‘Ah well.’ Corbett straightened in the chair. ‘Lady Adelicia, I ask you formally. On Thursday afternoon, the Feast of St Ambrose, you were absent from your house, according to your own statement, for at least four or five hours. There is every possibility that you returned, killed your husband and left again. This matter could be very quickly cleared up if you could prove exactly where you were.’
The silence in the room became oppressive. Faint sounds echoed eerily from the street; the drapes on the wall rippled under an icy draught; a candle flame abruptly guttered out. Lady Adelicia sat with both palms flat against the tabletop, staring at some point beyond Corbett’s head. Only once did she glance swiftly at her maid, who nodded imperceptibly.
‘At this moment in time, Sir Hugh, I cannot answer that. I am Lady Adelicia Decontet, widow of Sir Rauf, merchant, money-lender, a man, Sir Walter, like you, with fingers in many, many pies.’ She threw a glance full of hatred at Castledene, whom she regarded as the origin of her present difficulties. ‘Two years ago last April, on the eve of the Feast of St Erconwald, I married Sir Rauf, we exchanged vows at the church door and my purgatory began.’
‘My lady,’ Corbett intervened, ‘what has this to do with the present case?’
‘Oh, Sir Hugh, everything. I was married in the April of the year of Our Lord 1301. Now Sir Rauf, as Lechlade here,’ she clicked her fingers, ‘will bear witness, found it very difficult to sleep. He would often go back down to his chancery chamber to study his ledgers or count his silver. On the fifteenth of July of that same year, the Feast of St Swithun, my husband went downstairs. The night was hot. I too found it difficult to sleep. I rose and went to the casement window of my bedchamber, which overlooks the rear garden of Sweetmead Manor. I was about to retire when I heard the postern door at the back of the house open, and my husband emerged with a shuttered lantern. He went up the garden path, placed it on a turf seat and returned. A short while later he dragged out what looked like a corpse, though it was bound in sacking and tied with cord. Earlier that day he had declared that he wished to do some gardening; I was surprised, for he rarely ventured out in the garden. He’d left it as a wilderness, as again Lechlade will bear witness. Anyway, he pulled the bundle of sacking along the path and disappeared behind some bushes. He must have been there for at least an hour before he came back wiping his hands, picked up the lantern and returned to the house. I could hear him going into the buttery to wash his hands. I retired to bed and fell asleep. The next morning I rose as usual and broke my fast. My husband retired to deal with business matters; Lechlade disappeared, so I went out into the garden. I walked behind those bushes where I’d seen my husband go, and noticed the freshly dug earth-’
‘Lady Adelicia,’ Corbett interrupted, ‘what is the point of all this? You are accusing your dead husband of committing a murder and burying the corpse of his victim in the garden behind your house?’
Lady Adelicia, face now white as snow, nodded, her eyes pleading with Corbett, who realised what path she was about to take.
‘I know,’ she stammered, ‘I know something of the law, Sir Hugh. I wish to turn King’s Approver. I accuse Sir Rauf Decontet of homicide.’
Corbett sat back in the chair and glanced quickly at Castledene, who shook his head.
‘Two things.’ Corbett leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. ‘First, everyone here must gather at Sweetmead Manor tomorrow between the hours of eleven and twelve. I wish to search the house as well as that garden to establish the truth of what you say, Lady Adelicia. Second, you may know the law, Lady Adelicia, but I regret to inform you that you are wrong in this matter. To turn King’s Approver means that you accuse another person of a felony in the hope of receiving a royal pardon. The person you accuse has the right to answer; in this case, however, that is impossible. Your husband is dead. I do not think the royal justices will accept such a defence.’
Lady Adelicia swayed slightly, hands clutching the table. She glanced at Berengaria and then over her shoulder at Wendover, who’d been standing near the door. During the interrogation Corbett had watched the captain of the city guard: he seemed nervous and agitated. Corbett suspected Wendover had a great deal to do with the proceedings before him, and wondered if he should challenge him directly, but decided against it. He was about to turn to Sir Walter Castledene when there was a loud knocking on the door and a liveried servant hurried in. He bowed to Corbett before hurrying across to whisper in Sir Walter’s ear. The Mayor glanced up.
‘Sir Hugh, Parson Warfeld is here. I thought he too should give evidence.’
Corbett nodded. ‘He is a cleric,’ he declared, ‘a priest. I think it best if this room is cleared of everyone except you, Sir Walter,’ he nodded at Ranulf, ‘and my clerk.’ Corbett rose, pushing back his chair. ‘Lady Adelicia, Master Desroches, Lechlade and Berengaria, I thank you. Lady Adelicia, you must remain in your cell beneath the Guildhall, at least until tomorrow.’ He held up his hand to quell her protest. ‘Tomorrow we shall go out to Sweetmead Manor and see for ourselves. I thank you.’
Corbett walked away and stared out of the window, waiting for the room to empty. Wendover looked as if he wanted to stay, but Ranulf jabbed his hand, indicating that the captain should leave. He did so just as Parson Warfeld came bustling into the chamber, mopping his face with the hem of his robe. Corbett made the priest comfortable on one of the chairs and personally served him a cup of posset, then sat down next to him.
‘Parson Warfeld, I thank you for coming. You know the proceedings before me. I will be blunt and to the point. Lady Adelicia is accused of murdering her husband Sir Rauf sometime on the afternoon of the Feast of St Ambrose. Physician Desroches came to the house to meet his client, but unable to gain access sent a boy to fetch you from St Alphege’s. Is that correct?’
Parson Warfeld gulped the mulled wine and nodded.
‘And when you arrived?’
Parson Warfeld put the goblet down on the table; Corbett noticed his hand was shaking slightly. The room fell silent except for Castledene, who was drumming his fingers on the table, and the squeak of Ranulf’s pen across the freshly scrubbed parchment.
‘Well, well. .’ Warfeld gasped. He then proceeded to tell Corbett exactly what the clerk had already heard, starting from the moment he had been summoned to Sweetmead and finishing with Castledene’s decision to arrest Lady Adelicia and bring her to the Guildhall.
The parson shrugged. ‘There was nothing more I could do. I have visited Lady Adelicia in prison and have lodged Master Lechlade and Berengaria in my own house. They are no real problem; there’s always plenty of work to do in and around the church. The priest’s house at St Alphege’s is well furnished. “In my Father’s mansion there are many rooms”,’ Parson Warfeld quoted jokingly from the scriptures. ‘I really can’t say any more, Sir Hugh.’
‘Did Sir Rauf, or Lady Adelicia, ever ask to be shriven by you?’ Corbett asked.
The smile faded from Warfeld’s face.
‘I know, I know,’ Corbett conceded. ‘You can reveal nothing told to you under the seal of confession. I didn’t ask for that. I asked whether you ever heard their confessions.’
‘I will not reply to that either, Sir Hugh. But I will tell you this: there were rumours, whispers about Lady Adelicia not being satisfied with Sir Rauf, and her trips into the city.’
‘Are you saying she was meeting someone else?’ Corbett asked.
‘I’m saying nothing, Sir Hugh. I merely report what I’ve heard.’
Corbett thanked him and asked him also to be present on the morrow between eleven and noon at Sweetmead Manor. Parson Warfeld agreed, bowed to both of them and left.
‘Ah well.’ Castledene walked towards the door, closed it and leaned against it. ‘Sir Hugh, what can be done here? Lady Adelicia must face the charges levelled against her, whilst this business at Maubisson. . I have,’ he added hastily, ‘despite the snow, sent couriers to all ports asking for harbour-masters and port-reeves to search for Servinus. He must be the assassin!’