Corbett stared down the nave. Cuthbert’s allegations made sense. Evesham’s actions possessed their own deadly logic. Engleat could easily be depicted as the wicked servant with a will of his own. He glanced quickly at Ranulf. Did the clerk nurse his own secret ambitions? Would his friendship for Corbett withstand the allure of power? Would all the years of comradeship be one day weighed in the balance and found wanting? Boniface had pursued his quarry but then made a fatal mistake: unable to accept Evesham’s true wickedness, he’d turned on Engleat.
‘But that square of letters?’ Ranulf insisted.
‘We thought of that.’ Brother Cuthbert gathered the knotted cord around his waist. ‘Adelicia and I have discussed it many a time. We could see how Boniface reached his conclusion. Engleat was the child of a Gascon squire and a Spanish woman who came to England in the retinue of Eleanor of Castile. The corners of the square hold the letters A,C,G and I. They are contained in the title of Evesham’s manor, but they are also part of Engleat’s first name, Ignacio.’
‘Whilst the E,’ Ranulf murmured, ‘could stand for Engleat as well as Evesham.’
‘But, in the end,’ declared Corbett, ‘it was all a lie.’
‘Yes,’ Brother Cuthbert conceded mournfully. ‘Evesham was the root and the cause of all this evil. He let Engleat take the blame to achieve what he wanted, Boniface’s death.’
Cuthbert grasped Adelicia’s hand. ‘We have discussed this over the years. After Evesham came to Syon, whenever I could I fled from St Lazarus’ Chapel. I wanted to be nowhere near him. I was not interested in talking to such a malevolent man.’
‘And the killer must have known this,’ Ranulf remarked.
‘Yes.’
‘What,’ Corbett asked, ‘did Evesham intend by taking refuge there?’
‘Certainly not repentance or absolution!’ Adelicia snapped.
‘I think he was waiting,’ Brother Cuthbert murmured.
‘For what?’
‘I don’t know. The King, perhaps, to change, to relent, I cannot say. I had so little to do with him.’
‘Brother Cuthbert, you heard Boniface’s confession. Did he ever mention a woman called Beatrice?’
The lay brother became agitated. ‘Sir Hugh, Sir Hugh,’ he pleaded. ‘You keep pressing me. You know canon law: to break the seal of confession warrants instant excommunication. The same penalty is levelled against those who persuade a priest to break it.’
‘But you have discussed the same with Adelicia?’
‘Only when she asks questions that reveal that she knew the truth.’
‘Which is?’ Ranulf asked harshly.
‘I cannot, I will not break the seal of confession,’ Brother Cuthbert murmured. ‘But yes, I will tell you for other reasons. There was a woman, Beatrice, in Boniface’s life but I don’t know who she was. He confessed his sins; on one occasion I think he was going to ask me to take a message to her, but then,’ he shook his head and turned away, ‘he made no further mention of it.’
‘And the reason you are telling us this now?’ Ranulf demanded.
‘Some time later, just before I left for Syon, I was here in this church, listening to confessions, giving absolution. You know how it is. I sit with my back to the prie-dieu where those who want the sacrament kneel and whisper their sins. A woman came but she did not ask for confession; instead she demanded what I knew about Boniface Ippegrave. I was going to turn round, but she pleaded with me not to, pointing out that it would be to no avail, since she was cowled and visored. She said that all she wanted was the truth. What had happened to Boniface Ippegrave? She said her name was Beatrice. Hadn’t Boniface mentioned her to me? I think she told me that as reassurance, to convince me of her own good faith. She had a lovely voice. I smelled her fragrant perfume. I could not help her. I declared before God that Boniface Ippegrave had taken sanctuary here then disappeared. I dared not tell her my suspicions and so she left. Sir Hugh, I know what you are going to say. Why didn’t I tell you this before? Because it was all caught up in the sacrament of absolution, and in the end, what proof do I have that it is the truth? Not much. According to the law, Boniface Ippegrave was a felon who disappeared. How many lawyers in the King’s court would cry over him or plead for justice on his behalf?’
‘Tell me then,’ Corbett asked, ‘as a priest, a man who has the power to consecrate the bread and wine into Christ’s body and blood, have you, on solemn oath, ever discussed this with anyone apart from the Lady Adelicia?’
‘Never!’ Brother Cuthbert retorted. ‘Not even with my own confessor.’
‘Is there,’ Ranulf demanded, ‘anything else you know that could help us?’
‘Nothing. I don’t know how Evesham died. I don’t know why he came to Syon. All I can say, and not because Adelicia is his sister, is that I shall go to my grave claiming that Boniface Ippegrave was innocent.’ He leaned forward. ‘And you, Sir Hugh, have our most grateful thanks. If you can see this matter through. .’
‘If I see this matter through,’ Corbett retorted, ‘I will ensure that a pardon is issued clearing Boniface Ippegrave of any crime, though God knows what good that will do in this vale of tears.’
‘It will help me, Sir Hugh,’ whispered Adelicia. ‘It will show me that God’s justice can be done, even if it is through a King’s clerk. .’
Parson John came next. He sat composed on the stool fingering a small ring of Ave beads. Corbett asked what he knew about his father’s death. The priest held up a hand. ‘Sir Hugh, nothing, nothing, about his death or his crimes.’
‘Then listen.’ And in short, pithy sentences, Corbett described his conclusions. Parson John sat dull-eyed, mouth gaping. He did not exclaim or cry out, but rocked himself backwards and forwards, face in his hands.
‘Did you know any of this?’ Ranulf demanded.
Parson John took his hands away. ‘For the love of God,’ he wailed, ‘how could I? I was a mere child when my mother died, then I was sent away. Ippegrave, Waldene, Hubert the Monk, Engleat, who are these to me? Who’d come and tell me the truth, that my father, a leading justice in King’s Bench, was as foul a felon as any strangled at Smithfield, that he’d murdered rivals at Westminster as well as my beloved mother?’
‘You never suspected?’
‘In the name of all that’s holy, why should I suspect anything when the King himself did not know? My mother?’ Parson John fought back the tears. ‘I was told she had been killed in an attack by felons, wolfsheads.’
‘Was mention ever made of a woman named Beatrice, your mother’s maid?’
Parson John screwed up his eyes. ‘Yes, yes, but she disappeared at the time. People did not know what had happened to her. My father mentioned that she’d been abducted. Sir Hugh, my father was so busy about his many affairs that he’d very little time for me. I ask you again, how could I know all this? I knew nothing, I know nothing,’ he added flatly.