Ranulf’s voice faltered. He rose and walked across to the arrow-slit window as if to study the dust motes dancing in the ray of sunlight piercing it. Corbett went to speak, but paused at a knock on the door. Fulbert entered.
‘Sir Hugh, a message from the lady abbess. Rosamund’s twine is laid out. If you wish to enter the maze …’
A short while later, Corbett led Ranulf and Vicomte into the maze. Fulbert and Rainald went ahead of them, following the scarlet cord that lay twisted along the paths. Corbett had insisted that both men who had discovered Buchan’s corpse should accompany him. Despite the brilliant sunshine and the warm breeze perfumed by the rich garden plots, he felt a deep unease, as if they were being swallowed alive by that sinister labyrinth. A sombre place that dulled the soul yet agitated the mind with its constantly twisting sameness. No birdsong, no scurrying or rustling, just those walls of greenery rising either side of them. Corbett tried to curb his imagination, yet he sensed a malevolent, brooding presence. Sometimes he felt as if they were being followed, watched by something he was unable to detect. Fulbert noticed this and walked back.
‘A fearsome place, Sir Hugh.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Let me warn you, your eyes will play tricks, as happens in the marshlands where will-o’-the-wisps take on a life of their own.’
Corbett heeded the warning as he walked on, trying to ignore the suspicion that he had glimpsed someone, the swirl of the cloak or a fluttering shadow. Vicomte and Ranulf were equally agitated. Corbett forced himself to relax, to concentrate and reflect on what he had learnt, heard and seen since his arrival at Godstow. Certain suspicions were already forming. The mysteries that confronted them were confined to a certain space and time. Accordingly, the explanations might not be based on evidence or eyewitnesses but on reaching the only logical conclusion possible. He felt confident that the solution to these murderous mysteries must lie within Godstow itself, particularly this maze. If so, that must eventually lead to the unmasking of Elizabeth Buchan and Margaret Beaumont’s assassin. He was almost certain that the latter had been murdered by the same killer who had slaughtered her friend.
‘Sir Hugh?’ Corbett glanced up. Ranulf and Vicomte had stopped.
‘We are not far,’ the gardener called from ahead. ‘We must keep to the right.’ They turned and turned again, following the scarlet cord, and Corbett hid his surprise as they entered the oval centre of the maze. The ground was paved in coloured stone. On the right rose the Creeping Cross and a pieta – a huge, soaring black stone sculpture at the top of three steps. On each side of the Cross stood life-sized statues: the Virgin Mary cradling the dead body of her crucified son, and a mournful St John stooped in a gesture of deep grief. Across the pavement from this was a chapel-like building with a porch leading into a small nave, a bell hung in a bell-cote on the gable.
Corbett genuflected towards the pieta, crossed himself, then entered the chapel, pushing back the heavy oaken door. He stopped to inspect this, noticing how the inside of the door boasted a sturdy lock with bolts at top and bottom. Then he strolled into what must be Rosamund’s bower. It was a pleasant enough chamber: braziers stood prepared for firing, and rolled-up turkey rugs were stored in recesses at the bottom of the wall, ready to be spread out. There was an alcove for a bed to be laid, and good oaken furniture – stools, two chairs and a table. A small buttery and kitchen led off from the main chamber. Coloured cloths decorated the walls, most of them extolling the theme of pilgrimage. In all, a homely, comfortable place, the honey-coloured Cotswold stone filling the refuge with lightness and warmth.
‘They say,’ Vicomte spoke up, ‘how this bower was built for Rosamund to hide in when Eleanor loosed her assassins against her.’
‘And Elizabeth Buchan was found where?’ Corbett demanded.
‘Outside.’ Fulbert led him back through the porch and across to the steps of the pieta. ‘She was lying here.’ He gestured. ‘Arms and legs out, head to one side, robe and kirtle all pulled up. Such a beautiful young woman! So high-spirited.’ He laughed abruptly. ‘She and Margaret called our abbess the Gargoyle.’
Corbett crouched to study the steps and the paving stones beneath. He fished in his wallet and drew out a precious piece of thickened concave glass, a gift from a grateful London jeweller. He often used this to study faded manuscripts where the script was too difficult to read; it was also helpful for inspecting the inside of a beehive or the creatures themselves. Now he peered through it at the spot where Buchan’s corpse had been found.
‘Has this place been cleaned?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Rainald replied. ‘Only by spring showers, and they have been both rare and light.’
‘Buchan’s blood was dried.’
‘Thick, dark red, a congealed mess.’
‘So she had been dead for some time?’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘And possibly-’ Corbett cut himself short. For the time being he would keep his suspicions to himself. ‘Very well.’ He smiled at the two men. ‘I and my clerks will stay here for a while. Rosamund’s twine is still laid out?’
‘And will be until you leave.’
‘Good, good.’ Corbett rose to his feet, putting the glass away and rubbing his hands. ‘Tell me, before you go. Elizabeth Buchan’s clothes were thrown back, she suffered a rape wound when her virginity was violated and a death blow to her skull caused by the crossbow bolt. Anything else?’
‘What else could there be?’
‘Wounds to her hands, legs or knees?’
‘You must see the infirmarian, Dame Imelda.’
Corbett said he would. Both men asked if he wanted them to stay, warning that despite Rosamund’s twine, the maze was still a place where one could easily become distracted and lost. Corbett assured them that he would heed their words. Once the two men had left, Ranulf and Vicomte drifted across.
‘Master?’
‘Most curious,’ Corbett remarked. ‘Most curious indeed. First, what was Elizabeth Buchan doing in the centre of this maze in the dead of night? How did she get here after dark? Who followed her in, and why?’ Corbett breathed out noisily. ‘She certainly wasn’t killed here. I need to talk to the infirmarian who dressed the corpse. But for the moment …’
Corbett and his two companions spent at least another hour examining Rosamund’s bower, the Creeping Cross and the pieta. Corbett sat for a while on the steps leading up to the cross, deep in thought. He was roused now and again by various sounds: soft scraping, the crack of a twig, the rustle of the hedge in the breeze. Were they alone? He got to his feet. He felt anxious, wary, as he used to during those days when he served as a mailed clerk along the marches of Scotland and Wales. Ranulf had also picked up this unease.
‘Let us return,’ Corbett declared. ‘It’s time.’
They left the centre of the maze, going down one of the narrow pathways. Vicomte went first, holding the red twine, letting it slip through his fingers as if threading a set of Ave beads. They rounded a corner. Vicomte stopped and turned. The red twine had been severed.
‘In God’s name!’ Ranulf exclaimed. Corbett stared down the path. There was no sign of the twine or the person who’d cut it.
‘Master?’
Corbett stared up at the cloudless sky. ‘You have a tinder, Ranulf?’
‘Yes.’
He pointed to the dry grass, twigs and leaves lying at the foot of the hedge.
‘Collect that,’ he ordered. ‘Light a fire, create as much smoke as possible. Then start shouting the alarm.’
Ranulf hastened to obey. Vicomte confessed his voice was reedy, so Ranulf raised the alarm whilst Vicomte assembled a miniature pyre of twigs, dry leaves and bark. A flame was struck. Vicomte lightly wetted the debris with spittle, and puffs of dark smoke rose whilst Ranulf continued to bellow. Corbett relaxed as he heard the sound of voices.
‘Sir Hugh?’
He whirled round. Vicomte was pointing down the pathway. ‘What in God’s-’