‘Evesham was so distraught,’ he continued, ‘I thought he would fall ill, some malignancy of the humours. Time passed, but not a trace of Ippegrave was found. I ordered the matter be let rest. As for Evesham, I wanted to reward him. The Mysterium had been revealed and the murders stopped. Now, Evesham was a widower; he had one son, John, who later became Parson of St Botulph’s.’ The King shrugged. ‘You know how it is. Many royal clerks acquire the right to appoint to a benefice. John Evesham wanted to become a priest, so naturally Lord Walter used his influence to secure the parish for him. However, twenty years ago, John was still a child and his father an eligible bachelor. Shortly after the Mysterium had been unmasked, Evesham married again, a rich heiress, a ward of the Crown, Clarice Pauntefroys, the daughter of a powerful merchant.’ Edward was now talking as if to himself. ‘My debt to Evesham was great, whilst he proved to be most skilled. He secured promotion, one chancery post after another. An expert in the Pleas of the Crown and the rights of the Exchequer, he became a justice both in Westminster and out in the shires. Two years ago he was appointed Chief Justice, but the canker was already there.’ Edward gestured at Corbett. ‘As you know, Sir Hugh, the Court of King’s Bench receives many indictments and denunciations. About two months ago we began to receive anonymous information from the so-called Land of Cockaigne maintaining that our Chief Justice was corrupt, hand in glove with gang leaders such as Waldene and the self-styled Hubert the Monk. Now, such denunciations are commonplace; what was most singular about these was not the reference to the topsy-turvy world of Cockaigne, a scholarly citation, but how detailed the accusations were.’
‘About what?’ Corbett asked.
‘Oh, not so much about isolated incidents.’ Staunton, at Edward’s request, took up the story. ‘The writer from the Land of Cockaigne claimed that Evesham was too cunning a fox to inculpate himself in writing, but mentioned his secret meetings with the gang leaders Waldene and Hubert the Monk. Apparently such meetings were allegedly held in the dead of night in Lord Walter’s mansion in Clothier Lane, a wealthy quarter of Cripplegate ward.’
‘And the purpose of these meetings?’
‘Lord Walter would receive a certain portion of all stolen goods. In return for this, when an indictment was presented against any of the gangs who did business with our Chief Justice, that indictment, for some obscure reason, would be rejected.’
‘As simple as that?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh, as simple as that, but reflect.’ Staunton relished the opportunity to lecture this solemn-faced clerk. ‘An indictment can be rejected for many reasons before being forwarded to a jury: a mistake in law or in fact and that is the end of the matter. Lord Walter was, if anything, most skilled in the law and the beauty of its corruption, if you can call it that.’ He glanced hastily at the King. ‘The failed indictment has a brief reason for its rejection appended to it and that’s all.We examined the schedule of indictments and found list after list of rejections against notorious rifflers, all buried on points of law. Nothing could be done about them, but the writer from the Land of Cockaigne kept referring to other matters, especially those sinister, secret meetings late at night in Evesham’s mansion. A watch was kept. Four weeks ago, Blandeford and I observed two men slip through the dark and in by a postern gate. We surrounded the mansion, then forced an entrance. Lord Walter was found in his chancery chamber with Giles Waldene and Hubert the Monk. Both rifflers acted the innocent, but in Lord Walter’s personal coffer we found freshly minted coins stolen from the Royal Mint in the Tower. You may remember the robbery?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘As you know, Sir Hugh,’ the King added bitterly, ‘I hate these covens of rifflers. They disturb the peace, carry out numerous robberies, mock my authority and, above all, are used by the Great Ones of London to settle scores with each other.’
Corbett nodded sympathetically. Indeed he knew only too well. The King nursed a deep resentment, even hatred, for the merchant princes of London, with their vast profits from the wool trade. They in turn fiercely resented royal interference in what they saw as their city, they wanted to enjoy the same status and power as the self-governing communes of Florence and Venice to which they sold their precious wool.
‘The evidence against Evesham was compelling, though at the time he refused to comment,’ Staunton continued. ‘Why was he entertaining such wolfsheads in his own chamber at such an ungodly hour? Why did he have freshly minted gold coins in his coffer filched in a recent robbery? We believe Waldene and the Monk were responsible for that, though of course we had no proof that they had brought the gold there. Moreover,’ he lifted a finger, ‘that pair of rifflers, also trapped in the mire, later pleaded that if they were indicted, Evesham must also account-’
‘They recognised,’ Corbett intervened, ‘that his grace, fearful of hideous scandal, might be prepared to gloss over the matter regarding Evesham but not as regards to them. I’m sure they would have implicated the Chief Justice.’
‘Whatever those two wolfsheads decided,’ the King growled, ‘Evesham was finished. He’d grown arrogant as Lucifer. I confronted him in the Jerusalem Chamber at Westminster and threatened to put him on trial and seize all his chattels, including his beloved manor of Ingachin on the Welsh March. Evesham, caught red-handed, acted like a broken man. He offered to resign all his posts and retire as a recluse to the Abbey of Syon on Thames. I agreed.’
‘Why here?’ asked Corbett. ‘Why not some other monastery?’
‘Two reasons, perhaps.’ The King gestured with his cup towards the door. ‘Both acts of reparation. Evesham was not a prisoner, but rather a forced house guest. He was under strict instruction to assume the garb of a lay brother and never leave Syon’s precincts. As I said, he may have been thinking of reparation. The lay brother in charge of the corpse chapel beneath which Evesham had his cell, you met him briefly, Brother Cuthbert. Years ago he was Cuthbert Tunstall, Parson of St Botulph’s Cripplegate when Boniface Ippegrave took sanctuary there. After Ippegrave disappeared, Evesham, in his arrogance, even though he himself held the keys of the church, blamed Parson Tunstall. He complained bitterly to the Bishop of London; more importantly, he had Tunstall confined to his house to fast on bread and water, and berated him day and night until his anger was spent. When he had finished, Tunstall was a broken man. He resigned his benefice and asked to be accepted here as a simple lay brother. According to Father Abbot, when Evesham arrived at Syon, he knelt at Tunstall’s feet and asked for forgiveness. Whether it was given or not, I don’t know. Abbot Serlo claimed Tunstall did not seem to care, whilst Evesham kept to himself, ate his meals and studied manuscripts from the abbey library.’
‘And the second reason?’
‘Ah.’ Again the King pointed to the door. ‘In the grounds stands an anchorite cell built near the curtain wall. Adelicia lives there, as she has for the last twenty years.’
‘Adelicia?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Adelicia Ippegrave, beloved sister of Boniface, former chancery clerk. She lived with her brother in Cripplegate and was a parishioner of St Botulph’s, a close friend I understand of Parson Tunstall. When her brother disappeared and Tunstall retired a broken man, Adelicia sold all her possessions and both bishop and abbot gave her permission to retire here as an ancilla Domini — handmaid of the Lord — to live the life of an anchoress.’
‘How close were Cuthbert and Adelicia?’ Ranulf asked. ‘I mean,’ he shrugged, ‘some priests have their lemans, their mistresses?’
‘I don’t know.’ The King seemed distracted. ‘Adelicia publicly condemned what had happened. She constantly protested her brother’s innocence and declared she would spend her life in prayer and fasting so that God would eventually make true judgement, and so it was, until yesterday.’ Edward pushed himself away from the table, rose and stretched, then walked to the windows, pulled back the shutters and stared into the night. ‘Yesterday was harvest time, as if the past was not buried deep enough. In Newgate, Hubert the Monk’s followers believed that those of Giles Waldene would turn King’s Approvers in return for a general pardon. A riot ensued. Later on that day, Ignacio Engleat, Evesham’s clerk, was drinking and whoring at the Comfort of Bathsheba near Queenshithe — you’ve seen what happened to him. On that very evening, the same killer perhaps, crept down the steps to the cellar beneath the corpse chapel here at Syon. Somehow he eluded both Brother Cuthbert and his guard dog, Ogadon, persuaded Evesham to lift the bar on his door, entered and cut our former justice’s throat. On leaving, the assassin just as mysteriously managed to lower the inside bar behind him. A true mystery, which is why,’ the king turned and pointed at Corbett, ‘I have summoned you here: to resolve this, to discover the truth. .’