‘You still underestimated him,’ Corbett declared sharply. ‘The painting, the weapons, and, I suspect, he discovered that not onlyhad Le Riche sheltered in Mordern, but most of his booty still lay hidden here. Enough was enough. The Free Brethren were a real danger. Scrope was very frightened. How had they discovered his sin? His Judas-like conduct? Had someone survived the fall of Acre, someone who knew everything? Or was it Gratian or even Claypole? Whatever, they had to be silenced. Scrope became busy sowing rumours, allegations against the Free Brethren, and then he struck. He acted the manor lord defending his own, the faithful son of the Church attacking heretics. The Free Brethren were swiftly massacred. Scrope did not find the treasure, nor had he the wit to understand the scrawl on the sacristy wall. He killed them all, then left their corpses to rot. Why? Well, first he discovered that the Free Brethren were not the angelic beings they’d pretended to be. He must have been delighted to find those weapons and the drawings of Mistleham Manor to justify his actions, but he was also suspicious: he wanted to see if the Free Brethren had any secret sympathisers amongst the community in Mistleham. Anyone who might come out here to bury the corpses.’ Corbett paused. Master Benedict’s face had grown paler. He was staring dully into the flames as the memories returned.
‘You,’ Corbett continued, ‘like everyone else, were deeply shocked at Scrope’s ferocious and ruthless attack. You certainly had not planned for that. You never thought a manor lord would attack in the first light of dawn, putting everyone to the sword. You were not there to advise your comrades that Scrope had decided on all their deaths. He had no choice: that painting, not to mention Le Riche. Our robber not only hid his plunder here, he may also have told the Free Brethren all sorts of tales about asecret pact to sell stolen royal goods to a mayor and a powerful lord. Little wonder the Free Brethren were so brutally silenced. Nevertheless, you and your accomplice, Dame Marguerite, became genuinely ill with shock, guilty at bringing your colleagues to such a grisly end. Dame Marguerite had learnt of the Templar threats to her brother; now, through you, she began to issue threats on both your accounts about the Mills of God.’
Corbett picked up the wineskin and threw it across. The chaplain clumsily removed the stopper, gulped greedily and handed it back.
‘Dame Marguerite also told you about the Sagittarius, who’d appeared years ago threatening her brother. You and she decided the Sagittarius must return. First to deal out terror and justice to the good citizens of Mistleham who’d supported Lord Scrope’s attack on the Free Brethren, and second to plan for Scrope’s own death. You chose your victims for execution, innocents in Mistleham. You used Dame Marguerite as your constant disguise, as you did when Wilfred and Eadburga were slaughtered. You were not guarding the door at St Alphege’s; you slipped away to commit horrid murder. Time, however, was passing. To a certain extent you and Dame Marguerite had lost control over events. The massacre, the hanging of Le Riche, and now the King’s men were coming to Mistleham. You plotted furiously. First you, Master Benedict, visited Father Thomas, calling yourself Nightshade. You issued a veiled warning, an ultimatum to Lord Scrope. Of course he recognised the truth behind your message: his evil day had caught up with him. You knew he would not repent. Already you were devising his death. A constant visitor to the manor, residing there with Dame Marguerite, you could hide away bows andarrows. One night you went hunting Scrope’s mastiffs; they also had been involved in the attack on Mordern. More importantly, they were guard dogs. Did you first mix an opiate with their meat?’
Master Benedict just smiled.
‘Then you grasped the bow and arrows Dame Marguerite had smuggled in for you and slipped out into the darkness like the hunter you are. Two arrows for each hound, one to wound and slow your quarry, the second delivering the killing blow.’
‘And then we arrived,’ Ranulf interrupted, ‘but our presence did not deter you.’
‘In a way, Master Benedict,’ Corbett declared, ‘you were pleased at our arrival. The corpses of your comrades were rotting; we ended all that. Nevertheless, you used the occasion to remind Scrope’s men that the Sagittarius was not far. However, the burning of your dead truly disturbed you. You became ill with fury; I witnessed that. You carried out immediate retribution. You discovered that Scrope’s henchman Robert de Scott was wallowing in the Honeycomb. Once again you disappeared into that warren of garrets and chambers above Mistleham marketplace to unleash death before turning on Scrope himself.’
Master Benedict bowed his head and smiled softly. Corbett suspected he was simply hiding his confusion.
‘Dame Marguerite then came into her own. By now she truly hated her brother, as she did his shadow Claypole. She was determined to harm the mayor. She’d always hated his pretensions; I suspect even before your revelations to her. Whilst her brother was away in Acre, Dame Marguerite was the one who removed the blood registers from St Alphege’s – so that if her brother died childless, Master Claypole could make no claim. True?’
‘It’s possible.’ The chaplain kept his head down. ‘Dame Marguerite truly hated Claypole, and if she’d lived, she would have dealt with him.’
‘But first her brother,’ Corbett declared. ‘On the day we burnt the dead at Mordern, you returned to the manor to take Gaston’s ring, which, God forgive his hypocrisy, Scrope had placed on the head of the crucified Saviour. You did this before slipping out into Mistleham to wreak bloody havoc in the marketplace. You strode into that chapel only to be surprised by Lady Hawisa. She came in after you full of rage at her husband and, in the silence of that place, confessed how she had often plotted to kill him with nightshade. She left and so did you, taking the ring to Dame Marguerite as well as the information Lady Hawisa had unwittingly provided.’
Corbett paused and listened to the faint sounds from outside. He thought of the list of murderous deeds this man was responsible for and wondered how Master Benedict could be brought to full justice. First, though, the indictment had to be presented.
‘Lord Scrope was now truly frightened,’ Corbett continued. ‘Dame Marguerite was still acting the role of the loving, loyal sister. Secretly, and I admit this is conjecture, she went to see him. She would act all concerned and anxious, bemoaning how no one could be trusted, how the very walls had ears.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘It would not be too difficult with Scrope haunted and hunted by the past as well as the present. Dame Marguerite would argue that no one could be trusted, not even his wife, who, she told him, also desired to end his life. She offered to bring proof, revelations about the mysterious threats, either herself or through her faithful chaplain. One of you would cross the secret ford and visit him that night in the reclusorium; thatwas the best place for such a confession to be made, where no one could see or hear.’
‘And Lord Scrope would agree to that?’
‘Why not? What did he fear from his faithful sister or her creature, the whey-faced chaplain? God knows what Dame Marguerite offered, what she said, but Scrope certainly accepted.’
‘But that ford at night?’
‘Nonsense, Master Benedict, you know Mistleham Manor well. You’ve been there for over a year, Dame Marguerite had shown you the place. You may have even practised crossing it. I did once, quite safely. You could do it easily armed with a staff, a rope and a shuttered lantern horn.’
Master Benedict glanced up in surprise. Corbett noted the fear in his eyes, the realisation of how hard the case pressed against him.
‘What had you to fear, cold water? The guards were sheltering well away under some trees. Robert de Scott had been dispatched to hell, the guard dogs slain. Dame Marguerite was ready to swear that you were ill all night. No, no – you safely crossed to the rear of the reclusorium and, as agreed, tapped on a shutter. Lord Scrope, lying on his bed, gets up, pulls aside the drapes, opens the shutters and lets you in. What can he, a warrior, fear from a pious, unarmed chaplain carrying a small pannier bag? Scrope sits down in his chair and you, all nervous, stand over him. You fumble with the bag but swiftly grasp the dagger and plunge it into Scrope’s heart. In the blink of an eye Scrope was killed because he had been faced with the totally unexpected and had no time to resist, to struggle. You plunged that dagger deep. Scrope tried to grasp the hilt and bloodied his hands. You just stood and watched the life light fade in your enemy’s eyes. You then took the keys fromround his neck and ransacked his treasury. You later returned the keys, pulled out your dagger and thrust in the one taken from the crypt at Westminster.’