Corbett did not believe that; he had more questions, but not for now. Sir Walter was exhausted, his face grey, his eyes red-rimmed. Once he’d been dismissed, Lady Adelicia swept in. Despite her haughty mien and arrogant air, she proved remarkably cooperative. She admitted that her husband had been impotent, at least when it came to normal intercourse. She referred to his ‘filthy’ practices, to which she had refused to consent, and talked openly of Wendover as her lover to take or leave at her whim. She spoke coldly, dispassionately, lip curling whenever she mentioned her husband’s name, those beautiful cornflower-blue eyes diamond hard. Corbett sensed this young woman’s hatred for her dead husband. At the same time he felt a deep sorrow for the rough manner in which her girlish illusions and dreams had been so abruptly and cruelly shattered. She admitted to knowing nothing about her husband’s mercantile interests or his secret business. Nor could she elaborate on what she had already said about seeing Sir Rauf on that summer’s evening dragging what she suspected was a corpse wrapped in sacking from the house into the garden. She shrugged prettily, conceding that her dead husband was a secretive man who’d kept close counsel, admitted visitors at all hours and taken them immediately to his chamber.
Listening to her carefully, Corbett concluded that Sir Rauf was not so much an honourable citizen but a merchant who meddled and dealt in matters of the dark, best hidden from anyone’s eyes, including his wife’s. As to Lechlade, Lady Adelicia was equally disparaging, dismissing him as an ale-sodden oaf, sottish in his behaviour and manner, who seemed totally unaware of what was happening around him. Lechlade was her husband’s serf, sent on this errand or that, with no life of his own. Perhaps she sensed Corbett’s sorrow at her situation, for she became more coy and flirtatious, so Corbett decided to change tack.
‘Did you murder your husband, Lady Adelicia?’
‘No, I did not. I could not. He was found with his skull smashed in a locked room; only he had a key and that was found on him.’
‘But the bloodstained napkins in your chamber? Only you and your husband had keys to that room. Did yours remain with you when you were closeted with Wendover at The Chequer of Hope? Your maid, Berengaria, could she have taken it?’
‘Sir Hugh, I am not as stupid as you think, or, indeed, as Berengaria might. I grew suspicious of what she did when I was with Wendover. I heard rumours that she would return to Sweetmead Manor, and saw marks of affection between her and Sir Rauf, but what did I care? What did it matter to me? Berengaria is a veritable minx; she lives on her wits and, given her life, I can hardly blame her. What’s more important is that she did not interfere with me or what I was doing. She did not take my key.’
‘Lady Adelicia, does the ship The Waxman mean anything to you?’
‘I have heard of it, Sir Hugh, and learnt what happened to its master, Blackstock, but no.’
‘And the bloody business at Maubisson?’ Corbett asked.
‘Again only what I’ve heard.’
‘And you claim total innocence of your husband’s death?’
‘Of course, Sir Hugh. I should be free. I object to being locked in a cell beneath the Guildhall. Surely that must not continue?’
Corbett clicked his tongue. ‘Lady Adelicia, you are enceinte. You were once a king’s ward. I’ll put you on oath. Providing you remain within this house under the custody of the city guards, you may stay here.’
The relief in the young woman’s eyes was obvious. Her lower lip quivered, tears brimmed, and she bowed her head, shoulders shaking slightly.
‘I am innocent, Sir Hugh. I hated my husband but so do many wives. I did not kill him, I swear to that.’
Lechlade came next. He was so drunk he could hardly repeat the words Parson Warfeld uttered and kept slipping off the stool. Ranulf found it amusing, and his shoulders began to shake until Corbett glared at him. Chanson came over and forced the man to sit properly. Lechlade leaned against the table, spittle drooling down his unshaven chin, and glared blearily at Corbett.
‘What do you want with poor Lechlade?’ he slurred. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong! I wasn’t always a servant, you know. I was a clerk myself once; I had prospects, but. .’ He shrugged. ‘I worked for a while for Sir Walter Castledene. I was dismissed for being drunk and Sir Rauf hired me. He paid me little, gave me a garret to sleep in and sent me here and there. Sir Hugh, I spend most of my days staring at the bottom of a tankard wishing it was full again.’
‘Do you know anything about The Waxman, Hubert the Monk or his half-brother Adam?’
Lechlade licked his lips and looked longingly over his shoulder at the door as if expecting Chanson to produce a tankard of frothing ale.
‘Master Lechlade, I asked you a question.’
Lechlade leaned across the table, his breath reeking of the herbs and veal Ranulf had cooked. ‘Sir Hugh,’ he slurred, eyes heavy, ‘of course I’ve heard of Blackstock and Hubert, but they really mean nothing to me, just chatter in the market square, feathers on a breeze, here today, gone tomorrow.’
‘But your master, Sir Rauf Decontet, did he not subsidise The Waxman?’
‘Perhaps he did, perhaps he didn’t, I don’t know. He never discussed his business dealings with me.’
‘And the people who came at the dark of night, slipping across the wasteland, knocking furtively at the door?’
‘Sir Hugh, again I was Sir Rauf’s manservant. I cleaned the tables, I swept the floor, but once my hours were finished-’
‘I know!’ Corbett broke in angrily. ‘It was another tankard of ale. So you know nothing about that skeleton buried in the garden?’
‘Nothing, Sir Hugh. It was as much a surprise to me as to anybody else.’
‘And your mistress’s doings with Wendover?’
‘Lady Adelicia does not like me, Sir Hugh, though I’ve tried to help her when I can. Where possible she kept away from me, so I kept my distance from her! Where she went, what she did meant nothing to me. True, there was bad blood between the master and her, anyone could see that, even a drunk like myself. I know my wits may be sottish, my brain dulled, but they sat at table and hardly conversed. She kept to her chamber, he kept to his. She was more interested in her powders and dresses, or chattering to that insolent maid of hers, than anything else.’
‘And on the afternoon Sir Rauf was killed?’
‘Oh, I remember that. Lady Adelicia and Berengaria left, mounted on their palfreys. I watched them go. I’ll be honest, Sir Hugh, I’d heard the rumours, but,’ he shrugged, ‘I have nowhere else to go. I kept my lips closed. I did not wish to be dismissed from Decontet’s service. Well, I always seize opportunities to drown my sorrows. You see, when Lady Adelicia was out of the house, Sir Rauf would lock himself up in his chancery chamber. Only the good Lord knows,’ he slurred, ‘what he did.’
‘Did he keep monies in the house?’
‘Very little, Sir Hugh. Most of it went to the goldsmiths, both here and in London.’
‘And that particular afternoon?’
‘As I’ve said, I bought a jug of ale, went up to my garret, drank and slept. I only knew something was wrong when I heard that pounding on the door and Desroches shouting!’
‘What do you think of Desroches?’
‘Well, he’s been in Canterbury for over three years, I believe, and, like all physicians, loves gold and silver. He is skilled enough. He brought himself to the attention of the council, and purchased a house in Ottemele Lane. It’s no great mansion house but he lives within his means. Sir Rauf tolerated him.’
‘Did he treat Sir Rauf?’
‘For a number of minor ailments. Sir Rauf was as strong as an ox. Anyway, on that day I went down and opened the door for Desroches, and the rest you know.’