and his fingers went out. ‘Sir, I could make up lies and stories, but if you put me on oath in Father Thomas’ church, my hand placed over the pyx, I would swear I saw nothing, I heard nothing, nor did any of my companions. True, we kept ourselves warm, true we ate our dried meat and drank our ale, but we kept close watch, sir. Nothing happened.’