‘And Tripham, your Vice-Regent?’
‘Oh, Master Tripham is a viper,’ she replied. ‘A cosy snake who’s coiled himself round Sparrow Hall and wishes to make it his. He wants to become Regent. He’ll not weep at Passerel’s or Langton’s death. He’ll slither about ensuring that his cronies are appointed to the vacant positions. He’s a parvenu!’ she spat out. ‘A thief and a blackmailer who tramples over my brother’s memory…!’
‘Why a thief?’ Corbett interrupted.
‘He’s also the treasurer,’ Lady Mathilda explained. ‘And the Hall receives revenues from many quarters: a field here, a barn there; manors in Essex; fishing rights at Harwich and Walton-on-Naze. The money comes in piecemeal. I am sure some sticks to Master Tripham’s fingers.’
‘And a blackmailer?’ Corbett asked.
‘He knows all the little sins of his fellows,’ Lady Mathilda replied. ‘Barnett is well known to the whores. Churchley likes boys, particularly young men from Wales. You’ve met the loud-mouthed David Ap Thomas? I’ve seen Churchley pat his bottom. A bum squire, born and bred.’
‘And Appleston?’
Lady Mathilda’s eyes softened.
‘Leonard Appleston’s a good Master: a fine scholar, skilled in logic and debate. The scholars flock to his lectures in the schools.’
‘But?’
‘He has secrets from his past. Master Tripham tries to ingratiate himself with me.’ She sniffed. ‘Anyway, Appleston is not his real name.’ She pulled at the corner of her mouth. ‘His name is de Montfort. Oh, no, no.’ She waved a hand at the surprise in Corbett’s face. ‘Born the wrong side of the blanket he was: a bastard child.’
‘Does the King know this?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what happened?’
She shrugged. ‘Appleston cannot be arrested simply because he was the by-blow of a traitorous earl.’
‘And his sympathies?’
‘He keeps himself to himself. Once I caught him in the library amongst my brother’s papers where there are some of de Montfort’s proclamations. I passed him before he turned the book over, and I saw the title. When Appleston looked up, he had tears in his eyes.’
‘So he could be the Bellman?’
‘Anyone could be the Bellman,’ Lady Mathilda retorted. ‘Except Master Moth.’
‘He slides like a ghost round the hall.’
Lady Mathilda tapped her head. ‘Master Moth is not a madman, Sir Hugh, but he finds it difficult to concentrate or remember anything. Remember, he can neither hear, nor speak or read and write.’ Lady Mathilda rose to her feet, cocking her head to one side, as if listening to something. ‘I don’t know who the Bellman is, Corbett. You’ve met Bullock the Sheriff?’
Corbett nodded.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘there’s a man who hates us! And, of course, there are the students — you must not think they are as poor as they look. Many of them come from very wealthy families, particularly the Welsh. Their grandfathers fought for de Montfort and later their fathers and elder brothers fought the King in Wales.’ She came over and touched the greying locks on Corbett’s head. ‘Like the lovely Maeve, your good wife!’
‘Aye, God bless her!’ Corbett rose. ‘She’s in bed and so should I be, Lady Mathilda.’
He grasped her cold, thin hand and kissed it.
‘Are you frightened, Corbett?’ she asked. ‘Will the Bellman’s threats keep you awake at night?’
‘In media vitae,’ he replied, ‘sumus in morte! In the midst of life, Lady Mathilda, we are in death.’ He walked to the door then turned. ‘What concerns me is what the others will say about you?’
Lady Mathilda laughed, the age and pain disappearing from her face. Corbett glimpsed the beautiful young woman she once had been.
‘They’ll call me an interfering, sinister, old witch,’ she replied. ‘Do you know what I think, Corbett?’ She paused, fingering the tassel of the cord round her waist. ‘I think the Bellman’s coming. He might come after you, Sir Hugh, but, remember, I am Sir Henry Braose’s sister.’ She drew herself up. ‘I know he will not let me live!’
Chapter 6
Corbett left the library, Master Moth pushing by him in his haste to return to his mistress. Ranulf tapped the side of his head.
‘Take no offence, Master. Moth is only a child. Lady Mathilda is both his mother and his God. He was fair scratching at the door to get in.’
‘I know,’ Corbett replied. ‘She’s frightened. She believes the Bellman has a list and that her name is on it.’
A servitor was waiting to escort them out. Corbett excused himself and went out through a small postern door which led into the garden. A full moon bathed the lawns, flower beds and raised herb patches in its silvery light. On the left and far side was a curtain wall, to the right a line of buildings. Corbett glanced towards the library window.
‘Yes, it’s possible,’ he murmured. ‘Look, Ranulf. There are two small buttresses on either side, not to mention the hedge in front: these would conceal the assassin.’ Corbett indicated the small path which ran between the hedge and the wall of the building. ‘Provided no one saw him come out, he’d be almost invisible.’
Corbett walked down gingerly; the hedge was prickly and sharp and the soil underneath wet and slippery after the recent rain. He stopped outside the library window: it was fastened shut, the shutters behind betraying faint chinks of light. He walked back to his companions. Maltote was leaning against the door, falling asleep.
‘So the assassin could have shot from there?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Pulled back the shutters then closed the window over?’
‘I think so,’ Corbett replied slowly. ‘But I’m not as clever as I think. We know the window was closed and shuttered. We also know Ascham was in the library looking for something which would unmask the Bellman, or at least we think he was. Imagine him sitting at the table. He hears a tap on the window so he goes and opens the shutters.’
‘And then the window?’ Ranulf added helpfully.
‘No,’ Corbett replied. ‘That’s where my clever theory fails. Tell me, Ranulf — if you had an inkling of who the Bellman was and you’d sealed yourself in the library to hunt for the necessary evidence. You hear a tap on the window, open the shutters and, through the window, see the face of the very person you suspect — would you open the window? Bearing in mind this Bellman may have also murdered the Regent, John Copsale?’
‘No,’ Ranulf replied. ‘I wouldn’t. But maybe Ascham was not sure and had more than one suspect?’
‘Perhaps… ah well!’ Corbett shook Maltote’s arm. ‘It’s well after midnight and time we were in our beds.’
They walked back into the hall and out, through the main door, into the lane. Only the faint glow of candles from windows high in the hostelry provided any light. A beggar, his legs shorn off at the knees, came out from an alleyway, pushing himself on a small barrow, waving his clacking dish.
‘A penny!’ he whined. ‘For an old soldier!’
Corbett crouched down and stared at the man’s rotting face: one eye was half-closed, and there were large festering sores around his mouth. Corbett put two pennies in the earthenware bowl.
‘What do you see, old man?’ he asked. ‘What do you see at night? Who leaves the hall or hostelry?’
The beggar opened his mouth, in which only one tooth hung down, sharp and pointed like a hook.
‘No one bothers poor Albric,’ he replied. ‘And I sees no one. But there again, sirs, rats have always got more than one hole.’
‘So, you have seen people sneak out at night?’
‘I see shadows,’ Albric replied. ‘Shadows, cowled and muffled, slip by poor Albric, not a penny offered, not a penny given.’