‘But you were suspicious?’
‘Reginald was my beloved brother. I wanted to know about his final days but I learnt nothing.’
‘Despite your best efforts?’
‘I heard things.’
‘What?’
‘Small scraps about the fall of the Templar donjon, the last fortification in Acre to be stormed by the Saracens, about the defenders breaking, scattering, every man fighting for himself. There werealso stories of panic and selfishness, but nothing substantial, Sir Hugh, nothing at all.’
‘Why do you think your mysterious visitor called himself Nightshade?’ Corbett asked. ‘Why do you think he took that name; why come to you?’
‘I truly don’t know, Sir Hugh. Nightshade has a malevolent aura about it. I suspect he wanted to frighten Lord Scrope.’
‘And the painting the Free Brethren did in your church: Lord Scrope liked it?’
‘I’ve told you that. He said it had its qualities. Scrope rarely praised anyone or anything under God’s blue heaven.’
‘Have you studied the painting?’
‘Of course!’
‘Look again,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Is it really about the fall of Babylon or somewhere else?’
‘Such as?’
‘I don’t know,’ Corbett smiled, ‘but it’s not an accurate reflection of the Book of Revelation.’
‘I hear what you say, Sir Hugh.’
‘And the blood registers that Master Claypole so desperately seeks?’
Father Thomas laughed out loud. ‘Oh, I am sure,’ he declared, ‘Master Claypole would love to have those, but even if they were here, I doubt if they would prove anything. He is illegitimate, Scrope’s bastard. I do not have them, despite what Claypole thinks.’
‘Then where are they?’
‘Where do you think, Sir Hugh? I suspect Scrope, for his own secret, malign purposes, had them removed.’
‘And the night Lord Scrope was murdered? Where were you?’
‘Praying over the corpses of those killed in Mistleham. I did not like Lord Scrope but I did not murder him. I also know about your questions to the others, about the warnings to Scrope, the thief Le Riche, the slaughter of the Free Brethren. Sir Hugh, I have spoken to you already about such matters. I have nothing to add.’
11
Warrant for the arrest of John Le Riche … of bad reputation with a history of felony in Bedfordshire.
After Father Thomas left, Dame Marguerite and Master Benedict were ushered in. Corbett believed it was best to question them together, ignoring Ranulf’s whisper to Chanson about how they were both ‘cheeks of the same arse’, a remark that would certainly have shaken both the abbess and her chaplain had they heard it. They swore the oath and took their seats. Dame Marguerite quietly dispensed with their ecclesiastical status and privileges, thanking Corbett profusely for questioning them together as Master Benedict was not well. Corbett certainly agreed with that. The chaplain was clean-shaven and tidy, but his long, youthful face had a strange colour and his eyes were round and dark. He looked as if he’d slept badly and clutched his stomach as if he’d eaten something bad. He was also distracted and kept glancing away as if fearful of some malignant spectre hiding in the shadowy corners of the dais.
‘Sir Hugh,’ Dame Marguerite’s pretty face was slightly flushed, ‘what more can we tell you?’
‘I wish to be away from here, royal clerk.’ Master Benedict’swords came as a rasp. He glanced directly at Corbett. ‘This is truly a place of murder.’ He quoted from the Gospels. ‘Haceldama. The Field of Blood. I would be grateful if you would give me letters of commendation to Lord Drokensford and the King.’
‘Please, Sir Hugh,’ Dame Marguerite pleaded.
‘When this business is over, my lady.’
‘We know little,’ Master Benedict interrupted. ‘The night Lord Scrope was murdered, I was racked with a fever. Ask Dame Marguerite and the servants, I had a fever …’ His voice trailed off. ‘So many killings, Sir Hugh! Who will be next to be struck down?’
Corbett ignored the question and pointed at the lady abbess.
‘Do you know anything about these murderous doings?’
‘No, sir. My brother was a law unto himself.’
‘Even about Acre,’ Corbett intervened, ‘after so many years?’
‘Even about that, Sir Hugh. He never talked about it, at least not with me. I am sure he did with Claypole, as he would about the Free Brethren, the Sagittarius or Le Riche. Sir Hugh, I know as much as you do. To be sure, they were all dreadful events, but remember, though I am lodged here now, I am abbess of a busy convent. The affairs of Mistleham Manor do not really concern me. I regret my brother’s death but I am more vigilant about Master Claypole than anything else, and, of course, advancement for Master Benedict. I have been as honest and truthful as I can.’ She paused. ‘I only wish Jackanapes had survived. He may have told you more. The thief Le Riche does not concern me. The leaders of the Free Brethren, Adam and Eve, together with others of their coven, often came to our convent, to beg, to pray in our chapel, but they did nothing wrong, they were harmless innocents.’
‘And the Island of Swans? Dame Marguerite, as a child youplayed on the manor estates. Was the lake only crossed by boat or bridge?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘The water is very deep, clogged with weeds, which makes it highly dangerous. My brother had the old bridge destroyed; it was where the jetties now stand. Some of his retainers were trained to row him across. The lake is dangerous, Sir Hugh. I cannot imagine how anyone could have crossed it without using one of those boats.’
‘So how do you think the killer did cross?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I have reflected about that carefully.’ The abbess chewed on her lip. ‘I suspect he,’ she smiled prettily, ‘or she, swam across during the day.’
‘They would have frozen to death,’ Corbett declared.
‘Not necessarily, Sir Hugh. Someone who took a change of clothing, a small skin of wine. I could swim it.’ She smiled. ‘Despite the dangers, I sometimes did.’
‘But how would they gain access to the reclusorium?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Perhaps the assassin inveighed my brother into admitting him. But,’ Dame Marguerite shrugged, ‘I know such an explanation poses as many problems as it solves.’ She rose to her feet, Master Benedict with her. ‘I can tell you no more, truly, Sir Hugh.’
Corbett thanked the abbess and her chaplain. They both withdrew, Chanson closing the door behind them. Corbett straightened in his chair and turned to Ormesby.
‘Well, Master Physician, what do you think?’
‘I have served as a coroner, Sir Hugh, and my immediate conclusion, well, it’s threefold. First,’ he held up a stubby finger, ‘of course you have not been told the truth here; that’s hardlysurprising: no one here is going to make a full confession. Everybody has something to hide. What binds them all together is a deep dislike, even hatred, for Lord Scrope.’
‘And?’
‘Second, Corbett, this is like a disease, a malignancy. The root, in my view, is the past. You keep asking about Acre; that seems to be the radix, the root of it all. Something mysterious undoubtedly happened there. Men from Mistleham went to Acre; only Scrope and Claypole returned. Old soldiers like to talk about their wars and battles, their wounds, the glories, the triumphs. Scrope and Claypole did not – why? We know they escaped. We also know they plundered the Templar treasury, but they haven’t really given the people of Mistleham, the likes of Father Thomas, a true and faithful account of how their colleagues died. Third, if Acre is the root, the flowering is what has happened here. We must, or you must, discover how a killer crossed that icy lake in the dead of night, without being seen or disturbed, and gained entry into a small but fortified house. The assassin then murdered Lord Scrope, who offered no resistance, plundered his treasures and escaped unscathed and unseen. I suggest, Sir Hugh,’ Ormesby got to his feet, ‘you begin there. If you can solve that, then I believe everything else will fall into place.’