‘Father,’ Corbett waited until the chuckling had subsided, ‘you have brought in the sixth victim.’
‘Aye, it is; six in all. Five buried in my cemetery, five requiem masses, five sprinklings of holy water, five crosses, five mothers and fathers to console.’
‘And you have no suspicion why this has been done?’
The priest shook his head. ‘That is the first corpse I have found. The rest? Well, Sir Edmund will tell you about them. Just lying there she was. Crumpled, like a bundle of cloth tossed aside. But why?’ The priest talked as if to himself. ‘She was only a poor maid, she had nothing but her comeliness.’
‘I heard people blame the outlaws.’
‘Outlaws,’ Sir Edmund interrupted. ‘You would think they were William Wallace. A paltry group of men and women,’ he explained to Corbett, leaning across the table. ‘Poachers and petty thieves. Oh, they’ve done enough to hang, but why should they kill young women? Three of the seven victims have been found in the grounds of the castle.’
‘I thought it was six?’
‘One is missing,’ Sir Edmund explained. ‘Phillipa, Mistress Feyner’s daughter, she is the principal laundrywoman here. About ten weeks ago, just after the harvest was brought in, Phillipa disappeared after Sunday Mass. According to common report she claimed she was going for a walk but never returned. I sent out men-at-arms and riders who scoured the countryside; they went as deep into the forest as they could. I asked the fishermen along the coasts to watch the tides, but no corpse has ever been found.’
‘I organized my parishioners,’ Father Matthew added. ‘Every dell, wood, copse, ditch and cave on Purbeck Island was searched but nothing was found. Mistress Feyner now believes her daughter is dead, the first victim of these horrid murders. A time of tribulation, the worst since I joined the parish.’
‘How long ago was that?’ Corbett asked, scooping up a piece of omelette with his horn spoon.
‘About eleven years. I originally come from Durham, but was unable to obtain a benefice there.’ The priest swiftly reverted back to the murders. ‘Truly this is a time of fear; as Ovid says: Omnibus ignotae mortis timor, “In all creatures lurks a fear of unknown death.” No one understands why these young women have been killed in such a brutal fashion.’
Corbett leaned over and whispered to Sir Edmund, the Constable turning his head to listen intently.
‘Is there anything,’ Ranulf asked, ‘that all these victims have in common?’
The priest pushed away his platter, cradling his wine cup. Corbett noticed how, despite his burly appearance, Father Matthew’s fingers were long and slender as a woman’s.
‘What do they all have in common? I understand your logic.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘But I do not know your name.’
‘Ranulf, Ranulf atte Newgate, Chief Clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax.’
‘Those things,’ the priest replied, ‘which are equal to the same thing are equal to one another. The same rule of logic applies to all these victims. They are poor, they are young, they live in the castle, they all look for work, either in the castle, or the great prize, being a slattern or maid at Master Reginald’s inn, the Tavern in the Forest.’
‘And there’s your school,’ Sir Edmund added.
‘Oh yes, my school.’ The priest smiled. ‘Every Saturday afternoon I gather all the young women into the nave of the church to teach them the basic rudiments of reading and writing. There must be about thirty girls in all. Some are very quick, young Phillipa certainly was. I give them some buttermilk and freshly baked bread and, in summer, the best honey from my hives. On Sunday it’s the turn of the young men. I’m very proud of my school,’ he added.
‘So would I be,’ Corbett replied. ‘That’s where I began, the transept of St Dunstan’s church, followed by cathedral school and after that, the Halls of Oxford. Small sparks can be fanned into flames.’ He paused as a servant carrying a leather bag entered, then bent over and whispered into Sir Edmund’s ear.
‘They’ll be here in a short while, but in the mean time . . .’ The Constable pushed across the leather bag. Corbett took out the wicked-looking quarrel which the leech had removed from Rebecca’s chest; at one end were sharp barbs like those on a fish-hook, at the other a flight of stiffened feathers. It had been cleaned but Corbett noticed how the impact had bent one of the barbs, and even the ugly tip was slightly blunted.
‘Do you recognise it, Sir Edmund?’
‘There are thousands like it in the castle.’
Corbett weighed the quarrel in his hand. ‘Rebecca was found on a trackway; at a guess her killer stood only a yard away. Now here was a young woman fleet of foot and sharp of ear. If she felt threatened, she would run, but she didn’t. She was facing her killer, she must have allowed the assassin to draw very close. Now tell me, sirs, on a lonely, misty trackway, on a cold December morning, in a place and at a time when hideous murders have taken place, why should this young woman not show any fear?’
‘Before you say it,’ Father Matthew’s voice was hard, ‘she would allow her priest to walk close, but I was in my church.’
‘Pax, pax,’ Corbett whispered. ‘No one accuses you, Father, let alone suspects you. Who else?’
‘A friend,’ Ranulf declared, ‘another young woman, or someone old and frail? Rebecca was not frightened.’ He paused at the clamour around the hall door. Sir Edmund shouted at his guards to let them pass and a group of men and women shuffled into the hall, staring round in wonderment before turning to bow towards Sir Edmund.
‘They are the parents,’ Sir Edmund whispered, ‘of the dead girls. I’ve gathered them as you asked.’
Corbett waited until they all stood just inside the doorway before going down to greet them. The rest of the company on the high table followed. Sir Hugh asked the parents to sit, then introduced himself.
‘Have you been sent down here?’ A small, slender woman with wiry grey hair and fierce eyes in a sweat-soaked red face stared eagerly at Corbett. ‘Has the King himself sent you down here to seek justice for our daughters?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Corbett replied quickly, ‘that is one of my tasks. Sir Edmund, perhaps we could serve our guests a cup of warm posset; their hands are chapped and their lips blue with the cold.’ His words were welcomed, and for a while there was some confusion as the cooks and scullions from the kitchen brought out a bowl of heated wine, muttering under their breath about interfering clerks whilst they doled out the hot spiced drink. Corbett himself took a cup and toasted his guests sitting either side of the trestle table. He turned to the woman who had addressed him.
‘You are?’
‘Mistress Feyner, chief washerwoman of the castle.’ She hitched her tattered shawl about her shoulders. Corbett noticed how the smock underneath, although threadbare, was spotlessly clean, whilst the woman’s chapped red hands glistened with oil.
‘I am a widow, sir, and my only daughter Phillipa was the first victim, although she has never been found.’
‘I’ve heard this,’ Corbett replied, ‘but is there anything you can tell me about why your daughters should die in such a hideous fashion?’
At first there was silence, but then the clamour of replies began. Corbett listened carefully before holding his hands up for silence.
‘But there are no strangers in the area.’
‘There’s the outlaws,’ Mistress Feyner shouted. ‘Horehound and his coven.’
She was immediately contradicted by the others, and Corbett sensed she was not popular amongst the others.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ a man who introduced himself as Oswald retorted. ‘Horehound is a poacher, a petty thief, one of us but fallen on hard times. Why should he slay our daughters?’
‘It must be someone we know,’ a voice shouted. ‘Here in the castle.’
Corbett glanced down the table at the old woman, dressed in dusty black, her long white hair falling to her shoulders, Corbett detected a slight accent and commented on it.