The effect in the marketplace, as Physician Ormesby laterdescribed it, was as if the Lord of Hell had set up stall there. People ceased what they were doing and ran for the protection of alleyways and porches. Ormesby heard the third blast and realised it came from the church. Drawing his dagger, he hurried across, down the path and through the corpse door, which stood off its latch. He stepped inside. The air was sweet with incense still curling after the Jesus Mass. Father Thomas would not be there. The priest had a strict routine and would have adjourned to his house to break his fast and tend to parish matters. Physician Ormesby heard sobbing, an awful heart-chilling sound. The nave was gloomy; here and there a candle glowed through the juddering shadows. He immediately went to one of the pillars and stared around. He glimpsed the baptismal font, the image of Christopher on a pillar, the stool in the corner, then he glanced down at the rood screen before the high altar. The glow of candles was stronger there. He saw the body lying just near the entrance to the rood screen, hurried down, then stopped. Dame Marguerite lay sprawled in front of the entrance to the sanctuary, arms extended, face caught in the shock of death, eyes staring blindly. A trickle of blood snaked from the corner of her mouth to stain her white wimple. The arrow shaft had pierced her deep in the left side. A blow to the heart, Physician Ormesby thought; death would have been immediate. The blood was still bubbling around the shaft.
Again that chilling sound of sobbing from behind the rood screen. Ormesby looked up and saw another long shaft embedded in the wood of the screen just near the entrance. Lifting his dagger, he stepped round the corpse and walked into the sanctuary.
Master Benedict crouched there, fingers to his lips, eyes rounded in terror. Other people were now coming into the church. Ormesbyignored these. He knelt down and grasped the chaplain’s hand. The man was even more pale-faced than usual, lips quivering.
‘We were just standing there,’ the chaplain gasped. He let Ormesby help him to his feet. ‘We were just standing there talking, waiting for you to come, then I heard it, the corpse door being opened. I thought it might be Father Thomas. I walked a bit further down, I could see no one, then I heard the hunting horn, three long blasts. I just stood there, and so did Dame Marguerite. She was standing in the entrance to the rood screen. I walked further; the arrow came whirling through the air followed by a chilling scream. I looked over my shoulder. Dame Marguerite lay sprawled on the ground. I hurried back. I could see the shaft had struck deep, here.’ He patted his own left side. ‘I turned around. I glimpsed a shadow; the Sagittarius was taking aim. I threw myself behind the rood screen. I heard the arrow strike, followed by footsteps.’ He paused. ‘Footsteps,’ he repeated, ‘then I heard yours.’
‘Oh Lord have mercy on us all!’
Ormesby hastened back through the rood screen. Father Thomas was bending over Dame Marguerite’s corpse, sketching the sign of the cross on her forehead. He glanced quickly at the physician.
‘I was in the priest house,’ he murmured. ‘I was doing the accounts. I heard the horn blowing and couldn’t believe it. I ran here.’ He got to his feet. ‘Master Benedict,’ he called, ‘you are well?’
The chaplain came out from behind the rood screen. He went to Dame Marguerite’s corpse and sank to his knees, face in his hands, sobbing like a child. Ormesby walked down the church, telling the curious to stay by the font, then glanced around, looking for the coffin door. He walked across into the dark transept and tugged at the latch. The door was open. He strode back up thenave; the door to God’s Acre through the sacristy was also unlocked.
‘I will get the holy oils,’ Father Thomas declared. ‘I will anoint her, do what I can.’
‘What is happening here?’
Claypole, robe flapping about him, came striding up the nave, the heels of his boots clipping on the paving stones. He paused, stared down at Dame Marguerite and whispered something under his breath. Ormesby couldn’t determine if it was a prayer or a curse.
‘We must send for Corbett,’ Ormesby urged. ‘You,’ he pointed at Claypole, ‘dispatch one of your servants. Everybody must stay back, leave everything as it is until Corbett arrives.’
The clerk was breaking his fast in the buttery when Claypole’s messenger arrived. Corbett wiped his hands and told Chanson to saddle their horses before hastening off to his own chamber to slip on boots, strap on his war belt and grab his coat and gloves. He met Ranulf in the gallery outside.
‘You do not seem surprised, Sir Hugh?’
‘No, I’m not.’ Corbett clicked his tongue. ‘Everything is breaking down, Ranulf. Soon we’ll have the truth, but first let’s see what mischief brews.’
The marketplace was thronged and they had to fight their way through to St Alphege’s. Corbett told Chanson to stay with their horses while he and Ranulf went through the corpse door. A small party was waiting for them before the rood screen. Corbett carefully inspected Dame Marguerite’s corpse. The arrow had thrust deep; the blood on her face was now congealed, but her eyes stillstared sightlessly with terror. He asked Father Thomas to fetch a small altar cloth and gently covered the abbess’ face. He inspected the arrow in the rood screen, then walked back down the church, Ranulf going before him to clear those townspeople thronging in to view the gruesome sight. Corbett inspected the coffin and corpse doors as well as that leading to the sacristy. Ormesby had described how he was almost across the market square when he heard the three horn blasts and hurried into the church to find Dame Marguerite dead and Master Benedict hiding behind the rood screen. The chaplain, now more composed, was still white-faced, his eyes red-rimmed. He haltingly explained how Dame Marguerite had insisted on leaving the safety and security of St Frideswide because she needed to speak to Ormesby most urgently.
‘On what matter?’ Corbett asked.
‘Sir Hugh, I don’t know, but,’ he lowered his voice, glancing over his shoulder to where Claypole stood with other town dignitaries, ‘something about the blood register, about Claypole’s claims.’
‘And what would that have to do with you, Master Ormesby?’
The physician closed his eyes, took a breath, then opened them again.
‘We all know,’ he took Corbett by the arm, leading him away, well out of earshot of Claypole and the rest, ‘that Lord Scrope was Claypole’s natural father; whether he and Alice de Tuddenham were blessed in holy wedlock is a matter of debate. Alice later died in childbirth. Now, I only say this as a supposition, Sir Hugh, but rumour has it that my mother, a midwife in Mistleham, delivered the child. She may have heard or seen something, then told me before she died, or so people think. I don’t know! Perhaps that’s why Dame Marguerite wanted to see me.’
Corbett thanked him and returned to the chaplain, who, once again, in halting tones, described how he and Dame Marguerite had arrived just before Nones, the time stipulated in her letter to Physician Ormesby. Corbett asked the physician to produce this letter, which he did. Corbett read it quickly. The note was carefully written but it begged Ormesby, ‘for the most important reason’, to meet Dame Marguerite at the hour of Nones before the rood screen in St Alphege’s. He glanced up at the chaplain.