‘Sir Edmund, if you could?’ Corbett gestured for the rest to stand back, whilst he adopted the stance of a man armed with a crossbow.
‘What are you thinking, Sir Hugh?’
‘I have no evidence,’ Corbett gazed through the gap, ‘but this squint folds away quietly. The hinges are leather, I loosened it with barely a sound. Is it possible that someone, armed with a crossbow and a blunted bolt, was watching Vervins from here? It would be easy to hit a man on the back of his head. Ranulf, wouldn’t you agree?’ He stepped aside as his henchman also pretended to be a crossbowman.
‘An easy target.’ Ranulf closed the squint then opened it again; the wood came away without a sound.
‘It’s possible,’ Corbett declared, ‘for the killer to have been here. Every so often he could open that slat and glimpse where Vervins was. Hiding behind this door, he would hear the Frenchman walking up and down.’
‘But that’s impossible!’ the Constable protested. ‘The door at the bottom is locked, there is only one key and my steward would never give it up, not even to you, Sir Hugh, without my permission.’
Corbett absentmindedly agreed. He thanked Sir Edmund and asked him to keep the bottom door open so that he could continue his investigation.
‘Go down into the yard,’ he told Bolingbroke. ‘Search the cobbles, see if you can find anything suspicious.’
‘But they are encrusted with mud,’ Bolingbroke replied. ‘Sir Hugh, it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’
‘Look anyway, you may be fortunate.’ Corbett returned to examine the squint, opening and shutting the wooden slat. He asked Ranulf to go down and order the guard to resume his watch on the parapet wall, and when he did so, Corbett began to play with the squint, opening and shutting it, shouting at the guard to tell him if he noticed anything amiss. After a while the soldier came to the door, pushing his face up against the gap.
‘Sir Hugh,’ he called out, ‘I’m hardly aware of you being there. You could open and shut the squint and I would hardly notice. The door lies in a shadowy recess away from the light.’
Corbett thanked him, closed the slat and, crouching down, sat in the corner of the stairwell, blowing on his fingers. Ranulf, leaning against the wall, kicked the toe of his boot against the brickwork.
‘Sir Hugh, you don’t believe the assassin came up here?’
‘I will tell you what I believe, Ranulf: we are lost in a forest where the mist hangs heavy and the trees cluster thick, and when they thin, it is only to expose some marsh or morass. I don’t believe these deaths were accidental, I don’t believe Destaples died of a seizure or Louis slipped on a sharp stairwell. Why should Monsieur Vervins, so used to heights, who came up on the parapet walk to relax and enjoy himself, a man who was very careful, why should such a man cry out and fall to his death? Very clever, mind you.’ Corbett bit his lip in anger. ‘Vervins’ head has more bruises than he has hair and I am certain de Craon will assure Sir Edmund it wasn’t his fault, that Vervins shouldn’t have been up on the castle walls on an icy day.’ He leaned across, plucking at Ranulf’s cloak. ‘Something is amiss, I don’t know what. De Craon is secretly laughing at us.’
‘If we tell him what we’ve found,’ Ranulf declared, ‘he will laugh even harder. One thing, Master, he cannot blame any of us for Vervins’s death; we were with you in your chamber when he fell.’
‘Aye,’ Corbett retorted, ‘but I wonder where Monsier de Craon and that silent retainer of his were?’
‘They can’t have been here.’ Ranulf helped Corbett to his feet. ‘The tower door was locked, you keep forgetting that.’
He and Corbett returned to the yard, where Bolingbroke was still sifting with his boot amongst the straw, dirt and ice. ‘There’s nothing here,’ he grumbled, ‘nothing at all.’ He rubbed his hands together, blowing on his fingers.
‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh!’ The Constable came running across and handed Corbett a small scroll. ‘Mother Feyner’s corpse was stripped; we found this in the pocket of her gown.’
Corbett unrolled the parchment, a neatly cut rectangle, on it inscribed a few lines. The hand was clerkly, the words English: And enough bread to fill the largest stomach, and damsons which a Pope could eat before singing his dawn Mass.
‘In God’s name,’ Corbett muttered, ‘what on earth is this?’ He handed it to Ranulf, who repeated the words loudly.
‘It wasn’t written by us, Sir Edmund,’ Ranulf explained.
‘I’ve shown it to de Craon, he claims to have no knowledge of it either. Apparently Mistress Feyner may have been taking it down to the Tavern in the Forest. It looks as if someone was trying to buy food from Master Reginald, but why so flowery?’
Corbett plucked the manuscript out of Ranulf’s fingers and read it again. He felt a prickle of fear; he’d read enough ciphers to detect a secret message.
‘We also found two freshly minted coins,’ Sir Edmund replied. ‘I can only deduce that Mistress Feyner was paid to take that parchment to Master Reginald, but the message is strange enough. I understand the reference to bread, but damsons in December?’
Corbett folded the parchment up and slipped it into his purse.
‘And Vervins?’ he asked.
Sir Edmund sighed in exasperation. ‘The victim of an unfortunate fall. What more can be said?’
Corbett and the two clerks returned to his chamber. Chanson had built up the fire. For a while they discussed Vervins’ death and the strange piece of parchment Sir Edmund had found. The day wore on. Corbett returned to his studies; at least he had solved one mystery and had shared it with his colleagues just before the tocsin sounded.
‘Is that really why the King has sent us here?’ Chanson had followed the proceedings carefully; he now sat opposite Corbett, who was comparing the two manuscripts on his lap.
‘In the Opus Tertium,’ Corbett explained, ‘Friar Roger makes a very strange confession. Listen: “During the last twenty years I have worked hard in the pursuit of wisdom”.’ Corbett looked up. ‘Then he goes on, “I have spent more than two thousand pounds on secret books and various experiments.” Now this is what’s written in the French copy of the Opus Tertium. However,’ Corbett was aware how silent the chamber had fallen; Ranulf and Bolingbroke walked over, ‘as I was about to explain fully, before Vervins’ fall, in our noble King’s version, Friar Roger claims it was only twenty pounds.’ Ranulf whistled under his breath.
‘Which is correct?’ Bolingbroke asked
‘The French version, it must be. Our King has tried to interfere with the manuscript. He’s rubbed out two of the noughts.’
‘Are you sure it’s not French pounds?’ Bolingbroke demanded. ‘The livre tournis is only a quarter of the value of sterling.’
‘No, no.’ Corbett shook his head. ‘Friar Roger was English, he’s talking of two thousand pounds, a King’s ransom. Let me give you an example, Ranulf. Remember when you became a Clerk of the Green Wax, you were instructed on the workings of the Exchequer. You do recall the assignment given to you?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Ranulf agreed. ‘we were told to remember certain figures, it was a form of scrutiny.’
‘In mine,’ Corbett declared, ‘many years ago, when I was examined before the great Burnell, I was asked to memorise the income of the Crown at the beginning of our King’s grandfather’s reign. If I recall correctly, the entire Crown revenue in 1216 was about thirty thousand pounds; that’s about the same time Friar Roger was growing up. Now we know that Friar Roger came from fairly poor people at Ilchester just across the Dorset border.’ Corbett paused. ‘Ilchester,’ he muttered, ‘it’s only a day’s journey from here. Isn’t that strange? Yes, yes,’ he continued talking to himself, staring at the dancing candle flame, ‘very strange indeed, that the King should send us here, not far from where Friar Roger was born.’