‘I am sorry,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Mistress, I deeply regret your husband’s death. God be my witness, I did not want his blood on my hands!’
Ysabeau just glanced at the bailiff, who’d returned.
‘Tell me,’ Corbett looked up at the neighbour, ‘how many people knew about the Judas squint?’
‘Not many,’ the neighbour answered. ‘Deverell, God rest him, was a man who kept to himself but, there again, people did call to place orders.’
Corbett looked over his shoulder. ‘Master Blidscote, did you know about this?’
‘I did and I didn’t,’ came the defensive reply. ‘True, I visited here but I’d always forget it.’
‘Sir Louis? Sir Maurice?’
Both knights shook their heads.
‘Have there been any strangers at the house?’ Corbett asked.
Ysabeau’s gaze didn’t shift.
‘I glimpsed a friar,’ the neighbour replied. ‘One of those wandering priests, ragged and dirty. He came here recently. Deverell called him a nuisance. He only left when he was given some food and drink.’
‘Anyone else?’ Corbett demanded.
The woman shook her head.
‘I’ll look upstairs,’ Corbett declared. ‘I want to view the corpse.’
He left the rest and climbed the broad polished stairs to the small gallery. The door to the bedchamber was open, a well-furnished room with gleaming furniture which matched the carved woodwork of the four-poster bed. Corbett went across and looked through the window. A crowd still gathered below. Burghesh had joined them. The church bell began to toll and Corbett realised St Edmund’s would be getting ready for the funeral of Elizabeth the wheelwright’s daughter.
He moved back to the bed and pulled aside the drapes. Deverell’s corpse was hidden beneath a bloody sheet. He carefully peeled this back and flinched at the terrible wound. The crossbow bolt had been shot very close, reducing one side of the carpenter’s face to a bloody pulp. The bolt had entered just beneath the eye: a piteous, hideous sight. Corbett murmured the requiem. Surely God would have mercy on this man, so full of fear, sent so quickly into the dark?
Although Corbett felt a deep regret, he knew the root cause of Deverell’s murder was Sir Roger’s death. Deverell had certainly lied at the trial, but why? What had forced this wealthy craftsman to perjure himself, to send a man to the gallows? Who in Melford could exercise such power, exploit fearful nightmares? Had Deverell himself begun to regret his sin? Was he the one who had daubed Chapeleys’ tomb, pinned the notice to the gallows post? Indeed, had Deverell been the stranger who had so mysteriously assaulted him the previous evening, a fearful man who had lashed out but then panicked and fled?
‘A terrible death,’ Corbett murmured, pulling over the blood-soaked sheets. He heard a sound behind him; it must be Ranulf. ‘I’ve seen many corpses but each time is different.’
Again the floorboard creaked. Corbett whirled round. Ysabeau was creeping towards him, a broad-bladed knife in her hand. Corbett was trapped by the bed behind him. He moved sideways. She moved with him. She shifted her grip. Those black eyes never left Corbett. The clerk knew he was in mortal danger. Ysabeau had one thought only: to kill the man responsible for her husband’s death. Corbett moved away. She moved with him. He feinted to draw her in but she kept on the balls of her feet like a dancer. Corbett had no choice. He moved closer. Ysabeau was quicker, the knife snaking out, but he caught her wrist: her strength surprised him. He put one hand on the wrist holding the dagger. He tried to cup his other hand beneath her chin to force her away. She was tense and taut as a bowstring.
Corbett began to panic. He wanted to defend himself but, try as he might, he could not hurt this woman. She was no footpad or outlaw, only demented with grief. He pushed her back against the half-opened door.
‘Ranulf!’ he screamed.
Ysabeau, eyes blazing with hate, suddenly brought her other hand round and clawed Corbett’s face. The clerk hit her, sending her out on to the gallery to collide with Ranulf. She turned. Ranulf lashed out with his boot, kicking the knife out of her hand. Others were hurrying up the stairs as Ranulf seized her in a vicelike grip, pinioning her arms to her side.
‘You whoreson!’ The froth flecked Ysabeau’s lips. ‘You gallows bird!’
She struggled against Ranulf. The clerk held her fast. The neighbour appeared, a cup in her hand. Ranulf dragged the unfortunate woman down the gallery, kicked open the door to a chamber and threw her in. The neighbour, accompanied by Blidscote, followed, slamming the door behind them. Corbett heard the bolts being drawn. He dabbed the cut on his face, then picked up the knife and tossed it down the stairs.
‘I am sorry,’ Sir Maurice gasped. ‘One minute she was sitting there, then she said she wanted to view her husband’s corpse and apologise to you. She must have had the knife hidden away.’
‘It’s all right. It’s all right,’ Corbett breathed.
He went back to the bedchamber, splashed water over his hands and face, drying himself on a linen cloth.
‘It’s only a small scratch,’ Ranulf declared briskly. ‘It will make you look more handsome.’
‘Thank you, Ranulf.’
Corbett wiped some water from his eyebrows.
‘She was strong. Sir Louis, you are the local justice, yes? I want you to send Chanson downstairs for an apothecary or physician. The woman needs a sleeping potion. She should be guarded day and night. At least,’ he added drily, ‘until I leave Melford. I am also going to search this house.’
‘You can’t do that,’ the justice retorted. ‘You have no warrant.’
Corbett tapped his pouch. ‘I have all the warrants I need. You can wait for me in the kitchen below. Ranulf will be your host.’
Once they had left, Corbett closed the door behind them and began his search: coffers, aumbrys, chests, but they contained nothing untoward. Most of what he found was connected with Deverell’s trade: receipts, ledgers, as well as different purchases. The bedchamber yielded nothing.
Corbett went downstairs. Ignoring the rest, he searched the kitchen and the small parlour. He found a little chancery or writing office behind it. The door was locked. Ranulf found the keys and Corbett went inside.
A narrow, dusty chamber with one small window high in the wall; a tall writing-desk and stool. Corbett lit the candles. He had to force the desk, but again nothing. The small coffer beneath it, however, with its three locks, looked more interesting. A search was made and the keys found in the dead man’s purse. Corbett undid the three locks and pulled back the lid. It contained a small breviary, a Book of Hours, not a collection of prayers but the Divine Office: Prime, Matins, Lauds. The writing was the careful script of some monk, the pages well thumbed.
‘A carpenter who understood Latin?’ Corbett murmured.
There was also a white cord with three knots in it and a brown scapular, two pieces of leather on a coarse string. Corbett slipped this over his own head, allowing one piece of the leather to lie on his chest, the other on his back. The cord looked well used, slightly fraying in places. He went through the other items: a medal, Ave beads, a small pyx for carrying the host.
‘So, that’s what you were?’ Corbett declared. ‘No wonder you kept yourself to yourself!’
He took off the scapular and put all the contents back in the coffer, closed and locked it and returned to the kitchen.
The two knights and Ranulf were sitting at the kitchen table. Chanson came through the front door, a stout man striding behind him who introduced himself as a local physician. He brusquely told Corbett to get out of his way and went upstairs to see his patient.
‘We should be gone,’ Corbett declared, picking up his cloak.
‘Did you find anything?’ Sir Maurice asked.
‘Is Blidscote still here?’ Corbett asked Chanson.