The Vice-Regent led them up the stairs. On the first gallery two servants busily folding cloths from a chest stood up and flattened themselves against the wall as if they did not wish to be seen. Bullock pushed open a door. The chamber within was luxurious: it contained a four-poster bed with the curtains pulled, shelves laden with books, pewter plates and cups, stools and a cushioned chair before the elegant writing table under the window. On either side of it stood half-open coffers. Bullock pulled back the curtains of the bed. Appleston lay there, so serenely Corbett thought he was asleep. Bullock, grumbling under his breath, went and pulled back the shutters.
‘Don’t touch the cup on the table,’ he warned as Corbett picked it up and sniffed at it.
He caught the acrid tang beneath the claret.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘I am a sheriff, not an apothecary!’ Bullock snapped. ‘But Churchley claims it’s a form of sleeping potion, the kind which provides eternal sleep.’
Corbett sat on the bed. He gently eased back the blankets and loosened the buttons of Appleston’s nightshirt.
‘Is all this really necessary?’ Tripham asked.
‘Yes, I think it is,’ Corbett replied.
Pulling up the nightshirt he studied the corpse. Corbett could find no mark of violence. The skin was slightly clammy, the face pale, the lips half-open and turning purplish, but nothing significant. If it had not been for the cup, Corbett would have thought Appleston had died silently in his sleep.
‘And why do you think he’s the Bellman?’
‘Look at the desk,’ Tripham replied.
Corbett did so. A piece of parchment, neatly cut, caught his eye: the writing on it was the same as on the Bellman’s proclamation. He also noticed the ink jar and quill lying beside it.
‘“The Bellman cometh and goeth,”’ he read aloud. “‘He sounds his warnings and proclaims the truth yet the darkness always comes. Who knows when he will return?” Slightly enigmatic,’ Corbett observed.
He went back to the bed and picked up Appleston’s hand and noticed the black ink stains on the fingers: flecks of ink also stained the white linen nightshirt.
‘And there’s more,’ Bullock declared.
He began to open chests and coffers, taking out rolls of vellum, pots of black ink. He also pushed scraps of yellowing parchment and thrust them into Corbett’s hand.
‘Draft copies of the Bellman’s proclamations.’ He pointed to a roll of vellum lying beside the desk. ‘Extracts from the chronicles about de Montfort’s life. And, more importantly-’
Bullock went into a coffer and rummaged about. He brought out what looked like a small triptych. However, when Corbett opened it, instead of a picture of the crucifix-ion in the centre with Mary and John on the side panels, there was a crudely depicted portrait of de Montfort portrayed as a saint; on either side stood hosts of people, hands outstretched, scrolls coming out of their mouths which bore the words, ‘Laudate!’ ‘Laudate!’ Praise! Praise!
Corbett joined in the search. Tripham stood by the door bleating protests. Bullock relished turning over coffers and chests. In the end Corbett piled all that they’d found on the desk.
‘So Appleston was the Bellman,’ he concluded. ‘We knew him to be the illegitimate son of de Montfort and there is no doubt he had a special love for the Earl. The scrolls, the writing implements all seem to indicate he was the Bellman.’
‘You are not so sure?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Oh, I may accept that he’s the Bellman,’ Corbett replied. ‘But why did he commit suicide? For that’s what the verdict will be, yes? Appleston realises he could no longer continue his subterfuge. Accordingly, he draws up a small memorandum proclaiming the truth, takes a potion and dies peacefully in his sleep.’ He glanced at Tripham. ‘Was the door locked or unlocked?’
‘Unlocked, Sir Hugh.’
Corbett sat down on a stool and scratched the end of his nose.
‘Here’s a man who is going to commit suicide,’ he declared. ‘He’s written his death warrant — you see the ink stains on his fingers. Most of the wine has been drunk. Appleston does not bother to die dramatically but climbs into bed.’ Corbett stared at the candlestick, he noticed how the wax had burnt down. ‘If you could all leave. Master Sheriff, you too.’
Bullock was about to protest.
‘Please,’ Corbett added. ‘I promise I will not keep you long.’
Bullock followed Tripham out of the chamber. Ranulf closed the door behind them.
‘You don’t believe it was suicide, do you, Master?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Corbett replied. ‘It’s not logical. Most assassins value their lives. The Bellman has enjoyed the game. He has killed in secret under the cloak of darkness. So why should he go so quietly into the night? Oh-’ Corbett nodded. ‘There’s a lot of evidence against him. His parentage, the documents in this chamber. But there again, Ranulf, if you were the bastard son of de Montfort, you’d be proud of it too, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, yes, I would.’
‘So, tell me, Ranulf, if you were going to commit suicide, if you were going to write the last note of your life, you’d want to do it undisturbed surely? You’d lock and bolt the door. But Appleston did neither. He climbed into bed without dousing the candle. Above all, if a man was about to die, why change into his night attire?’ Corbett walked across to the door. On one peg hung a Master’s cloak bearing the badge of the Hall and, on the other, a shirt, jerkin and hose. Corbett examined these carefully.
‘They are all clean,’ he murmured.
He looked round the room and glimpsed a straw basket in the far corner under the lavarium. He went across and pulled this out, emptying the contents on to the floor. He picked up a soiled shirt and hose.
‘This is what Appleston wore yesterday.’ Corbett put them back in the basket. ‘Appleston also arranged fresh clothes for the morrow.’
‘Perhaps he’s a man of routine,’ Ranulf replied. ‘I have heard of a similar case in Cripplegate when a mother baked bread, even though she had decided to take her life before morning.’
‘Perhaps.’ Corbett walked round the room. He sat at the desk and sifted through pieces of parchment. ‘But let’s say — ’ he waved a piece of vellum in his fingers ‘- Causa Disputandi, that Appleston was the Bellman. Bullock came in here and immediately found the evidence. Why make it so apparent?’
‘Appleston was past caring,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Don’t forget, Master, he must have calculated we were closing in. We’d found out his secret…’
‘But I’m not closing in,’ Corbett commented drily. ‘I’m stumbling around in the dark as much as ever.’
‘Yes, yes. But, Master, let’s say we left Oxford and took horse to Woodstock and told the King what we knew. What would have happened?’
‘The Masters here would have been arrested.’ Corbett nodded. ‘I follow your drift, Ranulf. The King would have been deeply interested in Appleston. He would have been tempted to lodge him in the Tower with the Torturers until the truth was out. Indeed, Edward would have been beside himself to learn that a bastard son of the great de Montfort might have been plotting against him.’
Corbett saw Ranulf’s boots scuff the bed tapestries and, going across, he lifted the sheets and blankets. Beneath the mattress, built into the wooden bedstead, was a small drawer. Corbett told Ranulf to move and they both crouched and tried to open it. The drawer was locked but Ranulf took a small pin out of his purse and inserted it carefully in the lock. At first he had no luck but, drawing it out, he inserted it again more carefully. Corbett heard a click and Ranulf pulled the drawer open. They took it out and placed it on the bed. Ranulf glimpsed Appleston’s dead face and, feeling guilty, pulled the sheet over it. The small drawer contained a few items: a lock of hair in a leather pouch; a ring bearing the insignia of a white lion rampant; a pilgrim’s medal from Compostella in Spain; an ivory-handled dagger in a clasp bearing the same escutcheon as the ring.