Dark Serpent (Hugh Corbett 18) Read online

  Hand over his mouth, the Deacon hastened on. He reached Tallefert’s house and slipped along the spindle-thin runnel leading down to a small postern gate in the garden wall. The Deacon, highly skilled with keys and picklocks, quickly forced an entry. Once inside, he leaned against the gate and stared around. He had never approached this house by its narrow main door. He always entered as he had now. If Tallefert was there, he would welcome him. If he had left, there would be a sign. Today the Deacon was deeply uneasy. Both house and garden appeared desolate and deserted. The rooms were shuttered and locked. The flower beds, herb plots and beehives looked sorely neglected.

  The Deacon slipped like a shadow across the unattended garden, under the ancient pear tree, pushing aside the garden furniture. Fighting the fear and panic welling within him, he forced the kitchen door and entered, listening keenly as he hurried from one chamber to another. Tallefert was gone, and so were his panniers and satchels. No precious objects could be seen. The chancery desk was swept clean, the larder, pantry and buttery devoid of all drink.

  ‘Where could he be?’ the Deacon whispered. He crouched down, arms across his belly. No Tallefert, no Pietal. He closed his eyes and then abruptly opened them, his throat growing dry as he recalled those two corpses taken from the Seine. Two grotesques from a nightmare, yet on reflection, their hair, the shape of their bodies, the vestiges of what they had looked like in life, all was familiar. The Deacon’s fingers went to his lips. Were they Tallefert and Pietal? How was it that two corpses fished separately from the Seine should be exposed together in death? Was that a reflection of some relationship in life? And the hideous, gruesome injuries – surely those were not the effects of a malignant disease or the nibbling of some rodent, but more the work of torture, of human cruelty. Were those cadavers the mortal remains of Tallefert and Pietal? The corpses had been found in the river close to this house. The two men must have been captured swiftly. Corbett had always instructed his spies that if they were in danger, they should send him or each other a quotation about beekeeping. This had not happened.

  The Deacon rose to his feet. ‘I have fought the good fight. I have run the race. I have kept faith,’ he whispered, ‘and now I must be gone.’

  He hurried out into the garden and opened the gate, stumbling down the alleyway, desperate to reach the sanctuary of the English envoy’s chambers at the Golden Hart tavern. It was all over. Tallefert had apparently disappeared, and the Deacon couldn’t forget those grotesque cadavers, their rotting, suppurating faces. Enough was enough. He too needed to disappear, and Sir Hugh had to be warned …

  Mistress Philippa met Corbett just within the courtyard of the Merry Mercy. She looked calm and collected in her dark-blue gown with its white bands at neck and wrist, though her eyes brimmed with tears and she kept biting her lip as she tried not to weep. She clutched Corbett’s arm, then slipped her soft hand into his.

  ‘Sir Hugh,’ she whispered, ‘why all this in my beautiful tavern?’

  ‘Mistress,’ Corbett touched her on the cheek, ‘show me this mischief.’

  She shook her head and led him across the cobbled stable yard, Ranulf going before them, pushing his way through the throng outside the postern entrance. Just inside this stood a garderobe. Philippa let go of Corbett’s hand, pulled open the door and stepped back. Slingsby, fully clothed, sat on the jakes seat, slightly hunched. The dagger, which must have killed him instantly, was thrust blade-deep into his heart. He slouched, head to one side, mouth gaping, eyes popping from the shock of death. Corbett touched his hand; it was still slightly warm and soft.

  ‘Who found him?’ He turned and addressed those gathered behind him.

  ‘I did.’ Sokelar the harbour master pushed his way through. ‘Agnes and I were about to leave. I needed to relieve myself.’ He gestured at the garderobe. ‘I opened the door; that’s what I found.’

  Ranulf organised a group of servants to take Slingsby’s corpse across to an outhouse, using an ancient hand cart as a bier. Mistress Philippa fetched lanternhorns. Corbett followed her, ordering Chanson to keep the curious still thronging around well away. Ranulf closed the outhouse door and Corbett began his inspection. He could find no other mark of violence, nothing to indicate that Slingsby had tried to protect or defend himself. Once he had finished, he thanked Philippa, adding that he and Ranulf would return to the Cana chamber and continue their investigation, and inviting her to join them for supper. She smilingly agreed, adding that she would send an urgent message to Parson Layburn at Holy Trinity the Little so the corpse collectors could take care of Slingsby’s cadaver.

  Once by themselves, Corbett and Ranulf removed cloaks and war belts, cleaning themselves at the lavarium, and ate the light collation a servant brought: dried quail meat, small white rolls, some butter and a jug of tangy ale.

  ‘Why murder Slingsby?’ Ranulf murmured between mouthfuls.

  ‘Why not?’ Corbett joked. ‘But,’ he sipped from his tankard, ‘a truly mysterious murder. First, notice how on Slingsby’s person and in the garderobe we could detect no other mark of violence whatsoever, apart from the death wound, either from Slingsby’s assassin or the victim defending himself. Yes?’ Ranulf agreed. ‘Second,’ Corbett smiled, ‘when I go to the garderobe, I close the door and bring the latch down so that if someone else tries to enter, they know it’s occupied. But according to Sokelar, the latrine door was off the latch. Third, I could detect no blood on the floor outside the garderobe, so I suspect Slingsby was killed inside. Fourth, most men when they use the jakes undo their belts and the points on their hose. Yet there is no sign of Slingsby even beginning to do this. If he had wanted to relieve himself in a public jakes, his need must have been urgent and the shock of such a blow would have caused him to urinate or defecate, but there is no evidence of this. So what was he doing in that garderobe?’

  He glanced at Ranulf, who simply shook his head.

  ‘Was he killed somewhere else and taken there? But that would be nigh impossible in a busy tavern. Finally, Ranulf, your question: why? Why was Slingsby murdered here and now? Yes, he was involved in the destruction of Fallowfield and Sumerscale over three years ago, so is his murder connected to that?’

  ‘And there is who?’ Ranulf declared. ‘Who could kill a man like Slingsby? Let’s be honest, master, I am sure that when it came to sword or dagger play, our dead taverner could hold his own. Surely his killer must be a professional assassin? Someone like our good friend Brother Jerome, who floats around this tavern as if he owns it?’

  ‘We could try to find out where he and others were when Slingsby was murdered,’ mused Corbett, ‘but there are so many fluctuations, not to mention the downright deceit and deception that would confront us …’

  He paused at a sharp rapping at the door, which was flung open and de Craon swept into the chamber, followed by Brother Jerome. The French envoy’s face was creased into a false smile, a sure sign that he had apparently decided that courtesy, however false, was the best path to follow.

  ‘Hugh, Hugh!’ He advanced on Corbett, arms extended. ‘I am so pleased to see you. So happy to hear that you have returned to your king’s service. Believe me, Philip of France is delighted. He sees us as uniting against any foe. Come!’

  Corbett bit his lip to stop the laughter from bubbling out. He winked at a smirking Ranulf as he embraced de Craon, kissing him on both cheeks.

  ‘Amaury,’ he murmured, ‘my heart sings with joy at seeing you again. I assure you, you are never far from my thoughts.’

  ‘Likewise, Hugh.’ De Craon stepped back. ‘And how is the Lady Maeve?’

  Pleasantries and compliments were exchanged. De Craon threw his cloak over the table and, uninvited, sat down on a chair, drumming his fingers on its carved arm as he greeted Ranulf and beckoned Brother Jerome to sit beside him.

  ‘Well, Hugh,’ the envoy spread his hands, ‘it is, as I said, good to see you. What can I …’

  ‘The Black Hogge,’ Corbett retorted, sitting down opposite so
de Craon had to turn in his chair, ‘and its murderous attacks.’

  ‘Hugh, Hugh …’ De Craon laced his fingers together and shook his head sorrowfully. ‘The Black Hogge is a privateer sailing under the sealed mandate of the Duke of Brittany. Of course we have heard about its depredations, but let’s be honest, English privateers, Scottish privateers, not to mention those of Flanders and Hainault, also prowl the Narrow Seas. Of course we deeply regret the hideous losses you have sustained. I’ve already expressed our profound concerns to your chancellor and treasurer. My master King Philip of France has remonstrated with the Duke of Brittany.’ He shrugged. ‘But as you know, Hugh, such matters take time …’

  ‘So you have no communication with The Black Hogge whatsoever?’

  ‘Of course not. Why, do you think I can fly with messages? We deplore your losses! Quel dommage! Je suis desolé.’ De Craon gave the most Gallic of shrugs.

  Corbett glanced at Ranulf and raised his eyes heavenwards. The room fell silent. De Craon sat blinking as if he was on the verge of tears, distraught at the thought of such English losses at sea. His accomplice in crime, Jerome, sat head down, his hands tucked inside the voluminous sleeves of his cream-coloured robe.

  ‘Do the names Sumerscale and Fallowfield mean anything to you, Amaury?’

  ‘No, why should they?’

  ‘And the Templars sheltering at St Giles?’

  ‘Are there Templars sheltering there, Hugh? If there are, surely they should be handed over to my master. The order has been condemned by Pope Clement. The Holy Father has ordered that its members be arrested, and that includes any Templars in England.’

  ‘And the death of Slingsby?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The taverner murdered here in a garderobe earlier today.’

  ‘Sir Hugh,’ de Craon waved his hands, ‘of course we heard the clamour, but the death of an innkeeper in a shit-house has nothing to do with me or mine.’

  ‘So, Amaury, why are you actually here in London, invoking your rights as an envoy to stay in this most comfortable tavern?’

  De Craon, eyes all fluttering, shook his head like some master in the schools dealing with a not-so-bright scholar. ‘Sir Hugh, it’s well known. We are here to discuss with your king’s council certain questions regarding Gascony, in particular the building of a bastide at Saint-Sardos. Of course there are other matters. King Philip would dearly love to see his son-in-law and daughter in Paris. We also have the question of Scotland and English intervention there. A whole host of problems …’ De Craon’s smile was so false, Corbett had to glance away.

  ‘In which case, monseigneur,’ he murmured, ‘I shall not detain you any longer from your pressing business.’

  He leaned back in his chair and fluttered his fingers at de Craon. The two Frenchmen rose, bowed and swept out of the chamber, Brother Jerome slamming the door behind them. Corbett listened to their footsteps fade as he stared down at the tabletop.

  ‘Master, we learnt nothing there.’

  ‘Nothing comes of nothing.’ Corbett straightened up. ‘In fact, Ranulf, I learnt a great deal. De Craon is thoroughly enjoying himself. He is no more here to discuss the bastide of Saint-Sardos in Gascony than he is to fly to the sun with St Michael and all his angels. He is here to manage and facilitate some subtle, devious plot, a dish cooked in Paris and served in London. The problem is to discover all the ingredients and what they hope to achieve.’

  Corbett rose to his feet, suppressing a chill of fear. De Craon, he knew, was deep in some truly deceitful and highly dangerous plot.

  ‘The Templars?’

  ‘Do you know, Ranulf, I don’t think de Craon gives a mouldy fig about the Templars. After all, why should he concern himself with a gaggle of frightened, perhaps diseased and probably broken old men whose order has been shattered by both prince and pope over the last four years? What real threat do they pose? True, they can mount a defence of their order, but who cares? What good will it do? Oh no, Ranulf, our dear spider de Craon is spinning a web of deceit. Our first problem is that we do not even know what he intends to catch. Now, let’s turn to something more pleasant and rewarding, Mistress Philippa Henman …’

  By evening, the Merry Mercy had grown even busier. The strains of a song trailed from a taproom, whilst out in the courtyard, perched on a barrel, a storyteller delivered his tale. He claimed to have crossed the Rhine and mingled with the Easterlings, blood-drinking hordes massing for attack in their snow-bound forests. Next to him, a boy with a harp would pluck a few notes as the storyteller paused for effect. Despite Slingsby’s murder, the tavern lived up to both its title and reputation as the people of Queenhithe flocked into its taprooms and gardens once the Vespers bell had clanged its evening message.

  Corbett and Ranulf sat down with Mistress Philippa and her constant companion Agnes to a delicious meal of swan-neck pudding, partridge in nutted wine sauce, and spiced minced chicken, along with platters of fresh bread, bowls of thick butter and specially diced herbs. Two long-neck jugs held the best wine from Bordeaux and the Rhine. Corbett did not feel hungry, but he did not wish to appear rude and was secretly pleased that Chanson and Ranulf had, as usual, ravenous appetites. Mistress Philippa, face glowing and looking fresh and delightful in her dark-blue gown, insisted on serving portions to all whilst keeping up a constant chatter about tavern matters.

  ‘Slingsby,’ Corbett intervened as Mistress Philippa took a sip of wine, ‘Master Slingsby, formerly of the Salamander. Did you have dealings with him?’

  ‘I knew of him by reputation, a fellow taverner.’ She smiled. ‘My late dear husband believed Slingsby sheltered in the twilight world. A genial enough host, though one with strong links to the Fraternity of the Dark, the outlaws and wolfsheads of London.’ She pulled a face, bringing her hand prettily up to her mouth. ‘Of course, such an accusation could be levelled at any taverner.’

  ‘Your late husband?’ Ranulf asked. Corbett could see the Clerk of the Green Wax was both deeply intrigued and attracted by this very singular hostess.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He died of …?’

  ‘As I have told you, about a year ago. Indeed, I must see Parson Layburn to arrange the requiem for the anniversary of his death.’

  ‘Was he a sickly man?’

  ‘No, but he became so, his heart grew weak. Now, as regards Slingsby, Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Did any of your household notice anything suspicious or untoward this morning?’

  ‘No.’ Mistress Philippa shook her head. ‘I have heard no whispers, no gossip.’ She dabbed her mouth prettily with a napkin. ‘I was closeted, God help me, with Monseigneur de Craon over certain delicacies for his diet. He has what he calls a most tender stomach. He cannot eat this, he cannot eat that.’ She imitated de Craon’s flowing hand gestures so accurately that Corbett and Ranulf burst out laughing.

  ‘From the little I have learnt,’ she continued, ‘I suspect Slingsby made to leave after the Angelus bell sounded and my household had gathered in the taproom to break their fast.’

  ‘So that part of the tavern,’ Corbett asked, ‘where the garderobe was?’

  ‘Fairly deserted,’ Philippa declared. ‘I understand Slingsby was seen arriving here this morning. People knew you wished to question him, but I cannot say anything about his murder, who might be responsible or why he was killed.’

  ‘And de Craon?’

  ‘Sir Hugh, de Craon would have nothing to do with Slingsby, surely? All I can say about our French envoy is what I have said before.’ She put her napkin down on the table. ‘The Black Hogge dominates Queenhithe. Everyone knows that de Craon plots mischief all along the riverside. The constant chatter is about how The Black Hogge learns so quickly and pounces so successfully.’

  ‘My father is obsessed with it.’ Agnes, all petulant, spoke up. ‘People blame him, as they do for other things, yet what can be done …?’ Her voice trailed off. Mistress Philippa insisted on refilling their goblets and the conversation turn
ed to more mundane matters.

  After they had finished eating, Corbett thanked his hostess and adjourned to his own chamber. He wrote a letter to Maeve, signed and sealed it, then pored over a piece of scrubbed vellum, trying to marshal his thoughts. Item, he wrote: Sumerscale and Fallowfield, whatever their true names, were Templars. Why were they disaffected with their order? They had definitely been trying to meet with the papal inquisitors investigating the accusations against the Poor Knights. Yet who exactly were these two men? Where did they come from? Item: Gabriel Rougehead. Corbett was convinced somebody had bribed that renegade Templar, wolfshead and outlaw to lay the most serious allegations against the two men known as Sumerscale and Fallowfield. Who was behind Rougehead and why had those two men been destroyed? Item: who had invited Rougehead and his coven to that fatal meal at the Salamander? How had one individual, according to the evidence, managed to kill all four daggermen, severing their heads from their bodies before setting fire to that place of ill repute? Surely an act of revenge following the execution of Sumerscale and Fallowfield, yet there was no evidence of either man having a powerful protector. They had even had to seek the good offices of Prior Cuthbert at Blackfriars to secure employment on board The Candle-Bright. And why did this mysterious vindicator wait almost three months after the executions to take his revenge?

  Item: what had been Slingsby’s role in all of this? Was he part of Rougehead’s conspiracy, hence his tavern being burnt to the ground? Who had murdered Slingsby earlier today? Why now, over three years after his tavern had been destroyed? And why here in the garderobe of a Queenhithe tavern? How had the murder been carried out so skilfully with no sound or sign of any resistance? A fairly powerful daggerman himself, Slingsby had been killed quickly and quietly with one deadly thrust to the heart. Item: the Templars sheltering at St Giles, a defeated, frightened, cowardly group. Who was killing them, why and how? What danger or threat did they pose to de Craon, the power of France, or indeed anyone else? Item: The Black Hogge, a fighting ship under a master mariner that inflicted so much damage on English shipping. Who kept it so carefully appraised of cogs leaving the Thames? How was this done? And surely there must be some connection between that privateer’s depredations and Sumerscale and Fallowfield. Naseby, master of The Candle-Bright, had been specifically reminded just before his last fateful voyage about how he’d executed the two men. Indeed, he had been threatened here in the Merry Mercy, though such messages could have been left by anyone hired for the task.