‘Where was he buried?’ Corbett asked.
‘In the churchyard of St Mary’s. Passerel will also be buried there. The Hall owns a plot of land adjoining the cemetery.’
‘Did Passerel say anything?’ Ranulf spoke up from the end of the table. ‘Anything at all to explain why Ascham should write his name, or most of it, on a piece of parchment?’
‘He hotly denied any blame,’ Norreys replied. ‘Every time he came over to check on the stores or sign the accounts, the poor fellow would begin a speech in his own defence.’
‘We all agreed with him,’ Tripham said. ‘The day Ascham was killed, Passerel was travelling back from Abingdon.’
‘Ascham’s corpse must have been cold,’ Churchley spoke up, ‘when Passerel arrived back about five o’clock. It was he who initiated the search for poor Robert, and when we forced the door Ascham was as cold as ice.’
‘What time do you think he died?’ Corbett asked.
‘We know,’ Tripham replied. ‘He went into the library — oh, between one and two o’clock in the afternoon. He locked and bolted the library door behind him. He must have been searching for something but exactly what he never mentioned. Now, for some of that afternoon, I was with Lady Mathilda discussing the Hall’s revenues.’ He glared meaningfully to his right. ‘We then went down to the buttery. Passerel burst in, saying the library was locked and he could get no answer from Ascham.’
‘And where were the rest of you?’
The mumbled replies told him little. Norreys had been across in the hostelry doing his accounts: the rest had been in their chambers before going down to the buttery.
‘I ordered the door to be broken down,’ Tripham declared. ‘When we went in, Ascham was lying in a pool of blood, the letter beside him; the candle was burnt down and the garden window was shuttered.’
‘I examined him,’ Churchley spoke up. ‘It was just after five o’clock in the evening when we broke in. He must have been dead for about an hour.’
‘And what happened on the day Passerel fled to St Michael’s?’ Corbett asked.
‘The scholars,’ Tripham replied, ‘loved old Ascham. On the day in question, a mob gathered threatening violence.’
‘Couldn’t you have sent to the Sheriff for help?’
‘Aye, and we’d still be waiting,’ Appelston replied. ‘I told Passerel to flee: it seemed the best course of action.’
‘We thought it wise to let hot blood cool,’ Tripham added. ‘The following morning, I would have petitioned for help.’ He tapped the table cloth. ‘In the circumstances, it’s difficult to blame the students.’
Corbett pushed his wine cup away. At the far end of the table Maltote and Ranulf looked at him expectantly. Maltote was completely bemused. Ranulf was grinning, running his tongue round his lips. As he often whispered to Maltote, ‘I love to see old Master Long Face get to the questioning. A true lawyer he is, with those sharp, hooded eyes. He sits and questions and then he’ll go away and brood.’ Ranulf took great pleasure in what was happening. Apart from Norreys, the rest of the Masters had ignored him as if he did not exist. Suddenly a screech owl called outside and Ranulf shivered. Wasn’t Uncle Morgan always saying that a screech owl’s call was the harbinger of death?
Chapter 5
Corbett sat in silence. He studied his wine cup, a trick he often used to force others to speak. This time he was disappointed. Lady Mathilda and the rest just stared back expectantly.
Corbett began his questioning again. ‘Did Ascham ever say anything untoward? If the Bellman killed him there can only be one reason for that: Ascham must have begun to suspect his identity.’ He clasped his hands together on the table. ‘Now students are not allowed to come into the Hall, are they?’
‘No,’ Tripham retorted. ‘They are not.’
‘Or walk in the garden?’
‘No.’
‘Therefore Ascham’s killer must have been in the Hall itself, either one of you or one of the servants. So, I ask you again, did Ascham ever say anything about the Bellman or his possible identity?’
‘He did to me,’ Langton declared, rather embarrassed by his own outspokenness. ‘I asked who he thought the Bellman could be.’ He continued in a rush, ‘But Ascham only replied with that quotation from St Pauclass="underline" “We see through a glass darkly”.’
‘He said as much to me,’ Churchley spoke up. ‘Once I met him in the buttery. He looked worried, so I asked him what was the matter? He replied that appearances were deceptive: there was something not right at Sparrow Hall. I asked him what he meant but he refused to answer.’
‘Why did your brother,’ Corbett asked, changing tack abruptly, ‘call his foundation Sparrow Hall?’
‘It was my brother’s favourite quotation from the Gospels,’ Lady Mathilda explained. ‘Christ’s words about the Father knowing even when a sparrow fell to the earth, yet that each of us was worth more than many sparrows.’
‘He was also a student of the Venerable Bede,’ Appleston explained. ‘Particularly his Ecclesiastical History of the English People. Henry loved Bede’s story about the thane who compared a man’s life to a sparrow which flies into a hall, where there’s light and warmth, before continuing his flight out into the cold darkness.’ Appleston smiled. ‘I only met Sir Henry a few months before he died: he often took comfort from that story.’
‘Did Ascham spend a great deal of time in the library in the days before his death?’ Corbett asked.
‘Yes, yes he did,’ Tripham replied. ‘But what book he was looking for or reading none of us knew.’
‘I’d like to go down there,’ Corbett declared. ‘Is that possible?’
Tripham agreed and servants were sent to light candles. When they returned, the Vice-Regent ordered them to bring wine to the library. He rose, with Corbett and the rest following him out into the passageway. The library was across the garden, at the far side of the Hall. It was a long, spacious room with wooden wainscoting, and gold and silver stars delicately painted on the white plaster above. Shelves, at right angles to the wall, were ranged on either side, with tables and stools between and a long writing table down the centre. The air was sweet and smelt of pure beeswax, parchment and leather. Corbett sniffed appreciatively and exclaimed in surprise at how many books, manuscripts and folios the library held.
‘Oh, we have most of the great works here,’ Lady Mathilda declared proudly. ‘My brother, God rest him, was a bibliophile: his books, as well as his private papers, are kept here. He also bought extensively both at home and abroad.’
Corbett was about to question the source of such wealth but remembered just in time: Sir Henry Braose, like many who had supported the King against de Montfort, had received lavish rewards from the Crown, including the revenues and lands of de Montfort’s adherents. No wonder the Braoses had been cursed here in Oxford, where there had been much support for the dead earl.
The rest of the Masters, rather unsteady on their feet, leaned against the tables or sat on stools as Corbett walked the full length of the library. He admired its books, shelves and coffers, its two ornately carved lecterns, as well as the fresco on the far wall, which depicted a scene from the Apocalypse where the Angel opened the Great Book for St John to read. Corbett came back into the centre of the room and studied the faint, dark stains on the floor.
‘This is where Ascham was found?’
‘No, as soon as we opened the door, we could see him lying just before the table there.’
‘And where was the parchment?’
Tripham pointed to a place near the table. ‘It was lying there as if Ascham had pushed it away from him.’
‘We tried to clean the blood away,’ Appleston explained. ‘Passerel was to hire special polishers.’
Corbett studied the blood stains in the centre of the room and beside the table.
‘So,’ Corbett said, ‘it looks as if Ascham crawled along the floor to get to something at the table?’