Hugh Corbett 06 - Murder Wears a Cowl (19 page)

Puddlicott had returned to London and embarked upon a life of crime. He swindled certain goldsmiths in Cheapside; he defrauded a Lombard banker and stole valuables from churches. Yet his real skill was as a confidence trickster, being able to pose as whoever he wanted to in order to gain money through fales pretences. On a number of occasions law officers had laid him by the heels but Puddlicott, a master of disguise, had always escaped. Corbett sipped the wine and marvelled at this confidence trickster’s prowess. No one was safe. Shrewd merchants, hardened officials, dewy-eyed widows, cunning soldiers, grasping tenant farmers, all had been victims of Puddlicott’s fraudulent ways.

Corbett tensed as he looked at the list of dates. A government spy had heard of Puddlicott being in England the previous autumn. There were similar reports of fresh sightings in the spring, followed by the English spy’s most recent communication of Puddlicott being seen in Paris. Corbett put the parchment down and lay back on the bed. Was it possible? he wondered. Was the Seigneur whom Judith had described, the master of nightly revels at Westminster Palace, none other than Richard Puddlicott? But why? The rogue might be showing his contempt of authority by debauching monks, consorting with whores? Corbett had a vague idea of the truth and there was only one way of establishing that. He heard a crashing on the stairs and Ranulf hammered on the door.

‘Master! Master! Cade has returned, the barges are ready!’

Corbett rose, drained his wine cup, and made his way downstairs. He settled his bill with the landlord and strode out into the yard where Cade, still looking rather sheepish, waited, his great hands nervously clenching and unclenching.

‘Everything ready, Master Cade?’

‘Yes, Sir Hugh. They wait at the Wool Quay.’

‘It’s Westminster isn’t it?’ Ranulf shouted. He clapped his hands. ‘It’s those mischievous monks.’ He nudged Maltote playfully. ‘Now the fun begins,’ he whispered. ‘Wait until old Master “Long Face” exerts his power.’

Master ‘Long Face’, however, as Ranulf secretly described Corbett, was already striding down the alleyway towards the riverside. At the Wool Quay the three great barges were pulled in, waiting. An officer of the Tower garrison came forward to greet them.

‘Sir Hugh, my name is Peter Limmer, sergeant-at-arms.’ He waved at the barges full of archers dressed in leather sallets, steel conical helmets on their heads. Each was armed with sword, dirk and heavy crossbow.

‘Good!’ Corbett murmured. ‘We go to Westminster and you will do exactly as I say.’

The lanky, crop-haired officer nodded. They clambered aboard. Orders rang out and the barges pulled out into mid-stream.

The journey was a peaceful one, broken only by the sound of splashing oars, the creak of leather and the clink of armour. A heavy mist still hung over the river so Corbett felt cut off from the busy life of the city. Now and again they passed the occasional boat or ship. The silence was shattered when Limmer roared out orders to pull towards the centre of the arches under London Bridge which provided wider space to shoot through. Here the water frothed around the great starlings built to protect the river craft from the massive stone columns of the bridge. Oars were pulled in and the barges shot under the bridge and into calmer waters. The mist still hung heavy as they turned the bend to go down towards Westminster. The oarsmen feverishly pulled to one side when the great gilt-edged prow of a Venetian galley suddenly broke through the mist bearing down on them. Otherwise, the journey was uneventful. They rowed to the northern bank, the mist now thinning, and they glimpsed the tower and turrets of Westminster.

They disembarked at King’s Stairs; orders rang out and the archers, organised in two columns, marched behind Corbett and his companions. They swung through the gardens, surprising the odd, sleepy-eyed servant, and across the palace yard into the abbey grounds. A side door to the abbey was open. Corbett, leaving the military escort outside, walked into the deserted side of the nave. It was dark and cold.

‘Bring benches!’ he ordered Limmer, pointing further down the aisle towards the south transept. ‘I want a bench placed up there against the wall and a chair opposite. I then want the following brought: Master William of Senche, he’ll probably be drunk.’ Corbett sniffed the still fragrant scent of incense. ‘Then go to the abbey refectory. And, whatever they say, arrest Adam of Warfield the sacristan and Brother Richard and bring them here. I want an armed guard left outside and all entrances to the abbey and palace sealed. No one is to leave or enter without my permission.’

‘William of Senche will be easy,’ the officer replied. ‘But the monks may accuse us of blasphemy; trespassing on church property and violation of their clerical orders.’ The soldier grinned sourly. ‘I don’t want some priest shouting Thomas à Becket’s martyrdom is being re-enacted, nor do I want my men being cursed and excommunicated by bell, book and candle!’

‘Nothing will happen,’ Corbett replied. ‘This is no clash between Church and King, but between law officers and proven criminals.’

‘They are monks.’

‘They are still criminals and, Master Limmer, I shall prove that. I assure you, when this business is over and the King knows your part in it, you will be praised and rewarded. As for Holy Mother Church, she will be only too pleased to see justice done and be too busy looking after her own affairs.’

The officer grinned and hurried out, shouting orders at his men.

‘And us, Master?’

‘You, Ranulf, together with Maltote, stay here near the side door. Only approach me if any of those I interrogate use violence, or threaten to, though I don’t suppose they will.’

Corbett walked up the aisle into the south transept where archers had already rearranged the bench and dragged a chair from the Lady Chapel for Corbett. The clerk sat down and breathed a silent prayer that he’d be proven right. Despite his brave words to the soldier, Corbett felt nervous and uneasy. If his allegations were proved false and his theory collapsed, then he would have a great deal of explaining to do, both to the bishops as well as to the King.

Corbett heard shouting and muttered oaths outside the abbey. The door crashed open and a group of archers entered, led by Limmer, with three struggling figures held fast by the arms. Corbett got to his feet. Adam of Warfield seemed on the verge of apoplexy. His sallow face had tinges of anger high in his cheeks, his eyes blazed with fury and Corbett saw traces of white froth at the sides of his mouth.

‘You will answer for this, clerk!’ the monk roared. ‘I will see you excommunicated by our Order! By the hierarchy of England, by the Pope himself!’ He struggled and broke free of the grinning archers on either side of him and turned to face his tormentors. ‘All of you!’ he bellowed. ‘All of you are damned! This is sacred property, the King’s own abbey! And this man,’ he turned, flinging out an accusing finger at Corbett, ‘is a limb of Satan!’

Corbett glanced at Brother Richard and took heart at what he saw. The little, fat monk seemed apprehensive, his eyes constantly shifting, his small, pink tongue popping in and out of his mouth, licking his lips. Next to him, the steward William of Senche had been frightened into sobriety. At last Adam stopped shouting and stood, chest heaving, hands hanging down by his side. Corbett stared at the brown cowl and garb he wore, and the white tasselled cord round his waist. He’d seen the man’s fury, the foaming at the mouth, the demonic anger. Was this the killer stalking poor prostitutes in the alleyways of London? he wondered. The sacristan drew in his breath for a second tirade. Corbett knew that if the monk was allowed to continue he might lose the support of his military escort, some of whom were already worried at the terrible curses uttered by the priest. Corbett stepped closer and, bringing his hand back, gave Adam a stinging slap across the face. The monk yelped and stepped back, holding his cheek.

‘You blasphemer!’ he hissed.

‘There are courts,’ Corbett replied softly, ‘where I will answer for what I do as there are courts, Adam of Warfield, where you will answer for the terrible things that have happened here. I, Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the Secret Seal, do arrest you Adam of Warfield, Brother Richard of Westminster and William of Senche, Steward of the Palace for the terrible crimes of blasphemy, sacrilege, misprision of treason and corroboration with the King’s enemies.’

Adam of Warfield lost some of his pompous arrogance. His chin sagged, his eyes became more watchful.

‘What do you mean?’ he muttered and glared at Brother Richard, moaning softly, whilst Corbett noticed to his disgust, the small pool of urine between William of Senche’s feet.

‘Oh, yes,’ Corbett continued. ‘The charges I have listed are only the beginning. All three of you will sit on that bench. All three of you, on your allegiance to the King, will answer my questions. And, when I have finished, I shall produce the proof of the charges against you.’

‘I will answer nothing!’ Warfield screamed.

Corbett hit him again. ‘All three of you will answer,’ he repeated. ‘Or you will be taken to the Tower. If you offer further violence, either by word or action, or attempt to escape, Master Limmer has orders to kill you! Now, sit down!’

The three prisoners were hustled to the bench.

‘Sir Hugh, you will be safe?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Corbett took his seat opposite the three men. ‘I am sure I will, Master Limmer. Please stand back. I shall call you forward if I need you. Your men, their crossbows are loaded?’

Limmer nodded.

‘Good!’ Corbett turned to his three prisoners. ‘So, let us begin.’

He waited until the archers were out of earshot before leaning forward, his hand half raised.

‘I swear by all that is holy that I know what has gone on here. The midnight revelry, the eating and the drinking, the debauchery, consorting with prostitutes from the city.’ He looked at William of Senche who was now quivering with fright. ‘You, sir, will answer to the King and your best hope is to throw yourself on the King’s mercy.’

Adam of Warfield looked as if he was going to brazen it out but Brother Richard suddenly got to his feet.

‘It’s all true,’ he confessed. The monk glared at the sacristan. ‘For God’s sake, Adam, can’t you see he knows? Master William, the clerk speaks the truth. I am not going to lie. I will confess to breaking my monastic vows. I’ll confess to the abuse of royal property.’ He turned and smiled bleakly at Corbett. ‘So what, Master Clerk? I’ll take my punishment, bread and water for three years, the performance of the most menial tasks in the abbey. Perhaps a stay in a public pillory. But what’s so terrible about that?’

Corbett stared at this small fat monk, then back at Adam, who now sat head bowed.

‘Oh, you’re clever, Brother Richard,’ Corbett answered. ‘You think it’s a matter of vows. I accept your confession but I suspect your companions know there is more to my tale than monks who fornicate, become drunk and involve themselves in midnight debauchery.’

Brother Richard looked at his companions. ‘What is he saying?’ the monk stammered. He grabbed the sacristan by the shoulders and shook him. ‘In God’s name, Adam, what more is there?’

The sacristan refused to look up.

‘Sit down, Brother Richard!’ Corbett ordered. ‘Now, Warfield, the name of the Master of Revels, the seigneur who organised the activities? By what name was he called?’

‘I don’t know,’ the monk murmured without looking up.

‘He was called Richard,’ William bleated, his eyes almost popping out of his head with fright. ‘He only called himself Richard.’

‘Shut up!’ the sacristan snarled, his white face twisted in a mixture of fear and rage.

‘No, I won’t!’ the steward yelled.

‘What did he look like?’

‘I don’t know.’ The steward rubbed his face between his hands. ‘I really don’t know,’ he bleated. ‘He always came in the evening and kept in the shadows. He thought it was best like that. He always dressed like a monk in robes and cowl with the hood pulled well over his head and at the revelries he wore a satyr’s mask.’

‘He had a beard?’

‘Yes, he had a beard. I think his hair was black.’

Corbett got up and stood over the three men. ‘I think Brother Adam of Warfield may know his true identity. Yes, Master William, your Master of Revels was called Richard. His full name is Richard Puddlicott, a well-known criminal. Didn’t you ever ask yourself why a man, a complete stranger, was so interested in providing revelry and ribaldry?’

‘He came to the palace one evening,’ the steward stammered. ‘I told him I was bored. He suggested some fun.’ The steward glanced sideways at the sacristan. ‘Then one day Adam of Warfield found out.’ The fellow shrugged. ‘You know the rest. Some of the monks joined us.’ He looked pitifully at Corbett. ‘We did no wrong,’ he wailed. ‘We meant no harm.’

‘Until someone decided the parties must end and the prostitutes you had invited be silenced.’

Both the steward and Brother Richard moaned in terror.

‘You are not saying,’ Brother Richard’s voice rose to a scream. ‘You are not saying we are involved in the terrible deaths of those girls in the city?’

‘I am, and not only those but perhaps the deaths of Father Benedict, who found out about your midnight feastings, and Lady Somerville who had her own suspicions.’

Adam of Warfield sprang to his feet and Corbett stepped back. The monk’s face was now pallid and tense, covered in a fine sheen of sweat. His eyes glowed with the fury burning within him.

‘Never!’ he rasped. ‘I had . . . we had no part in that!’

Corbett sat down in his chair and shook his head.

‘I have witnesses,’ he said. ‘A number of sightings of the killer. All of these point to a man dressed in the garb of a Benedictine monk, very similar to what you are wearing now!’ Corbett eased his dagger out of the sheath. ‘I suggest you sit down, Master Sacristan.’