Corbett took his leave of Minehost and, with Ranulf and the rest following, left the Angel’s Salutation. He brushed aside the quack offering to cure worms in the ears with a poultice of fennel, plantain and mutton fat. Other tradesmen were just as insistent. The light was fading. The market bell would soon sound, the bailiffs would blow their horns and trading would cease, but until then, the stallholders and their apprentices were desperate to entice would-be customers. The air was bitterly cold, the mud and ordure beneath their feet hardening under a coating of ice. Troublemakers, all roped together, were being taken to the cage in Cheapside. A madman, manacled by his friends, was baying at the overcast sky as he was led across to a local church to be chained to the rood screen in the hope that his overnight stay before the Lord would cure his lunacy. A relic-seller offered to reveal the hand of a saint on which a finger would curl and point at the guilty. However, if the faithful were not interested in that, perhaps a scrap of unicorn blessed by St Ninias, a sure protection against poison? Only a little beggar boy seemed interested.
The crowds were thinning, and they scrambled quickly out of Corbett’s way. The citizens of the night along the runnels and alleyways were already being alerted. King’s men were on the prowl and no one dared impede the stride of these grim-faced clerks, hands grasping the hilts of their swords. People recognised Parson John and Fleschner and called out greetings, but only the parish clerk replied, lifting a tremulous hand in acknowledgement.
Corbett walked on, wary of the slippery trackways and narrow alleys leading off either side, where night-walkers and dark-prowlers gathered waiting for dusk. Shouts of abuse echoed. Doors slammed, shutters rattled. The foul smells of the cesspit faded abruptly as they passed a perfumer’s shop, where jars of Manus Christi, rosewater and ambergris stood unstoppered on the lowered shop fronts. Behind these the apprentices were busy with the perfume pans, and their delicious fragrances teased Corbett’s nostrils, recalling images of Lady Maeve. He stood aside as a little boy dressed in a black gown scurried by, ringing a skilla to warn people about the approach of a priest, head and shoulders covered by a red-gold cape, carrying the viaticum. Corbett knelt as he hurried on by to some sickbed, then rose and walked on.
The entrance to Clothiers Lane was blocked when he reached it by a litter carried by four priests chanting the Libera me psalms; inside, a leper, dressed in his shroud, hands sheathed in leather gloves, rattled a clapper warning all to step aside. Once they were gone, Corbett waved Parson John on and they went up the well-cobbled street. On either side rose the stately mansions of the very wealthy, each in its own grounds and bounded by high curtain walls, above which peeked red-slated roofs and pink-plastered, black-timbered fronts. Parson John hurried to a magnificent gate leading to one of these mansions, where a watchman stood gossiping with two young women. Once he realised who Corbett was, the watchman hurriedly explained how the women were kitchen scullions who, with other servants, had arrived after the Angelus bell to find all the doors and shutters closed and no light burning.
‘We were under strict instruction to knock and wait,’ one of the scullions declared. ‘We knocked and waited but no one came down.’
Corbett nodded, pushed open the gate and went along the white-stone path, which skirted hedges, shrubs and garden plots, to broad stone steps leading up to a splendid porch and a gleaming black door. He pulled the bell rope, then lifted the iron clasp carved in the shape of a helmet. This he brought down time and again, listening to the sound echoing through the house. Behind him Parson John mumbled and whimpered. Corbett glanced up. All the shutters remained closed. He went round to a postern door and tried the latch. It pulled open, and he entered the paved kitchen and scullery area. A tidy place, all swept and clean, yet arid and empty, bereft of light and warmth. The only sign that it had been recently used was a huge cutting board with bread and cheese on the fleshing table. Lapwing was eager to explore further, but Ranulf, who felt the brooding menace of this house, drew sword and dagger and told them all to stay, as he followed Corbett across the well-scrubbed flagstones. He sensed dullness, a harsh emptiness that frayed the mind and agitated the soul.
They entered the long hall. Polished oaken furniture and precious items gleamed in the poor light, and their footsteps were dulled by the thick turkey rugs strewn on the floor. Corbett glimpsed triptychs, small figurines, statues in niches, the gold and silver thread of tapestries; a place of comfort that concealed its own silent, macabre secrets. They went out into the vestibule, up the staircase and along the narrow gallery. A door hung half open. Corbett pushed this back and went into the master bedchamber. One window was unshuttered, and the meagre light revealed a gruesome scene: two naked corpses, headless, the woman’s sprawled across the bed, the man’s lying just within the doorway. Their life-blood, now thick and drying, had drenched both bed and furniture, as well as soaking the thick woollen rugs on the floor. Corbett covered his nose at the rotten stench and stared around this once exquisite chamber.
‘Tristan and Isolde!’ he murmured. ‘Evesham was gone, locked up in Syon. Mistress Clarice and Master Fink decided to play the two-backed beast. Servants were dismissed and told when to return. Clarice and Fink thought they were alone and safe. Instead their nemesis arrived; he came in the same way we did.’ He walked across, removed the hard linen covering the casement window, leaned out and took a deep breath of cold air. Then he turned back and studied the two blood-smeared cadavers. The cuts on both necks were ragged, the top of Fink’s chest a mottled bluish red.
‘The assassin entered swiftly,’ Corbett surmised. ‘The two lovers were disturbed.’ He gestured at Fink’s corpse, its sagging belly, the thickening flesh around shoulders and chest. ‘Fink was no warrior, but he tried to defend himself and his lover.’ He crouched down and pointed to the bruising on the upper chest. ‘Fink tried to resist. The assassin, probably armed with a short two-headed axe, knocked him away. I wager Fink’s head is also badly bruised.’ He rose and smeared the blood with the toe of his boot, then tapped at the deep cuts on the wooden floor. ‘Fink was stunned. The assassin turned on Clarice; shocked and terrified, she tried to move, but again, a blow to her head. Afterwards the assassin severed each at the neck, put the heads in a sack and left. At least I think that’s what happened.’ He stood, eyes closed, imagining the sequence of events, then opened his eyes and returned to the window.
‘The day’s dying,’ he remarked. ‘There is nothing more I can do, not now. Ranulf, summon the coroner’s bailiffs; have the cadavers removed to the death house at St Margaret’s-on-the-Heath.’ He whispered a requiem and crossed himself. ‘Afterwards, go to St Botulph’s and collect the heads. They’ll be bruised and I am sure will have the letter “M” carved on the foreheads. Take them to the-’ He suddenly noticed the piece of yellowing parchment lying on top of a small coffer. He picked it up. It was well used, the script clear in a bluish-green ink.
‘Mysterium Rei — the Mystery of the Thing?’ asked Ranulf.
‘Aye. .’ Corbett pushed the scrap into his belt pouch and pressed a hand against a crucifix nailed to the wall. ‘And with the Lord’s good help I will solve the mystery and send this murderer to the scaffold. Ranulf, once you’ve finished with the dead, quicken the living. Go to the writ chamber in the Chancery of the Green Wax and issue a summons to everyone: Lapwing,’ Corbett chewed his lip, ‘Brother Cuthbert, Mistress Adelicia.’ He waved a hand. ‘Even those recluses must obey the King’s writ and attend to God’s business. Oh yes,’ he smiled thinly, ‘Staunton and Blandeford, that precious pair. Parson John, Miles Fleschner. Afterwards, seek out any bailiff involved in the arrest of Boniface Ippegrave. Tell Chanson to help you. Talk to Sandewic; he may have names.’