Hugh Corbett 17 - The Mysterium Read online

  ‘Evesham reasoned that if Adam was the Mysterium’s accomplice, he would certainly not pay until he returned to London and viewed his wife’s corpse in the coroner’s court, so he decided to take a gamble.When Chauntoys arrived back from Southampton, Evesham kept him under very close scrutiny. He and his servant Ignacio Engleat asked for a comitatus of bailiffs to be ready at their beck and call, then they dogged Chauntoys’ footsteps at every twist and turn, following the soi-disant grieving widower as he journeyed around London. Four days after his return, Chauntoys broke from his usual horarium, the daily routine he’d set himself. Cloaked and cowled, he crossed London Bridge to Southwark, but not before visiting a goldsmith in Cheapside. Evesham believed the hunt was now on. Most of the bailiffs went secretly across the river by barge; Evesham, Engleat and the rest followed Chauntoys to a spacious tavern, the Liber Albus, near the Priory of St Mary Overy. Evesham had the tavern ringed and went in. Chauntoys sat at a small closet table. Someone else was also there: Boniface Ippegrave. You remember him, Corbett?’

  ‘A clerk in the Office of the Privy Seal. A lawyer, a bachelor of Gascon descent. Rumour had it that he was the Mysterium, but he was never brought to trial. He disappeared – yes?’

  ‘The same,’ Edward agreed. ‘Anyway, on that fateful day, Evesham decided to act. The rest of the bailiffs entered the tavern and arrested both men. Now, no business had taken place, but Chauntoys could not explain why he was carrying two hundred pounds in pure gold, nor could he explain the scrap of parchment with the date, time and place along with a message telling him to leave the “mystery” on the window ledge of the closet table he’d chosen. For his part Ippegrave, a chancery clerk, could not account for why he should appear at such a tavern armed with sword and dagger. He protested his innocence, declaring that the only reason he’d come to the Liber Albus was because Chauntoys had sent him a message demanding to see him there an hour after the Angelus, for a most urgent matter affecting the King and to the great profit of Ippegrave himself. Chauntoys denied sending any such message. He claimed it wasn’t in his hand, though to be true, London does have a thousand scribes for hire.’

  ‘So why was Chauntoys there?’

  ‘He claimed he’d come to meet a Flemish merchant over some negotiations for wool. Both he and Ippegrave were arrested and intended for Newgate. However, once they reached the city, Ippegrave, still protesting his innocence, slipped his guard and fled. The hue and cry were raised and he was pursued, but he raced through the streets and alleyways to take sanctuary in St Botulph’s Cripplegate.’

  ‘The same church . . .?’ Ranulf queried.

  ‘The same church you had to assault earlier today.’ The King shrugged. ‘Today, yesterday,’ he sighed, ‘all days seem to merge into one, but that’s just the passing of the years.’

  ‘Your memory,’ Staunton flattered, ‘is as sharp as ever.’

  ‘I wish to God it was,’ Edward snapped. ‘Yet when I visited the chancery and read the records in the archives of the Secret Seal, everything did come back as if it happened yesterday.’ He pulled himself up, leaning his elbows on the table.

  ‘You said you’d begin with the conclusion,’ Corbett queried. ‘How did Evesham discover the Mysterium’s method?’

  ‘Evesham was cunning,’ Edward replied ‘Chauntoys was later offered a pardon, and in return for this and a heavy fine, he confessed everything. He did not know the Mysterium, but he had hired the assassin to kill his wife. From him,’ Edward rapped the table, ‘and only from him, did Evesham learn the Mysterium’s subtle craft of murder: the messages, the great hoarding at St Paul’s and the method of payment.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘Nothing. Chauntoys was released under heavy bail, but that came much later. At the time, Ippegrave’s caskets in his lodgings at Cripplegate and the chancery were searched by a trusted clerk. More gold than he should have had was found, as well as scraps of manuscript, tags and bits of parchment bearing the names of former victims, a crude map showing where they had been found and references to the great hoarding board at St Paul’s.’ The King paused to drink. ‘Ippegrave, sheltering in St Botulph’s, was confronted with all this. He could not, or would not, explain the gold or the parchment scraps. He still protested his innocence. Evesham was hot against him. He wanted Ippegrave to be brought to trial. Ambitious and arrogant, he was determined that such a trial would be a public manifestation of his genius and skill.’

  ‘And you, your grace?’ Corbett voice was tinged with amusement. Edward hated public show unless it was to illustrate his own glory and magnificence.

  ‘True, true,’ the King agreed, ‘I was not too eager. I did not wish the scandal whilst I could use the information for my own secret purposes. Believe me, Corbett, I did. Chauntoys babbled like a bairn. Many powerful lords in London were told what I had uncovered. I bluffed, I embroidered my discoveries. These city princes were advised to show their gratitude for the Crown’s forbearance and mercy in many ways. Evesham had achieved a great victory. The capture of the Mysterium by a royal clerk only enhanced the power and influence of the Crown. But,’ Edward smiled, ‘that came much later, after Ippegrave’s disappearance. At the time, Evesham was determined that St Botulph’s be closely guarded. City bailiffs and men-at-arms from the Tower camped outside. Evesham and Engleat tried to persuade Ippegrave to make a full confession. So did you.’ The King turned abruptly to Staunton and Blandeford. ‘Were you not friends with Ippegrave?’

  ‘Your grace,’ Staunton blustered, ‘we never tried to hide that. We were as surprised as any by his capture, as were you, your grace, and Chancellor Burnell. Remember, sire, Evesham was intent on garnering all the glory. He would not even allow us into the church.’

  ‘True.’ The King darted a warning look at Corbett. ‘And that’s a further problem.’ He wiped his fingers on a napkin. ‘Boniface’s possessions were searched and he was confronted with the evidence but could provide no satisfactory explanation. If he’d gone on trial, he would certainly have been found guilty.’

  ‘But he disappeared?’ Corbett declared.

  ‘Yes, and that lies at the heart of this mystery,’ Edward replied. ‘St Botulph’s was closely guarded, every door, portal and window, but Boniface Ippegrave vanished from the face of the earth. London was scoured. Sheriffs, port-reeves and bailiffs alerted.’

  ‘And Evesham?’

  ‘He was beside himself with rage,’ the King murmured. ‘He was furious. He ordered his guards to search that church, every nook and cranny, every crevice, every aperture; nothing was left undisturbed. St Botulph’s has no crypt. Evesham went up the tower, even on to the roof, yet from that day to this, nothing.’ Edward paused and drank noisily from his goblet.

  ‘Evesham was so distraught,’ he continued, ‘I thought he would fall ill, some malignancy of the humours. Time passed, but not a trace of Ippegrave was found. I ordered the matter be let rest. As for Evesham, I wanted to reward him. The Mysterium had been revealed and the murders stopped. Now, Evesham was a widower; he had one son, John, who later became Parson of St Botulph’s.’ The King shrugged. ‘You know how it is. Many royal clerks acquire the right to appoint to a benefice. John Evesham wanted to become a priest, so naturally Lord Walter used his influence to secure the parish for him. However, twenty years ago, John was still a child and his father an eligible bachelor. Shortly after the Mysterium had been unmasked, Evesham married again, a rich heiress, a ward of the Crown, Clarice Pauntefroys, the daughter of a powerful merchant.’ Edward was now talking as if to himself. ‘My debt to Evesham was great, whilst he proved to be most skilled. He secured promotion, one chancery post after another. An expert in the Pleas of the Crown and the rights of the Exchequer, he became a justice both in Westminster and out in the shires. Two years ago he was appointed Chief Justice, but the canker was already there.’ Edward gestured at Corbett. ‘As you know, Sir Hugh, the Court of King’s Bench receives many indictments and denunciations. About two months ago we began to receive
anonymous information from the so-called Land of Cockaigne maintaining that our Chief Justice was corrupt, hand in glove with gang leaders such as Waldene and the self-styled Hubert the Monk. Now, such denunciations are commonplace; what was most singular about these was not the reference to the topsy-turvy world of Cockaigne, a scholarly citation, but how detailed the accusations were.’

  ‘About what?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Oh, not so much about isolated incidents.’ Staunton, at Edward’s request, took up the story. ‘The writer from the Land of Cockaigne claimed that Evesham was too cunning a fox to inculpate himself in writing, but mentioned his secret meetings with the gang leaders Waldene and Hubert the Monk. Apparently such meetings were allegedly held in the dead of night in Lord Walter’s mansion in Clothier Lane, a wealthy quarter of Cripplegate ward.’

  ‘And the purpose of these meetings?’

  ‘Lord Walter would receive a certain portion of all stolen goods. In return for this, when an indictment was presented against any of the gangs who did business with our Chief Justice, that indictment, for some obscure reason, would be rejected.’

  ‘As simple as that?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Hugh, as simple as that, but reflect.’ Staunton relished the opportunity to lecture this solemn-faced clerk. ‘An indictment can be rejected for many reasons before being forwarded to a jury: a mistake in law or in fact and that is the end of the matter. Lord Walter was, if anything, most skilled in the law and the beauty of its corruption, if you can call it that.’ He glanced hastily at the King. ‘The failed indictment has a brief reason for its rejection appended to it and that’s all.We examined the schedule of indictments and found list after list of rejections against notorious rifflers, all buried on points of law. Nothing could be done about them, but the writer from the Land of Cockaigne kept referring to other matters, especially those sinister, secret meetings late at night in Evesham’s mansion. A watch was kept. Four weeks ago, Blandeford and I observed two men slip through the dark and in by a postern gate. We surrounded the mansion, then forced an entrance. Lord Walter was found in his chancery chamber with Giles Waldene and Hubert the Monk. Both rifflers acted the innocent, but in Lord Walter’s personal coffer we found freshly minted coins stolen from the Royal Mint in the Tower. You may remember the robbery?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘As you know, Sir Hugh,’ the King added bitterly, ‘I hate these covens of rifflers. They disturb the peace, carry out numerous robberies, mock my authority and, above all, are used by the Great Ones of London to settle scores with each other.’

  Corbett nodded sympathetically. Indeed he knew only too well. The King nursed a deep resentment, even hatred, for the merchant princes of London, with their vast profits from the wool trade. They in turn fiercely resented royal interference in what they saw as their city, they wanted to enjoy the same status and power as the self-governing communes of Florence and Venice to which they sold their precious wool.

  ‘The evidence against Evesham was compelling, though at the time he refused to comment,’ Staunton continued. ‘Why was he entertaining such wolfsheads in his own chamber at such an ungodly hour? Why did he have freshly minted gold coins in his coffer filched in a recent robbery? We believe Waldene and the Monk were responsible for that, though of course we had no proof that they had brought the gold there. Moreover,’ he lifted a finger, ‘that pair of rifflers, also trapped in the mire, later pleaded that if they were indicted, Evesham must also account—’

  ‘They recognised,’ Corbett intervened, ‘that his grace, fearful of hideous scandal, might be prepared to gloss over the matter regarding Evesham but not as regards to them. I’m sure they would have implicated the Chief Justice.’

  ‘Whatever those two wolfsheads decided,’ the King growled, ‘Evesham was finished. He’d grown arrogant as Lucifer. I confronted him in the Jerusalem Chamber at Westminster and threatened to put him on trial and seize all his chattels, including his beloved manor of Ingachin on the Welsh March. Evesham, caught red-handed, acted like a broken man. He offered to resign all his posts and retire as a recluse to the Abbey of Syon on Thames. I agreed.’

  ‘Why here?’ asked Corbett. ‘Why not some other monastery?’

  ‘Two reasons, perhaps.’ The King gestured with his cup towards the door. ‘Both acts of reparation. Evesham was not a prisoner, but rather a forced house guest. He was under strict instruction to assume the garb of a lay brother and never leave Syon’s precincts. As I said, he may have been thinking of reparation. The lay brother in charge of the corpse chapel beneath which Evesham had his cell, you met him briefly, Brother Cuthbert. Years ago he was Cuthbert Tunstall, Parson of St Botulph’s Cripplegate when Boniface Ippegrave took sanctuary there. After Ippegrave disappeared, Evesham, in his arrogance, even though he himself held the keys of the church, blamed Parson Tunstall. He complained bitterly to the Bishop of London; more importantly, he had Tunstall confined to his house to fast on bread and water, and berated him day and night until his anger was spent. When he had finished, Tunstall was a broken man. He resigned his benefice and asked to be accepted here as a simple lay brother. According to Father Abbot, when Evesham arrived at Syon, he knelt at Tunstall’s feet and asked for forgiveness. Whether it was given or not, I don’t know. Abbot Serlo claimed Tunstall did not seem to care, whilst Evesham kept to himself, ate his meals and studied manuscripts from the abbey library.’

  ‘And the second reason?’

  ‘Ah.’ Again the King pointed to the door. ‘In the grounds stands an anchorite cell built near the curtain wall. Adelicia lives there, as she has for the last twenty years.’

  ‘Adelicia?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘Adelicia Ippegrave, beloved sister of Boniface, former chancery clerk. She lived with her brother in Cripplegate and was a parishioner of St Botulph’s, a close friend I understand of Parson Tunstall. When her brother disappeared and Tunstall retired a broken man, Adelicia sold all her possessions and both bishop and abbot gave her permission to retire here as an ancilla Domini – handmaid of the Lord – to live the life of an anchoress.’

  ‘How close were Cuthbert and Adelicia?’ Ranulf asked. ‘I mean,’ he shrugged, ‘some priests have their lemans, their mistresses?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The King seemed distracted. ‘Adelicia publicly condemned what had happened. She constantly protested her brother’s innocence and declared she would spend her life in prayer and fasting so that God would eventually make true judgement, and so it was, until yesterday.’ Edward pushed himself away from the table, rose and stretched, then walked to the windows, pulled back the shutters and stared into the night. ‘Yesterday was harvest time, as if the past was not buried deep enough. In Newgate, Hubert the Monk’s followers believed that those of Giles Waldene would turn King’s Approvers in return for a general pardon. A riot ensued. Later on that day, Ignacio Engleat, Evesham’s clerk, was drinking and whoring at the Comfort of Bathsheba near Queenshithe – you’ve seen what happened to him. On that very evening, the same killer perhaps, crept down the steps to the cellar beneath the corpse chapel here at Syon. Somehow he eluded both Brother Cuthbert and his guard dog, Ogadon, persuaded Evesham to lift the bar on his door, entered and cut our former justice’s throat. On leaving, the assassin just as mysteriously managed to lower the inside bar behind him. A true mystery, which is why,’ the king turned and pointed at Corbett, ‘I have summoned you here: to resolve this, to discover the truth . . .’

  3

  Polinator: a doggerel Latin term for undertaker

  ‘If God had not been our protector, when the enemy rose against us, then they would have swallowed us alive . . .’

  Corbett, standing in the shadowy choir stalls of Syon Abbey, joined lustily in the melodious plainchant of the good brothers of St Benedict as they sang the morning office of lauds. Ranulf, standing beside him, suppressed a smile. Corbett liked nothing better than to sing. Ranulf, bleary-eyed, quietly thanked the Lord that his master had slept through the office of matins.
He glanced up. It was still early, and the light streaming through the brilliantly painted glass window above the choir remained a dull grey. The abbey church was cold, despite the fiery braziers wheeled in under the lofty rood screen. Ranulf stared around at the pinched white faces peering out of cowls. From the tops of pillars, carved woodmen, gargoyles, babewyns, angels, saints and demons smiled and glowered. Between the pillars flashes of colour shimmered from the wall frescoes, most of them scenes from the Gospels or the life of St Benedict at Subiaco and Monte Cassino.

  ‘Don’t hold the sins of our fathers against us.’ The powerful chant of scores of male voices thundered like surf into the great open space created by pillars and arches, a resounding plea for God’s help.

  Ranulf blinked and found the place in the psalter as the choir swept to its glorious doxology: ‘Glory be to the Father and to the Son . . .’

  Corbett lowered the stall and sat down as the reader approached the lectern and, in a clear voice, proclaimed the reading from the Book of Daniel. A phrase caught his attention – ‘Do not treat us because of the treasons we have committed against you’ – and he reflected on the tangle of treasons facing him. After the meeting the night before, the King had taken him aside, finger jabbing, insisting that Corbett resolve matters and remember three important issues. First, Staunton and Blandeford had been friends of Boniface. Second, both had been approached to investigate any wrongdoing by Evesham. Third, now that the Chief Justice was dead, the case against Waldene and Hubert the Monk had collapsed, as the Crown’s principal witness could never be called.

  ‘But the riot at Newgate?’ Corbett was sure the King was trying to ignore this.

  Edward grimaced. ‘According to what I’ve learnt, Waldene and Hubert were held fast in their respective pits. Like Pilate they have washed their hands of any wrongdoing. I’ve given orders for their immediate release.’