Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle Read online

  ‘Correct me if I am wrong but as I understand it, four days ago, on Tuesday the eve of the feast of St Leo the Great, Abbot Stephen did not go down to the abbey church to sing Matins?’

  Prior Cuthbert agreed.

  ‘You, Brother Perditus, were the Abbot’s manservant. Was it customary for the Abbot to miss the hours of Divine Office occasionally?’

  ‘He was often busy, sometimes distracted,’ Perditus replied. ‘As the morning went on and Abbot Stephen hadn’t appeared, I became alarmed. I knocked on the door and tried the handle of the latch, but it held fast. I went and informed Prior Cuthbert.’

  Corbett came back and rested his hands on the back of the chair.

  ‘Then what happened?’

  The Prior gestured over his shoulder at the door.

  ‘We forced the lock. When we broke in, Abbot Stephen was sitting in his chair, slightly slumped, with his head to one side. The dagger had been driven in,’ he pointed, ‘just above his stomach. The thrust was deep, almost up to the hilt.’

  ‘It was obvious,’ Brother Aelfric declared, ‘the Abbot was dead, and had been for some time.’

  ‘And the door was definitely locked?’ Corbett asked.

  He went round and studied the door. He could see it had been re-hung on new leather hinges. The carpenter had also repaired the inside latch as well as the bolt and clasps at top and bottom.

  ‘Of course it was,’ Prior Cuthbert snapped, half turning in his chair.

  He resented being questioned like a criminal, as this soft-footed clerk walked round the Abbot’s chamber, and Corbett’s red-haired henchman sat carefully taking down everything said. Now and again Ranulf would lift his head. Prior Cuthbert didn’t like the faint smile, or those heavy-lidded eyes which seemed to be mocking him, as if Ranulf didn’t believe anything he saw or heard.

  ‘Continue!’ Corbett demanded.

  ‘The Abbot’s body was removed.’

  ‘And the chamber itself?’

  ‘There were papers on the desk, the fire had burnt low. Abbot Stephen had drunk some wine but, apart from the pool of blood on the floor . . .’

  ‘There was also this.’ Corbett held up a scrap of parchment.

  ‘Ah yes.’ Prior Cuthbert smiled bleakly.

  ‘Look.’ Corbett turned it round. ‘What does this wheel mean? I have glimpsed it on a number of the abbot’s papers.’

  ‘It was just a favourite sketch of his.’

  Corbett turned the paper round. ‘And these quotations? Both are rather garbled. One from St Paul’s about seeing through a glass darkly and the corpse candles beckoning. The other,’ Corbett narrowed his eyes, ‘is quite famous, often quoted by the spiritual writers: a saying of the Roman writer Seneca. “Anyone can take away a man’s life but no one his death”.’ He gazed round, they all stared blankly back. ‘These were the last words Abbot Stephen wrote. He was apparently fearful of something.’ Corbett paused. ‘What did he mean about “Seeing through a glass, darkly”? Whilst the quotation from Seneca seems to indicate that he was expecting death?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Prior Cuthbert retorted tartly. ‘Sir Hugh, I can’t say what was in our abbot’s mind that night.’

  ‘Can anyone?’ Corbett asked expectantly but no one answered. ‘Ah well!’ Corbett threw the piece of parchment down. ‘We were talking of the Abbot’s blood. Was it fresh or congealed?’

  ‘It was congealed.’ Aelfric spoke up.

  The rest of the brothers agreed.

  ‘So, Abbot Stephen had been dead for some time?’

  ‘Naturally,’ Hamo snapped. ‘As the blood had congealed.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ Ranulf interrupted.

  ‘Hamo.’

  ‘And you are sub-prior?’ Ranulf smiled at his master.

  ‘You know both my name and my office.’

  ‘Yes I do, Brother, just as you know my Lord Corbett’s name and office. You will keep your tone respectful.’

  Corbett, standing behind the brothers, crossed his arms and stared at the floor. He and Ranulf had held so many investigations. He felt like an actor in a play. They assumed their roles without even thinking. Ranulf, who regarded it as his own private privilege to tease and mock his solemn master, was very keen not to allow anyone else to do likewise. Hamo muttered an apology.

  ‘So, there was nothing wrong?’ Corbett came back and sat down, beating his hands on top of the desk. ‘This room has no other door, the windows were locked, no secret passageways exist yet someone came here and thrust a dagger deep into your Abbot’s chest.’ Corbett didn’t wait for the chorus of agreement. ‘The Abbot was sitting slumped, yes?’

  ‘I’ve told you that,’ Prior Cuthbert declared.

  ‘And his hands?’

  ‘They were down by his side.’

  ‘And there was no disturbance? Nothing else appeared wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But the dagger was Abbot Stephen’s?’

  ‘Ah, that’s right,’ Hamo said. ‘Only one thing I noticed. Abbot Stephen had taken his old war belt out of the coffer. It lay on the floor. His dagger sheath was empty.’

  ‘Fetch me this dagger!’ Corbett insisted.

  Prior Cuthbert snapped his fingers at Perditus who left and came back holding a folded cloth. Corbett undid the cloth and took the dagger out. It had been cleaned and polished. The hilt was of steel, the handle specially wrought so as not to slip in the hand, its blade was long, ugly and sharp. Corbett wore something similar: close up, a thrust from such a weapon was deadly. He sat for a while balancing the dagger in his hand before putting it down on the table.

  ‘Had the doors really to be forced?’ he asked.

  ‘I was there!’ the Prior exclaimed. ‘So were Hamo, Aelfric and Brother Dunstan. We went straight to the Abbot’s corpse.’

  ‘No one wandered off?’ Corbett insisted.

  ‘Of course not! We were shocked at what we saw.’

  Corbett stared down at the dagger and hid his unease. Before this meeting had begun, he had carefully inspected this chamber as well as the outside. The door was locked and the window closed. How could anyone get in?

  ‘And none of you?’ he asked, voicing his concern, ‘know how the assassin entered this chamber or how he left?’

  The row of monks shook their heads. Corbett caught a gleam of triumph in Prior Cuthbert’s eyes. You know I am trapped, Corbett reflected, and can make no sense of this. He stared towards the door. It was heavy oak, its outside was reinforced with metal studs and hung on thick leather hinges. It would take hours for someone to prise it free.

  ‘What if someone had come through a window?’ Chanson had queried. ‘And, when the door was forced, the assassin used the ensuing chaos to seal this?’

  Ranulf, who in a former life had been a night-walker in London, declared it virtually impossible to climb the sheer outside wall. And, of course, there was one further problem . . .

  ‘Abbot Stephen was in good health?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Oh yes, a vigorous man in good health.’

  Corbett smiled. ‘So, you know what I am going to say? Your Abbot was also a former knight-banneret, a warrior, a soldier. He was used to the cut and thrust of battle. Such a man would not give up his life lightly, would he?’

  He paused at the sound of a sob. Perditus sat, head down, hands in his lap, shoulders shaking.

  ‘Abbot Stephen would have resisted. There would have been shouts, noise, tumult. Brother Perditus, I am sorry for your grief but are you a light sleeper?’

  ‘I would have heard such a commotion!’

  Corbett shifted in his chair; he glanced at Ranulf who was making notes, using the cipher Corbett had taught him.

  ‘Let’s be honest,’ he said. ‘I do not want to put you on oath but did Abbot Stephen have any enemies in the community?’

  ‘None whatsoever,’ Brother Richard answered swiftly. ‘He was our Father Abbot. He was severe but he could also be gentle and kind, a true scholar, a holy man.’ He gl
ared at his companions.

  ‘Brother Richard speaks the truth,’ Prior Cuthbert declared.

  ‘But come, in a community such as this there are always jealousies, rivalries . . .?’

  ‘Father Abbot was above such rivalries, Sir Hugh.’

  ‘Are you accusing one of us?’ The sub-prior demanded. ‘Sir Hugh, there are other monks in this community?’

  ‘Brother Hamo, I thought you would never ask that.

  You are here for three reasons. First, you are all members of the Concilium. You had direct dealings with the Abbot, whilst the other brothers did not. Secondly, I understand you all have your own bed-chambers? So, if you went missing during the night, it would not be noticed, as it would in the cells and dormitories of the other monks. Finally,’ Corbett continued remorselessly, ‘the Abbot’s quarters are approached by a staircase. The door to the outside courtyard is always locked at night. Brother Perditus, I believe that was your responsibility?’

  The lay brother nodded.

  ‘The only people who have keys to that door are the Abbot’s manservant and members of the Concilium.’

  ‘So, you are accusing one of us?’ the Prior demanded.

  ‘I am not accusing anyone. I am simply answering your sub-prior’s question. So, let’s return to your relationship with the Father Abbot. There was no disagreement?’

  Brother Richard the almoner now became agitated. He was glaring along the table at Prior Cuthbert.

  ‘There was something, wasn’t there, Brother Richard? Please, tell me!’

  ‘There is no need to,’ the Prior declared. ‘We had one disagreement with Father Abbot. We own a field called Bloody Meadow, which has a tumulus or burial mound in the centre. According to local lore, many centuries ago, one of the first Christian Kings, Sigbert, was martyred and buried there. We, the members of the Concilium, believed the meadow would have been an ideal site for an enlarged guesthouse. Abbot Stephen disagreed. He said the meadow and the burial mound were sacred and should not be disturbed.’

  Corbett studied the Prior closely. You speak so quickly, he thought, as if it was a minor matter. Yet I suspect it was very important to you but would it lead to murder? He glanced sideways, to where Archdeacon Adrian Wallasby sat bored, picking at his teeth.

  ‘And you?’ Corbett pointed to him. ‘You had been in the abbey days before the murder took place? You met with Abbot Stephen? He gave you a key to his lodgings?’

  Archdeacon Adrian was no longer bored. He scratched his cheek nervously.

  ‘Abbot Stephen was well known as an exorcist,’ Wallasby replied. ‘He carried out exorcisms both here and in London witnessed by scholars and theologians.’ He paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘As you know, Sir Hugh, the Dominican Order are the papal inquisitors. They are used to root out heresy and magic. Many Dominicans now agree with me: the so-called possessed are either sick in their souls, counterfeit or simply madcaps.’

  ‘And Abbot Stephen challenged that?’

  ‘The challenge was scholarly, an exchange of letters. A few weeks ago Abbot Stephen wrote to me about a man called Taverner who had come to St Martin’s asking for his help. Taverner claims that he is possessed by the demon spirit of Geoffrey Mandeville.’

  Corbett started in surprise.

  ‘The robber baron who plagued this area?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘And how does Taverner express this?’ Ranulf asked curiously.

  ‘I have questioned him,’ Prior Cuthbert replied. ‘He is a man of no learning but he can lapse into Norman French or Latin. He also seems to know a great deal about Mandeville’s life. He is, in fact, two people in one.’

  ‘This man I must meet,’ Corbett declared. ‘Is he safe?’

  ‘He’s kept in a chamber near the infirmary,’ Prior Cuthbert declared. ‘He is given good lodgings, food and drink. Abbot Stephen was particularly interested in him.’

  ‘And what do you think?’ Corbett asked.

  The Prior pulled a face. ‘Sir Hugh, I am a Benedictine monk, I have my duties and tasks.’

  ‘So, you don’t see the devil peeping round corners or hiding in the shadows?’

  ‘Neither did Father Abbot.’ Perditus had lost his nervousness. He was hard-faced and defiant. ‘Father Abbot didn’t see demons and imps lurking in trees or hiding in pools. He truly believed that demons were lords of the air and were given the authority to enter certain people.’

  ‘Abbot Stephen doesn’t need your defence,’ Cuthbert snapped. ‘The gospels talk of demons. Didn’t the Gadarene claim to have a legion of devils possessing him?’

  Corbett pointed at the Archdeacon.

  ‘And what were your thoughts on Taverner?’

  ‘A remarkable case.’ The Archdeacon rubbed his hands together. ‘Sir Hugh, in London I have met counterfeit men, cunning deceivers, but I must admit Taverner half convinced me.’

  ‘Half convinced?’

  ‘I don’t deny the existence of Satan and his legions,’ the Archdeacon simpered. ‘It’s just that I don’t accept they have power to interfere in our lives. After all, human will can perpetrate enough wickedness without those our learned lay brother calls lords of the air. My discussions with Abbot Stephen were over the writings of the Fathers such as Ambrose and Augustine. Yet it is rather strange,’ he mused.

  ‘What?’ Corbett demanded.

  ‘The sorcerers and necromancers, those who study the Kabbala, believe in powerful spells and incantations. Sir Hugh, have you heard about the College of the Invisibles?’

  Corbett shook his head.

  ‘It’s a belief that a sorcerer, by certain spells, can make himself invisible for a matter of hours and pass through matter such as wood and stone.’

  Corbett caught his meaning.

  ‘You are referring to the murder of Abbot Stephen?’

  ‘I have listened to you carefully, Sir Hugh. How else, except through the black arts, could the Abbot be stabbed to death in his own chamber? The door at the foot of the stairs was unlocked, the lay brother Perditus heard no one come up. The Abbot’s windows and doors were firmly closed. There are no secret passageways. There appears to have been no struggle yet our Abbot was found murdered. I wonder—’

  Corbett interrupted. ‘Before we move to matters celestial, to quote you, Archdeacon Adrian, the human will can perpetrate evil enough.’

  ‘But it’s still a mystery,’ the Archdeacon insisted.

  Corbett beat his fingers on the table.

  ‘For the moment it is. Tell me, Prior Cuthbert, did anything extraordinary happen, in or around the abbey, in the days preceding Abbot Stephen’s death?’

  ‘Our abbey is a place of calm and harmony, Sir Hugh. Beyond the walls, however, you’ve seen the countryside; marshes, swamps, fields, thick copses of woods. Outlaws such as Scaribrick prowl there.’

  ‘But they are no threat to the abbey?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘And Lady Margaret Harcourt?’

  ‘The dislike between her and the Abbot was well known. They never met or corresponded.’

  ‘Falcon Brook,’ Dunstan the treasurer intervened. He saw Corbett’s look of surprise. ‘Falcon Brook,’ he explained, ‘is a stream which runs at the foot of Bloody Meadow. Lady Margaret and our Father Abbot disputed its true ownership.’

  ‘But I managed the dispute,’ Prior Cuthbert intervened. ‘That’s how Father Abbot wanted it.’

  Corbett stared across at a painting on the wall, a piece of canvas stretched across a block of wood. Its colours were brilliantly vivid, the brushwork vigorous. He narrowed his eyes. At first the figures it contained meant nothing: he glimpsed a tower in the background all a-fire. A young man in armour was leading an older one whose eyes were bandaged. Corbett at last recognised the scene: Aeneas leading his father from Troy. He gazed round the room. Other paintings had similar motifs. He recognised the story of Romulus and Remus, Caesar and other themes from the history and legends of ancient Rome. Prior Cuthbert had followed
his gaze.

  ‘An idiosyncrasy of Father Abbot,’ he explained. ‘He liked all things Roman. I understand that, both as a knight-banneret and as a monk, he often served on embassies to the Holy Father in Rome. He was much taken by the ruins there and collected ancient histories.’

  ‘Abbot Stephen was, in all things, a lover of ancient Rome.’ Brother Francis the librarian spoke up. ‘He collected books and manuscripts about it.’

  ‘Why?’ Corbett queried.

  ‘I asked him that once myself,’ the librarian replied. ‘Abbot Stephen answered that he admired the gravitas of ancient Rome, its honour, its love of order and discipline. We even have a copy of the “Acts of Pilate”. He was a great scholar,’ the librarian added wistfully. ‘He lived a good life and deserved a better death.’

  Corbett glanced quickly at Ranulf who was busily writing. He found it difficult to hide his disappointment and frustration. Here was an Abbot foully murdered but, apart from the issue of Bloody Meadow, Corbett could sense no antipathy or hatred towards the dead man, certainly not enough to cause murder. And just how had it been perpetrated? He closed his eyes and suddenly felt the weariness of his rushed journey here. The King had been so insistent that they leave immediately. Corbett wished he could lie on his bed and pull the coverlets over his head to sleep and dream.

  ‘Sir Hugh?’

  He opened his eyes quickly.

  ‘Sir Hugh.’ Prior Cuthbert smiled placatingly. ‘If there are no other questions? The daily business of the abbey demands our attention and we do have the requiem Mass?’

  Corbett apologised and agreed. The Concilium left, followed by Archdeacon Adrian and Perditus. Corbett waited until Chanson had closed the door behind them. Ranulf threw his quill down on the desk and buried his face in his hands.

  ‘Nothing, Master, nothing at all! Here we have an abbot, a scholar, a theologian with an interest in antiquities, well loved and respected by his community.’

  ‘But is that only the surface?’ Corbett asked. ‘Or is there something else?’

  He banged the desk in frustration. He was about to continue when there was a knock on the door. Archdeacon Adrian stepped into the chamber.