‘Sir Hugh,’ Master Benedict raised his hand, ‘are you close to trapping this killer?’
Corbett stared at this soft-faced cleric crouching like a frightened rabbit. ‘The solution,’ he replied slowly, ‘is not here or in Mordern, but in Mistleham.’
‘What shall we do?’ the chaplain bleated.
‘Arrest Claypole!’ Dame Marguerite snapped.
‘But Lord Scrope’s death has not advanced his claim,’ Corbett replied. ‘The blood registers are missing.’
‘Are they, Sir Hugh?’ Dame Marguerite nodded.‘Or has Claypole had them all the time, biding his moment. But to repeat Master Benedict’s question, what shall we do?’
‘Be careful.’ Corbett picked up the arrow. ‘I shall keep this and the parchment, my lady.’ He bowed to the abbess, thanked Master Benedict and allowed Dame Edith to escort them back to the stables, where Chanson and Pennywort were waiting. Once clear of the convent buildings, Ranulf urged his horse alongside that of Corbett.
‘Master,’ he asked, ‘do you suspect anyone?’
‘Yes, Ranulf, I do, but only thinly, a few pieces collected together. This is going to be difficult. Not a matter of logic or evidence; more cunning. You see, Ranulf, the Sagittarius, the killer, the murderer, the Nightshade – whatever hellish name he likes to call himself – prowls Mistleham. He has two lives: openly respectable, but secretly he is an assassin. However, I suggest that he cannot continue this for ever. Sooner or later he must disappear.’
‘In other words, the fox has invaded the hen coop?’ Ranulf asked. ‘And he is going to find it rather difficult to leave.’
‘Correct,’ Corbett declared. ‘So, Ranulf, we must concentrate on that.’
Once back in his chamber at Mistleham, Corbett sent Ranulf and Chanson together with Pennywort to collect Brother Gratian and Master Claypole for further questioning. He then sought an urgent meeting with Lady Hawisa and explained that, once again, he must use the hall as a place to interrogate certain witnesses. She heard him out and nodded.
‘Do you know, Sir Hugh,’ she stepped closer, head to one side as if studying Corbett for the first time, ‘when my husband knew you were coming here, he was truly frightened. He called you a hawk that never missed its quarry, a lurcher skilled to follow any scent. I can see why. Are you close to the truth?’
‘No, my lady, not yet.’
‘What is the cause of these hideous events at Mistleham?’
Corbett sat down on a stool and smiled at her. ‘Lady Hawisa, this is all about love!’
She glanced at him in surprise.
‘Love,’ Corbett continued. ‘Even the most loving couple in wedlock disappoint each other. We constantly fail each other, and the reason is that we want to love so much and be loved so deeply. However, if such love is abused, it can turn rancid, evil and malignant; it seeks revenge. That is what I am hunting here, Lady Hawisa. Not events that happened twelve, thirteen, even twenty years ago, but an emotion, a feeling, some passion of the human heart that didn’t burn then die, but transformed into something sinister and monstrous.’
‘Will you ever discover what?’
‘With God’s own help, my lady, and a little assistance from yourself.’
‘In which case, Sir Hugh,’ she extended her hands, ‘my hall is yours.’
‘One further thing.’ Corbett stood up. ‘I wish to question Brother Gratian. When I have finished, may I look at the ledgers, the accounts for Mistleham? Not so much the expenditure, but the income from rents, profits, trading ventures – is that possible?’
‘For what purpose, Sir Hugh?’
‘My lady, I wish I could tell you the truth, but I cannot. I want to scrutinise them carefully. However, when I see my quarry, I will recognise it.’
Lady Hawisa nodded in agreement, and Corbett made his farewells.
13
They have committed terrible crimes in clear contempt of us.
Chanson ushered a rather nervous Brother Gratian into the great hall and up to the chair before the dais. This time Corbett had not produced his warrants or letters of appointment, simply his sword lying next to the Book of the Gospels on which Gratian had taken his earlier oath. When the Dominican went to take his seat, Ranulf sprang to his feet.
‘How dare you!’ he shouted. ‘How dare you sit without permission before the King’s commissioner?’
Brother Gratian grasped the table and leaned against it, pallid-faced, eyes darting to left and right, constantly licking his bloodless lips.
‘Sir Hugh, what is this? I am a priest, a Dominican.’
‘I know enough of that,’ Corbett replied slowly. ‘I also know you are a liar and a perjurer, responsible for an attack on the King’s representative in these parts.’
‘I … I … don’t know,’ the Dominican replied.
‘You’d best sit down,’ Corbett declared. Leaning over, he pushed the Book of the Gospels in front of the Dominican, then, stretchingacross, took Gratian’s right hand and slammed it firmly down on top of the book. ‘Now, Brother Gratian, I’ll be swift and to the point. I have been in to Mistleham. You might not know this – I am sure they’ve now fled – but I met your friends from the Temple, lodged at the Honeycomb disguised as beggars; the same men whom you used to meet at the distribution of the Mary loaves. You exchanged messages with them, including threats to pass on to Lord Scrope. They’ve confessed.’
‘I don’t know …’
‘If you continue to lie,’ Corbett declared, ‘I shall arrest you and personally take you to Colchester to be interrogated by the King and his ministers, who have now moved there. You also failed to tell me that you were at Acre in 1291.’
‘You never asked. I did not think it was relevant.’
‘We shall decide,’ Corbett declared, ‘what is relevant and what is not. Brother Gratian, your hand is on the Gospels, and so is mine. I am not lying to you. I know precisely what you have done and what you planned, but I want to hear it from your own mouth. Now you can decide either here or before the King in Colchester. I am sure that your superiors in London will not be pleased when the King returns to report what meddling mischief you’ve been involved in.’
‘I cannot and I will not,’ Brother Gratian spoke slowly, staring down at his hands, ‘speak about the sins of which I shrived Lord Scrope, except to say,’ he lifted his head, ‘I never absolved what he called his secret sins.’ The Dominican shook his head. ‘What those were I truly don’t know, but yes, I was at Acre thirteen years ago. I joined the Templar order as a novice, a squire. I was never truly happy with my vocation, but God works inmysterious ways. I was sent to Acre.’ He stared at Corbett. ‘A strange place, Sir Hugh! Its buildings were of an eerie-coloured yellow stone with iron grille-work and windows of coloured glass. That is how I remember it: a yellow haze. Those strange buildings, coated in dust like a phantasm from a nightmare. Acre became the last Christian stronghold, thronged by Templars, Hospitallers, brown-habited monks, Syrian merchants under their silk awnings, beautiful prostitutes with their black slaves thronging the rooms above the wine shops. Galleys clustered in the ports, bringing in more men and supplies. The Saracens swept in, eager to besiege, yet you’d think Acre was a place of rejoicing rather than one of doom. It reeked of every sin, Sir Hugh, like Sodom and Gomorrah, the Cities of the Plain. The nobles still feasted by moonlight on their rooftop terraces. The air smelt of perfume. Whores did business. Jesters and minstrels entertained in the streets. Then it all ended. Death and destruction swooped. The Saracens launched their assault.’ Gratian fingered the cord around his waist. ‘Oily black smoke curled in as the enemy catapults rained down fire to the rolling sound of their war drums. I’ll never forget those drums echoing, an ominous dull beat, drowned now and again by the screech of catapults. The sky turned fiery red. Slowly but surely the walls were breached and weakened. The Saracens drew closer. Waves of white-robed dervishes launched surprise attacks.’