Hugh Corbett 10 - The Devil's Hunt Read online

  ‘No,’ Tripham retorted. ‘They are not.’

  ‘Or walk in the garden?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Therefore Ascham’s killer must have been in the Hall itself, either one of you or one of the servants. So, I ask you again, did Ascham ever say anything about the Bellman or his possible identity?’

  ‘He did to me,’ Langton declared, rather embarrassed by his own outspokenness. ‘I asked who he thought the Bellman could be.’ He continued in a rush, ‘But Ascham only replied with that quotation from St Paul: “We see through a glass darkly”.’

  ‘He said as much to me,’ Churchley spoke up. ‘Once I met him in the buttery. He looked worried, so I asked him what was the matter? He replied that appearances were deceptive: there was something not right at Sparrow Hall. I asked him what he meant but he refused to answer.’

  ‘Why did your brother,’ Corbett asked, changing tack abruptly, ‘call his foundation Sparrow Hall?’

  ‘It was my brother’s favourite quotation from the Gospels,’ Lady Mathilda explained. ‘Christ’s words about the Father knowing even when a sparrow fell to the earth, yet that each of us was worth more than many sparrows.’

  ‘He was also a student of the Venerable Bede,’ Appleston explained. ‘Particularly his Ecclesiastical History of the English People. Henry loved Bede’s story about the thane who compared a man’s life to a sparrow which flies into a hall, where there’s light and warmth, before continuing his flight out into the cold darkness.’ Appleston smiled. ‘I only met Sir Henry a few months before he died: he often took comfort from that story.’

  ‘Did Ascham spend a great deal of time in the library in the days before his death?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘Yes, yes he did,’ Tripham replied. ‘But what book he was looking for or reading none of us knew.’

  ‘I’d like to go down there,’ Corbett declared. ‘Is that possible?’

  Tripham agreed and servants were sent to light candles. When they returned, the Vice-Regent ordered them to bring wine to the library. He rose, with Corbett and the rest following him out into the passageway. The library was across the garden, at the far side of the Hall. It was a long, spacious room with wooden wainscoting, and gold and silver stars delicately painted on the white plaster above. Shelves, at right angles to the wall, were ranged on either side, with tables and stools between and a long writing table down the centre. The air was sweet and smelt of pure beeswax, parchment and leather. Corbett sniffed appreciatively and exclaimed in surprise at how many books, manuscripts and folios the library held.

  ‘Oh, we have most of the great works here,’ Lady Mathilda declared proudly. ‘My brother, God rest him, was a bibliophile: his books, as well as his private papers, are kept here. He also bought extensively both at home and abroad.’

  Corbett was about to question the source of such wealth but remembered just in time: Sir Henry Braose, like many who had supported the King against de Montfort, had received lavish rewards from the Crown, including the revenues and lands of de Montfort’s adherents. No wonder the Braoses had been cursed here in Oxford, where there had been much support for the dead earl.

  The rest of the Masters, rather unsteady on their feet, leaned against the tables or sat on stools as Corbett walked the full length of the library. He admired its books, shelves and coffers, its two ornately carved lecterns, as well as the fresco on the far wall, which depicted a scene from the Apocalypse where the Angel opened the Great Book for St John to read. Corbett came back into the centre of the room and studied the faint, dark stains on the floor.

  ‘This is where Ascham was found?’

  ‘No, as soon as we opened the door, we could see him lying just before the table there.’

  ‘And where was the parchment?’

  Tripham pointed to a place near the table. ‘It was lying there as if Ascham had pushed it away from him.’

  ‘We tried to clean the blood away,’ Appleston explained. ‘Passerel was to hire special polishers.’

  Corbett studied the blood stains in the centre of the room and beside the table.

  ‘So,’ Corbett said, ‘it looks as if Ascham crawled along the floor to get to something at the table?’

  ‘There were also blood stains on the table,’ Tripham explained. ‘As if Ascham had dragged himself up. Why, Sir Hugh?’

  Corbett walked on down the library, past the table to the shuttered window at the far end.

  ‘And this was locked and barred?’

  ‘Yes,’ Churchley agreed. ‘I remember it was.’

  ‘And the window behind it was locked?’

  ‘I think so,’ Tripham replied. ‘Why, Sir Hugh?’

  Corbett lifted the bar across the shutters. It swung down easily and he noticed how well oiled it was. He pulled back the shutters; the lattice window behind was large. Corbett lifted the catch, opened it and stared out on to the moon-washed garden: the air was thick with the sweet smell of roses. He peered around: the window was low, anyone who stood in the garden bed beneath could look in and be hidden by the hedgerow which stood about a yard away. Corbett closed the window: he brought the shutters back with a bang, and the bar immediately fell into place.

  ‘Should the window have been closed and the shutters barred?’ he asked. ‘I mean, it was a summer’s evening. Wouldn’t Ascham need both light and air?’

  ‘I was in the garden,’ Churchley spoke up. ‘Early in the afternoon. The window was shuttered then. I don’t think,’ he added, ‘that Ascham wanted anyone to see what he was doing.’

  ‘Of course,’ Corbett murmured. ‘That is why the door was bolted and locked.’ He glanced at Tripham. ‘There was no mistaking that, was there?’

  ‘No,’ Tripham replied. ‘You can inspect it yourself. We had to fashion new bolts and a lock as well as re-hang the leather hinges.’

  Corbett walked back to the door. Tripham had told him the truth: the bolts, hinges and lock were all new. He returned to the blood stains, studied them carefully and edged his way along the table back to the window. Now and again, he could see faint flecks.

  ‘What are you looking for, Sir Hugh?’

  ‘I am trying to imagine how Ascham died. How he could be struck by a quarrel when both the door and the windows of the library were sealed and where he stood when it happened.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, there are two logical conclusions. First, someone was in the library with him who managed to conceal himself here and leave afterwards.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Tripham declared. ‘The chamber was searched. Not even a mouse could get in or out.’

  ‘Well then—’ Corbett was about to continue but paused as a servant entered carrying a tray of wine cups. These were distributed, and Corbett took a sip from his. Once the servants had left, Corbett pointed to the window.

  ‘In which case, if only one conclusion remains, that, logically, must be the correct one.’

  ‘But the window was closed,’ Lady Mathilda spoke up. ‘Ascham was secretive. He’d locked and bolted the door. He wouldn’t leave the window open!’

  ‘Ascham was searching for something,’ Corbett replied, ‘that would unmask the Bellman. He came in and locked and bolted both door and window. However,’ Corbett continued, ‘what he didn’t know was that his murderer was hunting him. Late that summer afternoon-’ Corbett pointed to the table ‘-Ascham was probably seated here studying some manuscript or book, a matter I’ll return to. He hears a rap on the window. Deep in his studies, Ascham probably thinks it’s someone trying to get his attention. He pulls back the shutters and opens the window. The person he has been hunting is standing there, a small arbalest in his hand. The quarrel is loosed. Ascham staggers back, naturally he wanted to reach the door. He collapses and the assassin throws in his contemptuous note.’

  ‘But who closed the window and shutters?’ Tripham exclaimed. ‘And how could the assassin have counted on not being seen?’

  ‘Outside that window,’ Corbett replied, ‘there’s a sm
all garden bed, screened off from the rest of the garden by a hedgerow?’

  ‘Of course,’ Norreys spoke up excitedly from where he sat on a stool leaning against the shelves. ‘The assassin would simply have to come out into the garden, walk at a crouch between the wall and bushes, then tap on the window.’

  ‘But how were the window shutters closed afterwards?’ Tripham insisted.

  ‘Ascham himself might have done that,’ Corbett replied. ‘To protect himself further from the assassin. However, I have examined the shutter and noted that the bar has been freshly oiled. What the assassin probably did was pull the shutters closed from the outside, with such force the bar simply slid back into place. Consequently, when you came into the library, you’d see the bar down and conclude the window behind also had its catch in place.’

  Churchley nodded; his eyes narrowed as he studied Corbett afresh. ‘No one ever thought of examining that!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘I also suspect,’ Corbett added, ‘that the assassin later locked the window; just in case anyone did come back to search - it would be a small matter.’

  ‘So, you are implying,’ Churchley asked, ‘that the assassin deliberately greased the shutter bar?’

  ‘Of course. So that, when he pulled it from outside, the bar would drop down again. Watch.’

  Corbett went and opened the shutters, tilting the bar back. He then closed one side and slammed the other: as soon as the shutters met, the raised bar fell into place.

  ‘As pure as logic,’ Appleston breathed.

  ‘Did any of you think of looking for what Ascham was studying?’ Corbett asked.

  ‘I did,’ Lady Mathilda stepped forward, resting on her cane. ‘I did, master clerk. There was a book, a folio or manuscript on the table but, when I returned the following morning, it was gone.’ She gestured round the library. ‘And God knows where or what it could have been.’

  Corbett studied each of the Masters: which one of them was the royal spy? Surely, a man of learning and sharp intelligence would have noticed something amiss?

  ‘How do you know?’ Churchley paused and looked at Langton who abruptly belched and patted his stomach. ‘How do you know,’ he continued, ‘that Ascham went to the window?’

  ‘Because there are faint flecks of blood on the floor.’ Corbett replied. ‘Only small drops from when the crossbow bolt took him in the chest. Ascham would turn and hurry away from the window, but then he’d collapse. As he did so, Ascham must have noticed the small scroll the assassin had tossed through the window before closing it. He dragged himself to the table, grasped the piece of manuscript and began to write out his dying message which,’ Corbett sighed, ‘does seem to point the finger of accusation at poor Passerel.’

  ‘And you have no explanation of that, have you?’ Tripham accused.

  ‘No, I—’

  Corbett’s reply was broken off as Langton rose to his feet, his face taut and pale. He dropped the cup, clutching his stomach. He staggered towards Corbett, his mouth opening and shutting.

  ‘Oh, sweet Jesu!’ he gasped. ‘Oh, Christ have mercy!’

  He crashed into the table and then fell to his knees, both hands still clutching his belly. Corbett hurried towards him. Langton convulsed on the floor, his face purple as he gasped for air. Corbett tried to turn him over. All around was confusion, the others pushing and shoving. Langton gave one final convulsion, a deep shudder. He sighed, and his head fell sideways, eyes open, a dribble of spittle running out of the corner of his mouth. Corbett placed the man’s head gently on the floor. He tried to close the eyes but this was impossible. He stared up at the ring of faces, searching vainly for any clue or glimpse of satisfaction on the part of the unknown assassin. Churchley elbowed his way through. He knelt down beside the corpse, looking for the blood beat in Langton’s neck and wrist.

  ‘Lord have mercy!’ he whispered. ‘He’s dead! Langton is dead!’

  The rest drew away. Corbett saw Lady Mathilda raise her cup to her lips.

  ‘Don’t drink!’ he shouted. ‘All of you, put your cups down!’ He tapped Churchley on the shoulder. ‘Was Langton an ill man?’

  ‘He suffered from stomach trouble,’ the fellow replied. ‘But nothing serious. I gave him some medicine. I don’t know if he—’

  Corbett undid the pouch on the dead man’s belt. He drew out a square piece of parchment and handed this to Churchley. He searched again but, apart from some coins and a broken quill, found nothing.

  ‘This is yours.’ Churchley handed the parchment back. ‘It bears your name.’

  Corbett took the piece of vellum, a neat square about four inches long, the corners expertly gathered and sealed with a blob of red wax. It bore his name, ‘Sir Hugh Corbett’, but he recognised the same clerkly hand that was behind the Bellman’s proclamations. He stood up, leaving the rest to gather round Langton’s corpse. Corbett broke the seal. The words written inside seemed to leap up in their cry of defiance.

  ‘The Bellman greets Corbett the King’s crow: the royal lap dog. The Bellman asks what the crow does in Oxford? The crow should be careful where he pecks and where he flies. This follower of carrion, this hunter of bloody morsels has been warned. Do not tarry long in the fields of Oxford or your beak may be bent, your claws broken, your wings pinioned, to be despatched back dead to your royal master. Signed ‘the Bellman’.

  Corbett hid his fear and passed the proclamation around. Ranulf swore. Maltote, who could barely read, asked what it was? Lady Mathilda’s fingers went to her lips, and the rest of the Masters seemed to sober up.

  ‘This is treason,’ Ranulf hissed. ‘This is treason against the King’s clerk and against the Crown itself!’

  ‘It’s murder,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Horrible murder. Bring the cups here, all of you!’

  They scurried about until all the cups were on the table in front of him: it was difficult to tell which had been Langton’s. Corbett and Ranulf, assisted by Churchley, sniffed tentatively at each. All bore the juicy fragrance of sweet wine except one: Corbett held it up to his nose and caught a sharp, acrid smell.

  ‘What is it?’ He passed the cup to Churchley who sniffed it, swilling it around.

  ‘White arsenic,’ he finally declared. ‘Only arsenic has that tang, particularly white arsenic: it is deadly in its effect.’

  ‘Wouldn’t Langton have tasted it?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Churchley replied. ‘But, there again, if his palate was sweetened by what we have eaten and drunk, he might dismiss it.’

  ‘But how did it get there?’ Barnett bellowed. ‘Master Alfred.’ He grasped Tripham’s arm. ‘Are we to be poisoned in our beds?’

  Lady Mathilda snapped her fingers and gestured to Master Moth who, throughout it all, had stood silently near the door. She made those strange, bird-like gestures and Moth hurried off. He returned accompanied by two sleepy-eyed servitors who had arranged the library and brought the wine down. Somehow the news of Langton’s death had already begun to spread and the servitors crept like mice into the library. Tripham interrogated them but their mumbled replies shed no light on what had happened.

  ‘Master Tripham,’ one of them wailed, ‘we filled the wine and put the goblets on a tray.’

  Corbett dismissed them. ‘Did any of you see someone playing with the cups, moving them about?’ he asked the rest.

  ‘No,’ Barnett replied on behalf of them all. ‘I was next to Langton all the time.’ His voice faltered as he realised the implications of what he had said. ‘I did nothing!’ he gasped. ‘I would not do such a thing!’

  ‘Was Langton holding his cup all the time?’ Corbett asked.

  Churchley flailed his hands. ‘Like the rest,’ he whispered, ‘he probably put it down on the table and then picked it up.’

  ‘But what I can’t understand,’ Barnett declared, ‘is why Langton should be carrying a message to you, Sir Hugh, from the Bellman?’

  ‘I know.’ Corbett sat on a stool, ‘Master Alfred Tripham. Bring the servants back, and have
the corpse removed! The rest of you stay!’

  The Vice-Regent hurried off. He returned with four servants carrying a sheet and Langton’s corpse was placed in it. Tripham told them to take it to the corpse house at the far side of the garden.

  Corbett sat, head bowed. How could this have happened? He closed his eyes. Think! Think! Why did Langton have a letter addressed to me in his wallet? If Langton hadn’t died, would he have handed it over, and would he have been able to tell me who the writer was. The Bellman must have been taking a huge risk. What would have happened if Langton had suddenly handed it across during the meal or afterwards? And how did the poisoner know which cup to taint? He opened his eyes. Langton’s corpse had now been removed. The rest were looking at him strangely.

  ‘Sir Hugh,’ Lady Mathilda spoke up. ‘The night is drawing on, we are all tired.’

  Corbett got up, trying to hide his confusion and fear at the menacing threats of the Bellman.

  ‘Little can be done now,’ he said. ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’

  ‘I would like to have words with you before you go,’ Lady Mathilda said. ‘Sir Hugh, I am, with my brother of blessed memory, the founder of this Hall.’ She stared defiantly at Tripham. ‘I demand to have words with you!’

  The Vice-Regent looked as if he was going to protest but instead, gesturing in exasperation, left the chamber. The others followed. Lady Mathilda asked Ranulf and Maltote to stand outside with Master Moth. She locked and bolted the library door behind them and then returned. She sat down at the table and flicked her fingers for Corbett to sit opposite her.

  ‘We can’t be heard here,’ she whispered, leaning across. ‘Sir Hugh, you must have been told that the King had a spy at Sparrow Hall?’

  Corbett just stared back.

  ‘Someone who tells the King what happens here.’ Lady Mathilda pushed back the sleeves of her dress. ‘I am that spy, Sir Hugh. My brother was the King’s man in peace and war. This Hall, this callege -’ her voice rose slightly, and spots of anger appeared high in her cheeks ‘- this place was founded for learning and now it has become a mockery!’