‘And then he had something to eat?’ Corbett asked.
‘Oh no, Master,’ Granvel gabbled on. ‘That’s what I said earlier. Strange doings here. Everyone frightened of every one else. No, he came up to his room and prepared for bed. I brought him some fresh water and he changed. He had his shift and furred robe on when I came up with a goblet of wine.’
Corbett pointed to the goblet on the table beside the bed.
‘That goblet?’
‘Yes, sir, that’s the one. There are plenty in the kitchen. Master Appleston was sitting at his desk. I put the wine down and left.’
‘And that was it?’
‘Oh no, Master.’ Granvel smiled in a fine display of the only two teeth in his head. ‘Master Tripham came up to see him.’
‘And who else?’
‘Master Churchley brought a tincture, some camomile, I believe, for the sore on Appleston’s mouth.’
‘And there was someone else, wasn’t there?’
‘Oh yes, yes, that fat Sheriff comes into the hall, squat little toad he is. “I want to see Master Tripham!” he shouts. “Aye,” Master Tripham replies, “And I want to see you, Sir Walter. There’s a fair argument over Master Appleston’s treatment”.’
‘And then what?’
Granvel shifted on his stool. ‘Well, “Bugger it!” the Sheriff says. “I’ll apologise to Master Appleston myself!”’ Granvel shrugged. ‘I took him up to the room then stayed in the passageway.’
‘Oh come, Master Granvel! You did listen in?’
The man smiled, his eyes on the second coin in Corbett’s fingers.
‘Well, it was hard not to, Master. I didn’t hear distinct words but voices were raised. And then — Bullock by name, Bullock by nature — the fat Sheriff fairly sweeps out of the room and nearly knocks me down.’ Granvel spread his hands. ‘After that, Master, I returned to my quarters below stairs. Except for my usual visit.’
‘Usual visit?’ Corbett asked.
‘Well yes, sir, it’s in the regulations of the Hall. You know how these Masters study by candlelight. After midnight, I, like the rest, go up to check on my master’s chamber.’
‘And?’
‘Nothing. I tapped on the door. I tried the latch but it was bolted.’
‘Was that usual?’
‘Sometimes, when Master Appleston had a visitor in the room or did not want to be disturbed. So I went away.’
‘But the room was locked?’
‘Oh yes. So I thought, I’d leave it for an hour and when I returned the door was unlocked. I opened it gently and peered in. The candles were doused, there were no lights, so I closed the door quickly and went to bed myself.’
‘And you know nothing else?’
‘I knows nothing else, Master.’
Corbett handed over the coin. ‘Then keep your mouth shut, Master Granvel. I thank you for what you have said.’
Ranulf opened the door and the servant scuttled out.
‘So, Master?’
Corbett shook his head. ‘When I was a boy, Ranulf, there was a murder in my village. No one knew who did it. A ploughman had been found in the great meadow outside the village, a knife between his ribs. My father and others took the knife out and brought the corpse back to the church. Our priest then made each of the villagers walk around the corpse. He was invoking the ancient belief that a corpse will always bleed in the presence of its murderer. I remember it well.’ Corbett paused. ‘I stood at the back of the church, watching my parents and all the adults walk slowly round the corpse. Candles flickering at the head and foot of the coffin made the old church fill with shadows.’
‘And did the corpse bleed?’
‘No, it didn’t, Ranulf. However, as the men walked by, our priest, a shrewd old man, noticed that one villager was not wearing his knife sheath. He took him aside and, in the presence of the reeve, carefully scrutinised him. Blood which couldn’t be accounted for was found on the man’s tunic; moreover, he couldn’t explain where his knife was. He later confessed to the murder and fled for sanctuary.’
‘And you think the same will happen here?’
Corbett smiled and went up and pulled back the sheets.
‘Study his face, Ranulf. What do you see? Examine particularly his lips.’
‘There’s a sore.’ Ranulf pointed to the bloody scab. ‘Not properly healed.’
‘Yes, I thought of that when Granvel mentioned the tincture of camomile. It looks as if it has been rubbed.’
‘But Granvel explained that?’
Corbett shook his head. ‘Look at the cup, Ranulf — there’s no blood mark round the rim. Would a man as neat and precise as Appleston go to sleep with a sore still bleeding? More importantly-’ Corbett began to pull the bolsters away from underneath the dead man’s head. There were four all together. Corbett turned these over and sighed in satisfaction: in the middle of one bolster were faint blots of blood, pieces of hardened scab still caught in the linen.
‘Master Appleston didn’t commit suicide,’ Corbett declared. ‘I’ll tell you what happened, Ranulf. Late last night someone came here. A friendly visit — perhaps bringing a wine jug. Whoever it was filled Appleston’s cup not only with wine but with a heavy sleeping draught. Appleston fell into a deep sleep and then the assassin, our Bellman, took a bolster, held it over Appleston’s face and quietly smothered him: that’s why the room was locked when Granvel returned.’
Chapter 13
Corbett told Ranulf to hold his peace as they went downstairs. Bullock was seated in the parlour with Tripham and Lady Mathilda, Master Moth standing like a ghost behind her. Churchley and Barnett sat apart in the window seat, heads together.
‘Well?’ Bullock asked, rising to his feet.
‘Master Leonard Appleston was not the Bellman,’ Corbett replied, ‘nor did he commit suicide. I am not going to give you the evidence for this.’ He caressed the book he had found in Appleston’s room. ‘Late last night someone came and killed poor Appleston and then made it look as if he was the Bellman.’ He stared round at the assembled company. ‘Sparrow Hall is a veritable nest of murderers,’ he added.
‘I protest!’ Tripham bleated from where he sat beside Lady Mathilda. ‘Sir Hugh, I must protest at such a description. We at Sparrow Hall cannot be blamed for the murderous antics of Master Norreys…’
‘Murderous no longer,’ Bullock broke in. ‘His body’s gibbetted in Carfax.’
‘It was a royal appointment,’ Churchley said. ‘Norreys was the King’s nominee: he had little to do with Sparrow Hall itself.’
‘Why was Appleston murdered?’ Barnett asked.
‘Because the Bellman is scared,’ Corbett replied. ‘He must realise the net is closing. Appleston was the suitable sacrificial lamb. I found this book in his room, which makes me wonder if he was also murdered because he entertained his own suspicions: we’ll never know now, will we?’
‘Talking of books,’ Tripham intervened, desperate to assert his own authority. ‘Your servant, Sir Hugh, has our copy of St Augustine’s…’
‘Appleston allowed me to take it,’ Ranulf replied.
‘Well, Appleston’s dead and we want it back.’
‘What now?’ Lady Mathilda asked from where she sat with a piece of embroidery on her lap.
‘A few questions first,’ Corbett replied. ‘Master Tripham, you went up to see Appleston last night?’
‘Yes, I did. He was upset at the way Sir Walter’s soldiers had manhandled him.’
‘And, Master Churchley, you took him up a tincture of camomile?’
‘Yes, for the sore on his mouth.’
Corbett stared at the sparrows carved on both sides of the fire hearth and then at Bullock who seemed to have lost some of his bombast.