‘If someone entered the manor grounds stealthily at night,’ he explained, ‘they could lurk here unnoticed by the guards sheltering around their fire under the trees some distance away. Remember, there were no dogs. Both had been killed to prepare for that night of blood. Pennywort, would you have seen anything here?’
The boatman shrugged. ‘We’d never even think to look,’ he murmured.
‘Of course not. Here in this clump of trees the killer prepared. He had a staff.’ He pointed to the pole. ‘Cut a third off.’
Ranulf, with Pennywort’s help, did so. Corbett grasped the staff, then advanced to the edge of the lake.
‘Master …’ Ranulf warned.
Corbett walked on, using the pole to test the water. He felt it hit rock and carefully walked on to the broad ledge beneath. The water rose to about a foot, almost touching the rim of his boots. He edged forward carefully in a straight line. Icy water splashed his legs, but the ledge was quite broad and gritty, whilst the flow of the lake, fed by some underground stream, was not strong.
‘It’s very similar,’ he called back, ‘to a ford: shallow water over sure footing!’ He found the pole invaluable. Like a blind man with a stick, he would push it forward and then follow. He felt slightly nervous when he reached the centre, but the underwater ridge stretched before him, broad enough to take any slip to the left or right. Moreover, as he approached the far side, the ledge began to rise slightly. The water grew shallower, then he was across, boots crunching on the icy undergrowth along the island edge. He turned and smiled triumphantly, lifting his hands towards his companions, then began the journey back. On one occasion he nearly slipped as the staff wedged in a crack on the ledge, but he reached the far bank safely.
‘Nothing!’ he exclaimed. ‘Some cold water on my legs, but it wasn’t too dangerous.’
‘But at night?’ Ranulf asked.
Corbett held up the staff. ‘Shielded by the trees, the killer could have used a shuttered lantern. More importantly,’ he pointed to one of the willows,’ he may have brought a rope.’
‘Of course,’ Pennywort breathed, ‘A covered lantern to mark the place he left. He’d tie one end of the rope securely around a tree, the other end about his waist.’
‘Precisely!’ Corbett clapped Pennywort on the shoulder. ‘Then he used the staff to find his foothold and move carefully across, as I did. The dark would make no difference; as long as the pole hit hard rock, he was safe. If he slipped or even fell, the rope would secure him. He could haul himself back on to the ledge and carry on. Once on the other side, he’d secure the rope to use on his return. That is how our killer crossed to the Island of Swans.’
‘But the reclusorium?’ Pennywort stammered. ‘How did the killer force an entry? Everything was secure. I had to smash the shutters.’
‘Hush.’ Corbett opened his purse and pressed a silver piece into the man’s hand. ‘For now, silence, Pennywort! This is King’s business.’
The boatman beamed down at the piece of silver. ‘I never knew,’ he murmured, ‘about the ford.’
‘Very few did,’ Corbett replied. ‘I suspect that many years ago masonry and cement were poured in to support a bridge that was eventually destroyed or fell down, but its rocky foundations are as sure as those of a cathedral, a mass of hardened concrete known only to a few, forgotten over the years. Lord Scrope didn’t forget when he built his reclusorium. He insisted that the only way across the lake was by boat, a fact everybody accepted as the truth and that, strangely enough, proved to be his own undoing …’
Darkness had fallen when Corbett gathered his guests around the high table on the dais in Mistleham Manor. Lady Hawisa, despiteCorbett’s request, insisted on serving a light collation for all those invited. The dais gleamed in the light of a long row of candelabra, the fire in the great hearth had been built up, and braziers glowed from the corners of the hall. Corbett’s guests arrived together: Claypole, Master Benedict, Ormesby, Father Thomas and Brother Gratian, all graciously welcomed by Lady Hawisa. Corbett had prepared himself well. He’d spoken briefly to Ranulf and Chanson, then drawn up documents; the chancery bag resting against the leg of his chair contained all the letters and warrants he needed. Ranulf had also come prepared, his war belt lying on the floor beside a small arbalest, though Corbett predicted there would be little violence.
The meal began. Corbett allowed Father Thomas to say grace and the servants brought in the wine, bowls of hot broth and platters of cold meat and fresh bread. Lady Hawisa, still garbed in widow’s weeds, tried to make conversation, but the atmosphere was tense; those who’d come knew that Corbett had reached his conclusions. They sat like men under sentence waiting for a judge to declare his verdict. Corbett decided to be swift. The first goblet of wine had been drunk when he abruptly rose and walked around behind Claypole’s chair. The whisper of conversation died as Corbett put his hand on the mayor’s tense shoulder.
‘Master Henry Claypole, Mayor of Mistleham, I, Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King’s Secret Seal and Royal Commissioner in these parts, do appeal you of treason, robbery and murder. Treason in that the outlaw John Le Riche deliberately came here to sell you the King’s treasure looted from the crypt at Westminster. No …’ Corbett forced the mayor to remain seated. Ranulf stood up and walked down the other side of the table, theprimed arbalest pointing directly at Claypole. The rest of the guests gazed in astonishment.
‘I did not-’
‘You did!’ Corbett leaned down and whispered loudly, ‘Such mummery, Master Claypole! Le Riche was experienced, but he was tricked and betrayed by you and Lord Scrope. Where is the rest of the treasure you bought, eh? In your house? I’ll produce the necessary warrants and search it from garret to cellar. You are also accused of robbery, because you and Lord Scrope feloniously took the said treasure and hid it. Murder, because you are the Sagittarius. You are a skilled bowman, Master Claypole; both you and Lord Scrope were involved in that too. You rented tenements from your manor lord above the marketplace. You used these as a hiding place as well as your concealment to loose arrows at both the unsuspecting and those you and Lord Scrope wished to rid yourselves of. Murder also because you turned against your master; you wanted the Sanguis Christi as well as the other treasure, not to mention the blood registers. You, Lord Scrope’s son, legitimate or not, were privy to many secrets, including that secret ford across the lake.’ Corbett lifted his hand at the excited murmur around him. ‘Not now,’ he declared. ‘Perhaps in a day or so, when Master Claypole goes on trial for his life.’ He tightened his grip on Claypole’s shoulder until the mayor winced. ‘You used that ford the night you murdered Scrope.’
‘This is ridiculous!’ Claypole screeched. ‘I can prove-’
‘What?’ Corbett intervened. ‘That you were busy in the guildhall this morning when Dame Marguerite arrived?’
‘As I was in the marketplace when Jackanapes was killed.’
‘Your accomplice Lord Scrope was not,’ Corbett taunted.‘I mean when Jackanapes was killed. There were two Sagittarius, two bowmen; I shall prove that. As for this morning, I shall also demonstrate, Master Claypole, that you have St Alphege’s under constant scrutiny. After all, that is the place from where the blood registers were allegedly stolen. You also watched Dame Marguerite, who fiercely resented your claims. When she arrived unexpectedly at St Alphege’s earlier today, you decided to finish the game once and for all. I shall explain the details later. After all, Master Claypole, you are the mayor, you can move around. It is easy to leave a bow with a quiver of arrows in the shadows, slip through one door, notch an arrow, loose and flee again. Ah yes, I have much to say about you and so much to judge. Chanson,’ Corbett called down the hall, ‘arrest Master Claypole and take him to the cellars below. Ranulf will go with you. Lady Hawisa …’