‘You could go to Newgate,’ Ranulf offered. ‘You could question the keeper.’
‘I doubt it, Ranulf. I suspect what happened at Newgate is now well hidden.’
‘What do you mean, master?’
‘I have a suspicion, deep in my heart, that the riot at Newgate was what the King wanted.’
‘Master, you have no proof!’
‘I have admitted that, Ranulf. What if Waldene and Hubert had died in the pit, of gaol fever, as hundreds do every year? What if their gangs were destroyed by royal archers?’
‘But they were.’
‘Precisely, Ranulf. We destroyed both covens, we executed them, but Evesham’s death meant there was no case against Waldene and Hubert. The King couldn’t very well bring them to trial, which he didn’t really want to for fear of further scandal, nor could he detain that precious pair without trial and so create more public furore. He had to release them. He could not prove they had done any wrong with Evesham, whilst they were certainly not involved in the riot. This, in turn, begs another question. What if some royal executioner was responsible for what happened in the Angel’s Salutation?’
‘You’re saying the King is involved in murder?’
‘I know Edward.’ Corbett ran a finger around the rim of his goblet. ‘A prince devoted to the law but one who wishes to keep things silent, hidden. Ah well.’ He drummed his hands on the tabletop. ‘Ranulf, stay in the chancery and go back through the records. Look for anything you can discover on Evesham, Blandeford, Staunton, Hubert the Monk, Waldene — it may be laborious, but,’ he pointed to the now snoring Chanson, ‘he can help. First of all find out about Chauntoys, the merchant arrested with Boniface in the Southwark tavern. Perhaps he left a widow. She may be able to help. In the meantime I will wait for a mistake. All murderers are arrogant, proud as Satan. They invariably do something that betrays them, the Judas kiss of their own malevolence, a mistake, an error that traps them.’
‘And you hope our assassin will do this?’
‘Yes I do, Ranulf. There are three paths to follow here. First, what happened twenty years ago. Second, the recent deaths of Evesham and Engleat. Both murders are understandable in the sense that both scoundrels must have made enemies. What I cannot understand, and this is our third path, are the deaths of Waldene and Hubert, Clarice and Richard Fink.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Were those four people killed to silence them, as an act of revenge, or both? Remember, Ranulf, the assassin took great pains and dangerous risks in executing them.’ Corbett paused, narrowing his eyes. ‘True, I might regret this, but I wish he would strike again, make a mistake, something we can seize on, something out of the ordinary, a possible key to all these mysteries. Finally there is the question that keeps nagging my mind, gnawing away at my heart, one that would take us back to the very beginning. ’
‘Which is, master?’
‘For the sake of argument, what if Boniface Ippegrave was completely and utterly innocent?’
‘I can follow your logic,’ Ranulf conceded ruefully. ‘But if Boniface wasn’t the Mysterium, who was? Who is?’
‘I’ve no evidence, no proof, nothing at all,’ Corbett murmured, ‘but something tells me to start there. I want to see things the way Boniface Ippegrave may have seen them. Perhaps that’s the best way forward. .’
Miles Fleschner, Clerk of St Botulph’s, left the priest house of his parish church and hurried through the narrow, dark, emptying streets. He paused at a tavern, the Scarlet Wyvern, and hurriedly drank a tankard of strong ale and wolfed down a platter of bread and cheese. All replete and refreshed, he then unsheathed his dagger and hurried out into the night-bound street. A river mist curled and trailed along the narrow alleys and lanes leading down to the Thames, but Fleschner was comfortable enough. The taverns were still busy, their half-opened doors and shutters allowing out shafts of light. Now and again he’d catch glimpses of the merry, boisterous life within. A tavern master stood beside a leather tank of live fish positioned near the entrance so that customers could choose one for their own dish. On the floor nearby a slattern placed a trancher smeared with bird lime, a lighted candle in the middle, to attract and kill flies and other insects. On the hook of the door hung garments belonging to customers who still owed monies for drinks, waiting to be redeemed. The slattern glanced up and smiled; Fleschner nodded in acknowledgement and hurried on. In truth, he thought, he should be sheltering in such a warm tavern, or, better still, be back in his own narrow house in Cripplegate, toasting his toes before a roaring fire and savouring the odours of cooked goose, yet he had to do this. He must return to Westminster, seek out that royal clerk and confess everything. It was best that way. He had been in turmoil ever since Evesham’s death. Old sins had been dragged up, ancient doors unlocked, dark memories stirred. Evil deeds were waiting to be purged, confessed and atoned for. Fleschner was determined on that.
The parish clerk reached the narrow approaches to Thames Street. A hog-caller was blocking the way; loud and angry, he was shouting abuse at a singing clerk, who was desperately trying to organise his small choir outside a tavern. A group of mourners had also become involved in the tumult as they tried to negotiate a path for a corpse sewn in its deerskin shroud and laid out on a long, two-wheeled funeral cart. Despite the turmoil, Fleschner found the dancing torchlight, the shouts, the very presence of these people comforting. He slipped by them down a needle-thin runnel, holding out his dagger, a warning to any night-walker lurking in the recesses of the walls soaring up on either side. He also watched the ground underfoot, pitted and rutted, strewn with every kind of filth, which exuded a rancid smell despite the scattering of saltpetre.
He safely reached Thames Street and sighed in relief. Dung carts were still out clearing the heaps of dirty offal over which cats and rats fought, whilst kites and other scavenger birds floated above them, sinister shadows in the fading light. Fleschner was aware of the hot sweat drying on him. He’d done well. He’d overcome his fears. He had taken Parson John back to the deserted priest house, putting the anguished man to bed, giving him a cup of wine laced with the opiate the priest had brought from a cupboard. He had left him on his cot bed in that narrow chamber muttering about sin and the devil, and had then made a decision about his own doubts and suspicions, the anxieties he nourished. Corbett would surely listen to him.
Fleschner glanced along Thames Street. People moved, flitting shapes in the poor light. He was nearly there. He’d get to the river steps at Queenshithe, hire a barge and make his way up to Westminster. Night or not, he’d seek Corbett out like a penitent would a shriving priest and confess all. He crossed Thames Street and hastened down another runnel. It was then he heard a sound behind him and made to turn, but it was too late. A crashing blow to his head sent him spinning to the ground.
When he awoke, Fleschner throbbed with pain. He was bruised and cold and he realised that some time had passed. Blood trickled down his face. He tried to speak but he couldn’t. It was as if his tongue was clipped by a brooch. He went to move his hands but they were bound, his ankles too. He blinked. Again a trickle of blood snaked down his nose; the cut on his forehead was very sore. He startled and gagged as a rat slithered across his legs and disappeared into the darkness, and the full horror of what was happening swept through him. He recalled Parson John bound and gagged, the bloody cut to his forehead. That ‘M’ was already inscribed on his own skin. A shape moved out of the darkness.