‘Did you ever discover,’ Corbett asked, ‘that Berengaria sometimes returned to be closeted with Sir Rauf?’
Surprise flared in Lechlade’s eyes.
‘Impossible!’ he slurred.
‘No, it’s true.’
Lechlade wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and suppressed a belch. ‘Before Sir Rauf married he would sometimes go out at night. He visited the mopsies and the doxies of the city, or so I suspect. Berengaria has a pert eye. She is the sort of girl who would catch Sir Rauf’s attention. If there was no bed-twisting with Lady Adelicia, Berengaria, I suppose, in return for money and favour, might be more obliging.’ Lechlade was now mumbling his words, eyes drooping in sleepiness.
‘You’re mawmsy,’ Ranulf barked. ‘For the love of God sleep, clear your wits, empty your head of ale fumes.’
Lechlade shuffled to his feet. He gestured at Ranulf, bowed mockingly at Corbett and slouched towards the door.
Desroches came as a welcome relief, clear and precise, gaze moving from Ranulf back to Corbett. He answered the clerk’s questions bluntly, declaring that he’d been a physician in Canterbury for over three years. He’d been brought to the attention of Sir Walter Castledene and Sir Rauf and openly admitted that the prospect of profit was one of the attractions of being in Sir Rauf’s service. He also confirmed that the dead miser had had an iron-hard constitution and suffered very few ailments. Desroches had certainly heard about The Waxman, Hubert Fitzurse and his half-brother Adam, but nothing tangible or significant. He freely admitted that Sir Rauf, on at least one occasion, had talked about his impotence with the Lady Adelicia, though he conceded that Sir Rauf was not a gelding.
‘You see, Sir Hugh, with such conditions it may not be the man’s fault.’
‘You mean the Lady Adelicia?’
‘In a word, yes, Sir Hugh. I believe Sir Rauf, despite the fact that he held the purse strings and held them very fast, was rather frightened of Lady Adelicia, her beauty, her comeliness. To other men this would be a spur, but to Decontet it was a rein. I suspect he found satisfaction elsewhere, but how and with whom,’ he shook his head, ‘I do not know. The Lady Adelicia acts very cold and distant. I’ll be blunt. I’d also heard the rumours about her. Canterbury may be a city, but it’s no different from a village: people watch, people listen; sooner or later Sir Rauf would have discovered the truth.’
‘And the afternoon he was murdered?’
‘Sir Rauf had asked me to visit him. He’d sent me a letter the previous Sunday. I had not replied. Anyway, on that particular day I walked over to his house about mid-afternoon. You already know the rest.’
‘Tell me again,’ Corbett asked.
‘I knocked and knocked. At last Lechlade came down. We then tried to rouse Sir Rauf, but there was no answer. You know,’ he waggled his shoulders, ‘I had an ominous feeling something was very wrong. I decided not to do anything, not with just Lechlade present. So, as I’ve said, I went out and found a farmer’s boy and sent a message asking Parson Warfeld to join us. We then broke the door down. Sir Rauf lay face down; the blood had gushed out of the back of his head. Apparently he’d been dead for some time. Parson Warfeld tended to him. I sent another messenger to Castledene and waited for him. Lady Adelicia returned; she was questioned, the blood was seen on her cloak and her room was searched.’
‘Do you think she killed her husband?’ Corbett asked.
‘No, I don’t,’ Desroches retorted.
‘Why do you think that?’
‘She certainly hated Sir Rauf; that was well known. She had little to do with him, but,’ he spread his hands, ‘she is not the killing sort. She is too much a lady, too delicate, and of course there’s that great mystery: how could anyone get into that chamber, commit murder, then escape through a locked door?’
‘The windows?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Impossible.’ Desroches moved in his chair. ‘You’ve seen them, Sir Hugh: too small. The casement door is narrow whilst the shutters were clasped and barred. Lechlade and Warfeld will tell you that.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s impossible,’ he repeated. ‘A true mystery.’
‘Very much like Maubisson,’ Corbett observed. ‘And what happened there?’
‘Sir Hugh, again from what I gather, Paulents landed at Dover, he and his family fell ill and sent a message to Castledene. Castledene met them at Maubisson on the Dover Road. He asked me to join him.’
‘Why?’ Corbett asked. ‘Why you?’
‘I’m indentured to the city council, Sir Hugh. Castledene was about to receive important visitors. I was part of his care for them.’ He smiled. ‘Perhaps I’m a little more amenable than other physicians.’
‘And Castledene’s guests?’
‘I didn’t think they were suffering from any contagion; only from seasickness. They certainly felt better when I met them. I know little, Sir Hugh, about the secrets and mysteries which existed between Paulents and Castledene. What I do know is that the visitors were in good health. I also learnt that Sir Walter and his guest had been threatened, but little else. Paulents’ wife asked me to stay with them at Maubisson but I refused. I had to return to Canterbury.’
‘You gave them some physic?’
‘I mixed a little camomile in a jug of wine when we met.’ Desroches smiled. ‘Both Castledene and I drank cups from the same jug.’
‘And the bodyguard Servinus?’ Corbett continued.
Desroches lifted his hands. ‘What can I tell you, Sir Hugh? He was dressed in black leather, slightly fastidious, a professional soldier, harsh-faced with a balding head. Very much like Wendover; a man who gloried in the camp and the clash of armour. Paulents’ wife seemed rather sweet on him. He certainly acted the part of the valorous warrior.’
‘So you think he was a fighter?’ Corbett asked.
‘He would certainly have given a good account of himself in any attack.’
‘Do you think he could be guilty of murder?’
‘Sir Hugh, I cannot answer that. I mean-’ Desroches was about to continue when suddenly a raucous shouting broke out. The door was flung open and Castledene burst into the chamber.
‘Sir Hugh, you must come! A man has been killed!’
Chapter 10
Inferno tristi tibi quis fatetur.
Sad in your hell, who will confess to you?
Corbett ordered Ranulf to stay while he and Chanson, followed by Desroches, went out into the icy passageway. Castledene led them through the back of the house and outside. It was bitingly cold and a ring of torches glowed at the far end of the garden. Wendover came hurrying up.
‘Sir Hugh, one of our city guards has been killed.’
Desroches hastened ahead. Corbett followed and reached the group of men gathered round the corpse sprawled face down in the snow. Desroches glanced up, shaking his head.
‘Dead!’ He pointed to the heavy crossbow quarrel embedded deep between the man’s shoulder blades. ‘A fatal wound.’ He turned the corpse over.
As Corbett stared down at the victim — a young man, sandy-haired, his eyes staring unseeingly, his face slightly unshaven and pockmarked — he noticed something amiss: the guard wasn’t wearing the ordinary liveried cloak, but a light blue one usually worn by Wendover.
‘What happened?’ Corbett asked.
‘Oseric, that’s his name.’ One of the men spoke up. ‘He’d been with us only a few months.’
‘What happened?’ Corbett insisted.
‘He went out to relieve himself,’ the man replied. ‘He was in a hurry so he took Wendover’s cloak. He was gone for some time. We were all in the buttery, drinking and chatting. I became concerned.’
Corbett snapped his fingers, ordering the torch-bearers to move closer to the speaker. The man, small and squat, glared angrily at him.
‘Why should someone kill one of us?’ he asked.
Corbett shook his head and stared round the snow-covered garden, the bushes and trees, the high curtain wall. Once again the Angel of Death had swept in, soft and silent, invisible yet menacing, like some formidable hawk floating over the fields of this world, keen to grasp a living soul in its greedy claws. But why now? How? Who had guided it in, selected its prey? He walked back towards the rear door and noticed the shuttered windows on either side; he tried both of these but they held fast.