He paused. ‘We eventually returned to England and went our separate ways. I had no real vocation for the Templars, so I journeyed to Blackfriars and entered the Dominicans. Scrope continued to flourish,’ he added bitterly, ‘like the cedars of Lebanon. About eighteen months ago, he wrote me a friendly letter. He also asked my superiors if I could be released to be his confessor and spiritual director.’ Gratian laughed sourly. ‘Scrope was a powerful lord, rich and influential; of course, my superiors agreed.’
‘And you?’ Corbett asked.
‘I was curious. I wanted to find out what had happened. When I arrived, Scrope often talked about our flight, of his regrets, howhe’d made mistakes. He also made reference to certain secrets but never discussed them. I wondered if he felt guilty because of the treasury and his flight from Acre.’ The Dominican quickly crossed himself. ‘No, I suspect it was something else, like the murder of his cousin. In the main he rendered himself pleasant to me. He acted the great manor lord, the faithful son of the Church. I was lulled into the part he wanted me to play. I soon became aware of his world: his adoring, faithful sister, the unstinting loyalty of Claypole, and the cold indifference that existed between Scrope and his wife. Father Thomas was cordial enough, but he too had a deep distrust of his manor lord. Only recently,’ Gratian sighed, ‘did I realise Scrope’s true reason for inviting me.’
‘Which was?’
‘He wanted to keep an eye on me. He wanted to discover if I knew anything about what had really happened at Acre, if I’d seen or heard something untoward.’
‘Had you?’
‘No.’ Gratian spread his hands. ‘True, the killing of that serjeant was murder. I was implicated, and his death always weighed heavily on me. On one occasion I spoke to Scrope about it. I never did again; his fury knew no bounds.’
‘And the Templars?’
‘They too had suspicions about what had happened at Acre, but no proof. What they really wanted was the return of their treasure, particularly the Sanguis Christi. When they learnt about my appointment as Scrope’s confessor, messengers came to me. The Templars invoked old times; they hinted at what might have happened. They asked for my help. I remembered that serjeant, my own guilt, so as an act of reparation I agreed. It was the leastI could do. I sent Scrope those messages about the Mills of the Temple grinding exceedingly slow, but he still refused to concede. Eventually the Templars sent envoys to Mistleham; they disguised themselves as beggars, and lodged in a garret at the Honeycomb. Every so often I would meet them to distribute the Mary loaves. They would pass messages to me and I to them. Now, the plan was that when Lord Scrope gave me the Sanguis Christi, I would journey to London and the Templars would stage a mock ambush, an assault on the road, steal the Sanguis Christi and flee. I would act the innocent injured party. But then, of course, you arrived and Lord Scrope was murdered. The Templars were furious. My lord,’ he blinked, ‘I did not know about that confrontation with you on the trackway till afterwards. I objected. I knew you would become suspicious.’ Brother Gratian cleared his throat. ‘I was frightened, wary of the Templars, that’s why I wish to be gone …’
‘And be taken back to London by us,’ Ranulf intervened, ‘protected against the Templars?’
Brother Gratian nodded in agreement.
Corbett leaned back in his chair and stared at the Dominican. He’d made a mistake about this man. Brother Gratian looked like an inquisitor, a hard, ruthless man, keen to protect the Church and its teaching, but like everyone else, he carried his own bag of past sins and guilt. Nevertheless, had he spoken the truth or simply conceded what he was obliged to?
‘Do you know anything,’ Corbett asked, ‘about Lord Scrope’s death?’
The Dominican closed his eyes and shook his head.
‘Or anything,’ Ranulf interjected, ‘that may be of assistance to us?’
‘I have told you all I can.’ The Dominican rose to his feet. ‘Sir Hugh, I can say no more.’
Brother Gratian left, the door closing quietly behind him. Corbett sat for a while staring down at the hilt of his sword.
‘Master?’ Ranulf queried. ‘Has he told us the truth?’
‘No,’ Corbett declared, ‘but I suspect he has told us all he can.’
‘Could he be the Sagittarius?’ Ranulf asked.
‘It’s possible.’ Corbett conceded. ‘It has happened before.’ He smiled. ‘A man confesses one sin to satisfy the confessor whilst hiding the rest. Gratian is certainly hard-souled, very wary of Lord Scrope. We have also learnt that our Dominican is a born intriguer, as well as a former soldier, experienced in arms, tough and resolute. He would make a worthy opponent.’
‘And the wall painting?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I am not too sure.’ Corbett shook his head. ‘It might have been a way of taunting Lord Scrope. There is something else, something we’ve missed, something Lord Scrope recognised as the truth, but what?’
‘The deadly nightshade?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Is that the plant in the painting? Is that why Father Thomas’ mysterious visitor gave himself that name?’
‘You’ve spoken the truth, Ranulf.’ Corbett rocked himself gently backwards and forwards. ‘I suspect Lord Scrope killed Gaston. He fed him a drink, an opiate to lessen the pain of his wounds, to make sure he was dead when the Saracens invaded. Scrope was a soldier; he knew the fight was lost, that is why he plundered the treasury and refused to go back. That could be his secret sin, something that rankled in his soul for years.’
‘And Claypole?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Gratian describes him as Scrope’s pet dog, his shadow, but he could have turned.’
‘Again correct. Claypole is as ruthless and cruel as his master. I wouldn’t put any sin past him. He’d resort to any villainy, any violence to achieve what he wanted. It leads to a very interesting thesis. Did Claypole become tired of Scrope and turn against his master?’
‘He should be questioned, then arrested.’ Ranulf got to his feet.
‘We certainly have enough to load him with chains, but we will not confront Master Claypole, not yet. Tell the mayor to return home. Let’s see what happens. Ranulf, leave me for a while. I wish to think. Oh …’
Ranulf turned as he went towards the door.
‘Please,’ Corbett smiled, ‘ask Lady Hawisa if the manor accounts could be brought, particularly those records of receipt and income.’
A short while later Ranulf returned carrying bundles of documents. He stacked these on the table, lit more candles and placed them round. He asked Corbett if he wished to have something to eat or drink, but the clerk just shook his head, pulling across the first ledger. By the time he’d finished, the candles had burnt low and darkness was falling. He pushed the household books away, quietly whispering to himself, then rose to his feet, swinging his cloak around him, and told Chanson, still on guard at the door, to extinguish the candles and remove the accounts.
‘What will you do, master?’
‘Oh, it’s evening time.’ Corbett smiled. ‘I’ll wander the manor.’
For the next two hours Corbett did so, visiting the stables, the buttery, the kitchen, the outhouses, talking to servants, especiallythose who’d served Lord Scrope for many years. The more he questioned, the more certain he became. By the time he retired that night, having said his prayers and placed his dagger beside him, his suspicions had begun to harden into certainty, but how was he to trap the assassin?
Early the following morning, round the hour of Nones, Physician Ormesby gathered his cloak more firmly about him and glared across the marketplace. He’d received an urgent message from Dame Marguerite to meet him in front of the rood screen in St Alphege’s Church, something about the blood registers. He paused at the corner of an alleyway and pulled his beaver hat more firmly down on his head. He just wished the weather would break. He stared across to where the travelling troupe had set up their stage near the church. He would like to have words with the mountebank who was selling potions and philtres. He had met their type many a time before; their so-called cures could kill his patients! He peered up at the mist swirling around the gables and towers of the church. He wondered why Dame Marguerite really needed to see him at such an early hour, but she’d been most insistent; the note had said something about the blood registers, about Claypole’s parentage. Ormesby swallowed hard. He wasn’t sure, but rumour had it that his own mother had acted as midwife and delivered Claypole. Was it in connection with that? He jumped as a cat scuttled by with a still struggling rat in its jaws. He was almost across the marketplace, half listening to the sounds of stall-holders, when the ominous horn blast rang out like the knell of the Avenging Angel on Doomsday.