‘Some of this mystery,’ he murmured, ‘yes some of it is understandable, but the rest. .’ He still faced the vexed question he had not voiced to his companions when they’d met below. Whoever had committed these hideous murders knew everything that had happened twenty years ago. Corbett was sure of that, but who could it be? He had his suspicions but no evidence; that would have to wait until tomorrow.
13
Ingenium: a poacher’s trap
At the third hour the following day, Corbett’s court of oyer and terminer opened at the foot of the sanctuary steps beneath the great rood screen of St Botulph’s. Corbett openly wondered where Ranulf had spent the previous day, the Clerk of the Green Wax being absent until very late. Only as they broke their fast after attending the dawn Mass did he admit that he had spent a considerable amount of time establishing where those summoned had actually been when Corbett had been attacked.
‘I went to Syon to investigate our three recluses. Brother Cuthbert and Adelicia claimed they were in their separate cells, though God knows if that’s the truth. Parson John, however, was not in his. He’d felt unwell and was admitted to the infirmary. Its keeper stoutly maintained that he remained there until yesterday evening. As for Staunton and Blandeford, well,’ Ranulf pulled a face, ‘very difficult to establish where they were, so busy were they about their duties, visiting friends, doing business at the Guildhall and elsewhere.’
‘And Master Lapwing?’
‘He claims he was at home with his sickly mother, who as you will discover is not so poorly.’
Corbett stared down the church, to where those summoned sat on benches around the roaring braziers.
‘They have every luxury,’ Ranulf murmured. ‘The church is now warm.’ He pointed to a side table bearing jugs of mulled wine, platters of bread and dried meat. ‘They can eat and drink to their hearts’ content.’
‘Did they object?’
‘Staunton and Blandeford were their usual arrogant selves. They’d heard about the attack on you and were curious. Well, is everything ready, master, the way you want it?’
‘Yes,’ Corbett replied. ‘Yes it is, thank you.’
Ranulf had borrowed the great table from a nearby tavern. It was cleaned and washed, and on it was stretched Corbett’s commission with its blood-red seals next to a Book of the Gospels. Close to this stood ink pots, a tray of quills, pumice stones and fresh sheets of the finest vellum. Corbett stared at these. He’d been through the records, and sensed there was a way forward. He’d have to gamble, as he had before, on his secret adversary’s malicious arrogance. If he could exploit that, perhaps his opponent would make a mistake. He closed his eyes, whispered a prayer then rose and walked down the nave to meet those summoned.
Staunton and Blandeford looked as sleek and proud as ever, glistening faces framed by vair-lined hoods, the gold and silver clasps of their cloaks glittering in the light of the torches and the host of candles Ranulf had lit.
‘Good morning, Sir Hugh. We heard rumours of an assault on you, the King’s own clerk!’ Staunton shook his head in disbelief, while Blandeford tutted under his breath. Corbett held their gaze. They were not one whit concerned, but nursed their smugness as they did their goblets of hot posset. ‘You’ll not keep us long, Sir Hugh?’ Staunton jibed. ‘We too have business.’
‘Not long,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Not long!’
‘God save you, Sir Hugh,’ declared Parson John, pushing back his hood.
Corbett smiled at the anxious-faced priest. Despite what he’d suffered, Parson John certainly looked better, clear-eyed, face shaved, more composed. On either side of him sat Brother Cuthbert, bleary-eyed and half asleep, and Adelicia, pale-faced and tense. Corbett nodded at them and wondered if they had spent the night together discussing what was happening. Parson John must have told them about the bloody mayhem in and around St Botulph’s.
‘Sir Hugh, may I introduce. .’
Corbett turned to greet Lapwing, all strident and alert in his tawny cote-hardie and black leggings, a heavy mantle of costly sarcanet about his shoulders.
‘Master Escolier.’ Corbett clasped his hand and glanced at the lady seated behind Lapwing. She didn’t rise, but proffered a slender snow-white hand. Corbett bowed, kissed her fingertips then grasped her hand, the skin warm, smooth, soft as silk. He caught the look of slight alarm in her cold blue eyes and noticed the wisps of faded blonde hair beneath the tight wimple framing her lovely face: skin like alabaster, smiling full lips, high cheekbones unadorned by any paints or paste. She was truly beautiful, even though she was dressed in sombre grey like some nun from the Convent of Minoresses.
‘Sir Hugh, my mother.’
‘Mistress?’ Corbett asked.
‘Mistress Isabella.’ Her voice was cultivated, her Norman French precise. ‘Sir Hugh, I am Isabella Escolier.’
‘Are you really, my lady?’ Corbett gripped her hand tighter, again he glimpsed her alarm. ‘If that is so,’ he whispered, ‘I am honoured to greet you. I assure you, I will not keep you long.’ He let go of her hand, bowed and walked back up the nave to the judgement table.
Sandewic, who’d also been sworn in as a justice, entered the church, huffing and puffing, clapping his hands against the cold. Ranulf called everyone to order, and those summoned lined up and swore the oath. Corbett took his seat and the proceedings began. Staunton and Blandeford were invited forward. Corbett treated them curtly.
‘I only have a few questions for you, sirs. I would like your measured replies.’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh?’
‘Who first suggested that the Mysterium might be a chancery clerk?’
Staunton made to reply, but Corbett held up his hand.
‘Think,’ he insisted. ‘Was it Evesham or someone else?’
Staunton opened his mouth, then sighed noisily. ‘Sir Hugh, to be honest I thought it was Evesham, but Blandeford and I have discussed this. Perhaps it was Boniface Ippegrave.’
‘And Ippegrave, what was his attitude to Evesham?’
Again silence. Blandeford made to reply, but Staunton grasped his arm and answered instead.
‘Ippegrave became very curious about Evesham. He began to ask questions, you know, observations, remarks. .’
‘Why?’ Corbett insisted. ‘The truth!’
‘Now that you ask,’ Staunton had lost his arrogance, ‘Ippegrave appeared to know a great deal about Evesham. He asked questions as if to clarify certain matters.’
‘Such as?’
‘Oh, his service in Wales, his work in the chancery, who had died, how Evesham was progressing, general questions. In truth I became intrigued. Ippegrave asked me in confidence. .’
‘But you eventually told Evesham?’
‘Of course I did. You know why, Sir Hugh. Westminster is a small, narrow world, I was intrigued. I simply informed him about Ippegrave’s curiosity.’
‘And what was Evesham’s reply?’ Ranulf asked.
Staunton refused to acknowledge Ranulf, but stared hard at Corbett.
‘If I remember correctly, Sir Hugh, he dismissed it laughingly.’
‘And Burnell?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Chancellor Burnell, did he really appoint Evesham to hunt the Mysterium?’
Staunton, no fool, recognised that Corbett was trying to lead him.
‘You clear the fog of years, Sir Hugh. Burnell asked for help; Evesham responded.’ He flailed a hand. ‘Perhaps Ippegrave did as well. I’m not too sure, that’s all I can say.’
Staunton and Blandeford, now dismissed, flounced out eager to escape the rigour of Corbett’s questions. Brother Cuthbert and Adelicia came next, sitting on their stools like sinners waiting for absolution. Corbett decided not to question their relationship or what they may have been discussing but immediately took both of them back to events twenty years ago.