‘And the time and place?’
‘After the sext bell tomorrow in the oyer and terminer chamber at Westminster. I want them all there, on oath, to see what calm I can impose on this bloody chaos.’
6
Murdrum: murder
Corbett, muffled in his cloak, sat at the great chancery table in the Office of the Secret Seal, deep in the labyrinth of galleries, passageways and chambers on the second floor of the rambling, ancient palace of Westminster. The lowered candelabra of beeswax lights illuminated the ox-blood Cordovan leather table top and the manuscripts Corbett had neatly laid out. He slouched in the quilted high-backed chair and stared around. Braziers crackled against the cold seeping like a mist through the shuttered windows. Lantern horns brightened the corners as well as the aumbries, coffers and chests stacked around the chamber. The flickering light caught the glint of a silver crucifix and shimmered in the vivid colours of the glorious tapestry, a gift from the King’s allies in Flanders, which proclaimed the story of the Archangel Raphael from the Book of Tobit. A shadowy shape flittered across the pool of light and disappeared through the slightly ajar door.
‘Good hunting Footpad,’ Corbett called; the great tomcat, the scourge of vermin, prowled like Death itself along the narrow wintry galleries, ready to pounce on any wandering mouse or rat. Elsewhere, Footpad’s lieutenant Assassin was also on the hunt. Corbett half listened. The old timbers and woodwork of the palace creaked and groaned. Sentry calls carried on the late-night air, whilst the persistent chilling breeze rattled the shutters. A place of ghosts, Corbett reflected. He got to his feet, stretched and moved to a small mullioned glass window, its panes decorated with heraldic motifs, where he peered down at the juddering light from cressets flaring in their holdings as well as the makeshift fires of the sentries. Westminster was now quiet. Some claimed how, after dark, the palace became too silent and all the ghosts of yesteryear returned. Clerks who’d spent their lives in their narrow chambers and ignored the call to worship God. Priests who had flocked to the palace to collect fat benefices and comfortable sinecures but failed to offer masses for the stipends received. Those killed in the constant brawls and affrays in Westminster’s many taverns, ale houses and brothels, which did such lively business for the court. These were joined by the spectres of those who’d died in sanctuary, the refuge for outlaws and wolfsheads in the great meadow that separated the Abbey of Westminster from the palace, their shades mingling with those who’d been hanged outside the great gate of the abbey. Corbett smiled. Despite the legends, he preferred Westminster after dark, at peace from the constant clatter and chatter of the day.
He returned to his chair. It was very warm in here, and he was glad to be out of the cold, away from that dreadful chamber in Evesham’s house. He and Ranulf had informed Parson John about what had happened. The priest said he could not bear to view the corpses. Indeed, he began to shiver and cry so woefully that Fleschner had to take him back to St Botulph’s. Lapwing had kept his distance. Once Corbett had announced the dire news, the mysterious clerk declared that he wished to leave. Corbett had grasped the man by the cloak and warned that he would soon receive a writ of summons and must accept it. Lapwing had simply shrugged and slipped away. Corbett then re-entered that macabre house and carefully searched it, yet apart from the gruesome slaughter in the bedchamber, nothing else had been disturbed. No sign of forced caskets, chests or coffers, no violence anywhere. The killer had slipped like the Angel of Death through that mansion, where the two lovers had considered they were safe, with no servants, no one to report on their illicit tryst.
‘And no manuscripts,’ he mused loudly. ‘Evesham’s chancery chamber was as empty as a poor man’s pantry.’
He picked up his goblet of mulled wine and sipped carefully. He must sleep and prepare for tomorrow, yet he was vexed, for he could make little sense nor impose any real order on the bloody swirl of events. He pulled across the various manuscripts culled from the pouches and coffers of the Secret Seal. He had read Evesham’s report on his hunt and capture of Ippegrave. The King’s summation of events had been accurate; only one extra detail stood out. Evesham had explained how he was so surprised at Boniface being the Mysterium that he had bound neither him nor the merchant Chauntoys when they were brought across the bridge from Southwark. As he had rightly argued, Ippegrave was a clerk in minor orders accused but not condemned. For the rest, the account provided no new information nor offered any further evidence. Evesham described how Boniface had escaped, taken sanctuary in St Botulph’s and was not allowed out. How his sister had approached with a ring that Evesham claimed he handed over to her brother. He detailed how closely guarded the church had been, every door and window, and could not explain his quarry’s escape. A list of depositions from bailiffs and others who had guarded St Botulph’s all confirmed this mystery.
Corbett pulled across another pouch. He’d broken the seal and examined its contents, found in Boniface’s lodgings as well as his iron-bound coffer here in the chancery. The items had been listed by a clerk, Rastall. Corbett smiled. He remembered old Rastall, grim and abrasive but as clear and honest as the day. He had led the search of Boniface’s personal belongings; he would have scrupulously ensured that nothing had been deliberately placed there to incriminate the fugitive clerk, and had declared as much in a small memorandum sewn to the contents. The list of gold and silver found, now long spent by the exchequer, was considerable. Corbett whistled under his breath. It was certainly more than any chancery clerk could earn in a year. He examined with interest the message found on Boniface the day he was arrested. Written anonymously in faded ink, the writ gave the time and place, with the added advice that Boniface’s presence at the Liber Albus would be of great profit to both himself and the King.
‘That could have been written by anyone,’ he murmured aloud.
The rest of the items included a rough sketch map of London, or at least the area around St Paul’s, Cheapside, Aldgate, Cripplegate and Farringdon. Crosses had been etched in red. According to the memorandum drawn up by Rastall, the map, definitely the work of Boniface himself, marked some of the murders carried out by the Mysterium. A second sheaf consisted of faded scraps bearing the same macabre message the assassin had pinned to the corpses of his victims: Mysterium Rei — the Mystery of the Thing. Corbett held one of these up; undoubtedly they had been sent to the chancery by the coroners and sheriffs who’d attended the victim’s corpses. Boniface had apparently collected them, but why? More important was a piece of parchment with the words ‘St Paul’ scrawled above a square roughly divided into columns, twelve across and twelve down. According to Rastall, the document had been found in Boniface’s coffer and was certainly in his hand. Corbett tapped the table, muttering to himself. Evesham had revealed the Mysterium’s murderous method only after he had arrested both Ippegrave and the merchant Chauntoys. Only did then did he deduce, supported by Chauntoys’ full confession, how the Mysterium chose his victims and demanded payment.
‘But that was after the event!’ Corbett exclaimed to himself. ‘So how did Boniface know about St Paul’s?’
He couldn’t have done, he reasoned, unless he truly was the Mysterium. Yet he had protested his innocence to his sister and to others. He’d written that puzzle about being guiltless, standing in the centre and pointing to the four corners; what did that mean? An enigmatic riddle to protect himself? Was Boniface a liar and an assassin who’d managed to escape and had now returned to exact vengeance?