Hugh Corbett 06 - Murder Wears a Cowl (25 page)

Corbett was challenged at every turn but, when he showed his warrant, was allowed through the different cordons thrown around the abbey until he reached the Chapter House. An officer, now carrying the keys of the abbey, unlocked the door for him.

‘Collect three men and stay outside!’ Corbett ordered. ‘But allow any visitors in!’

The soldier obeyed and Corbett walked into the long, high-vaulted, deserted room, his footsteps ringing hollow and eerie in the watchful silence. Despite the warmth of a summer evening, the Chapter House was cold and dark so Corbett took a tinder and lit a few of the sconce torches, and wax candles on the table, where he sat in de Lacey’s chair and waited for the drama to begin.

Ranulf and Cade came first, the under-sheriff looking haggard and tired.

‘Sir Hugh, what is the matter?’

‘Sit down, Master Cade. Ranulf, did you deal with the other matter?’

‘I did.’

Corbett tapped his fingers on the table top. ‘Then let us wait for our guests to arrive.’

They must have sat for half an hour, Cade trying to make desultory conversation, when they heard a knock on the door.

‘Come in!’ Corbett shouted and Lady Mary Neville slipped into the room.

She had the hood of her cloak well forward, and, as she pushed it back and sat in the chair Corbett offered, he caught the woman’s nervousness. Her skin had lost its lustre, she kept licking her lips and her eyes darted to and fro as if she suspected that some great danger threatened.

‘You asked to see me, Sir Hugh?’

‘Yes, Lady Mary. The night Lady Somerville died, you went to St Bartholomew’s hospital?’

‘I have told you that.’

‘So you did. And who else knew you were going?’

Corbett watched the woman closely as he heard the Chapter House door quietly open. ‘I asked you a question, Lady Mary. Who else knew? Or shall I answer it for you?’ Corbett looked up and stared at the woman standing just inside the doorway.

‘Well, Lady Fitzwarren, can you answer?’

The tall, angular woman swept towards him; her stern face looked harsh, her eyes were like two pieces of hard slate in her angry, drawn face. Corbett saw her hands were tucked into the sleeves of her gown and he did nothing to stop Ranulf drawing his own dagger.

‘Master Cade, a seat for our second guest.’

Lady Fitzwarren sat down carefully.

‘As I was saying, Lady Mary and her companion went to St Bartholomew’s hospital on Monday, May eleventh. Now, I always believed that Lady Somerville’s death was some accident, but I have changed my mind. I realise my own mistake, a lack of attention to detail. Only someone who knew Somerville would know she would walk across Smithfield Common by herself.’ Corbett smiled at both women. ‘Oh, yes, Lady Somerville knew her killer. You see, the murder was witnessed by someone.’ He saw Fitzwarren’s eyes flicker in fear. ‘A mad beggar squatting at the foot of the scaffold saw Lady Somerville stop and wait for her killer, he heard her call out “Oh, it’s you!” Now,’ Corbett leaned his hands on the table, ‘I was far too clever. I should have listened to that beggar man more carefully. He described the killer as tall as the devil with horned feet. I dismissed that as some phantasm of his imagination but, of course, he was talking about you, Lady Catherine. You are taller even than most men. And you were dressed in cowl and hood when you carried out your bloody murders.’

Lady Mary recoiled in fright and horror. Fitzwarren pursed her lips.

‘You speak gibberish, clerk!’

‘Oh, no, I don’t. Let’s go to another murder. Father Benedict. Someone blocked the keyhole of the poor priest’s door, threw a jar of oil through the open window then struck a tinder and flung that in as well. Go and look at the ruins of Father Benedict’s house. The window is high in the wall, someone well above average height threw that jar in.’

‘They could have stood on a log or a stone,’ Lady Mary whispered.

‘Yes, that’s true, but they didn’t. No log or stone was found near the window nor did the ground outside bear any such mark.’

‘You still haven’t produced any proof,’ Fitzwarren challenged.

‘Oh, I’ll come to that by and by. You see, when I examined the room, I found traces of the oil, clear and pure, of a very high quality. Only the wealthy purchase such oil for their food. I realised that this evening whilst watching my wife prepare our meal. The assassin used that oil because it was free of any reeking odour and, if spilt over dry rushes, would soon catch alight.’

‘The assassin could have bought it!’ Fitzwarren snapped.

Corbett steeled himself for the next lie to come.

‘Ah, yes, but in Newgate there is a man called Puddlicott, lying under sentence of death, who is responsible for the robbery of the King’s treasure. You must have heard of that? He was in the abbey grounds the night Father Benedict’s house was burnt down. He saw you, Lady Fitzwarren, throw a jar of oil through Father Benedict’s window.’

‘He’s a liar and a rogue!’ she hissed. ‘Who would believe him?’

‘The King, for a start. Puddlicott has no grievance against you. He seeks no reprieve or pardon. Both are out of the question. Lady Fitzwarren, he recognised you.’

The old noblewoman’s face lost some of its arrogant hauteur. Corbett leaned towards her, silently praying that his bluff would force a confession.

‘Even if Puddlicott’s story is rejected,’ he continued quietly, ‘others saw you. Do you remember the whore Judith? I believe you were hiding in a large cupboard in the garret she used? She opened the door and you lashed out with your knife. You did not stay to mutilate her body because she had screamed but, Lady Fitzwarren, she survived and is now under royal protection. Master Cade will swear to that.’

The under-sheriff, who was staring open-mouthed at Lady Catherine, nodded solemnly.

‘She, too, recognised you,’ Corbett insisted. ‘She caught the fragrance of your perfume, a glimpse of your face. I don’t bluff. Judith must have survived for only she or her would-be killer would know about the incident in the cupboard.’

Lady Fitzwarren drew back, hissing and muttering to herself.

‘I could go on,’ Corbett continued. ‘The whore Agnes, the one you killed in a church near Greyfriars, she also glimpsed you leaving the house where her friend had died. I believe she was on the point of sending a note to Lady de Lacey, here at Westminster, but the boy dropped the note down a sewer. Somehow you realised the poor girl posed a danger. She saw you, perhaps you glimpsed her. Anyway, you forged a note, probably in de Lacey’s handwriting and, dressed like a monk, you slipped it under her door. The poor girl fell into the trap. She would never dream that her killer was luring her to murder on consecrated ground. She was one of the few not killed on the thirteenth of the month. Because she had seen you leaving the corpse of one victim, Agnes had to be silenced as quickly as possible. Now, as regards Lady Somerville . . .’

‘This is impossible,’ Lady Mary interrupted. ‘Why should the Lady Fitzwarren murder one of her sisters and poor Father Benedict?’

‘You are right to think both are connected. You see, our killer dressed as a monk. She carried with her the sandals, cloak, cowl and hood of a Benedictine monk. She took them from the vestry which adjoins this Chapter House. Now, I can only conjecture, but I suspect that Lady Somerville, whilst cleaning and laundering the vestments, came across a monk’s cowl, or gown, which bore marks of blood, perhaps traces of a woman’s perfume. Naturally, she would be puzzled, hence her constant quotation of the riddle “the cowl does not make the monk”. She was not referring to any moral platitude about our monkish brethren, though God knows she may have been right, she was being quite literal. Just because someone dons the cowl and hood, that doesn’t make the wearer a monk.’

‘And Father Benedict?’ Cade asked, reasserting himself.

‘Oh, I suspect Lady Somerville talked to him. Perhaps even conveyed her suspicions that the person killing the prostitutes and whores of London was one of her own sisters, someone from the Sisters of St Martha.’ Corbett glanced at Lady Mary Neville. ‘The shock of what Lady Somerville learnt made her sketch a caricature of what was happening at Westminster. The monks here may have been lax but, in their midst, they harboured a slavering wolf. It also explains why Lady Somerville thought of leaving the Sisters of St Martha.’

‘But why would the killer suspect Lady Somerville?’ Ranulf asked.

‘A matter of speculation, as well as logic. Lady Somerville was muttering mysterious riddles which only the killer could understand and, perhaps, the murderer realised the mistake she had made in returning a blood-stained gown. A gown quite singular because it had been designed for someone very tall in stature. The assassin would watch Lady Somerville and notice where she went. Now, Lady Somerville wouldn’t talk to the brothers in the abbey and her story was too incredible to take to any official, she was alienated from her own son so Father Benedict was the logical choice.’

‘He’s right,’ Lady Mary retorted, staring at Fitzwarren. ‘He’s right.’ Her voice rose in anger. ‘Lady Somerville and Father Benedict were very close.’

‘Yes, yes, they probably were,’ Corbett answered.

‘Everything else fits the picture,’ Ranulf remarked, rising out of his seat to go and stand behind Lady Fitzwarren. ‘Our murderer had two advantages: dressed as a monk, she could go anywhere and, being a member of the Sisters of St Martha, she knew which whores were more vulnerable, where they lived, their routine, their personal circumstances. Moreover, no woman would see another as a threat.’ Ranulf leaned over the woman’s chair and seized her by the wrists.

Fitzwarren struggled, her face snarling like a vixen.

‘You bastard!’ she hissed. ‘Take your hands off me!’

Ranulf drew Lady Catherine’s hands out of the sleeves of her gown and looked at Corbett in surprise, for there was no dagger there.

Corbett stared at the ugly, old face, full of venomous hatred. She’s mad, he thought. Like all killers she has let some canker, some rot, deep in her soul, poison her whole mind. Fitzwarren stared at him like some spiteful scold being caught in a misdemeanour.

‘Finally,’ Corbett concluded, ‘I became fascinated why the women died on or around the thirteenth of each month. You know the reason why. Your husband, Lady Catherine, died at Martinmas, the Feast of St Martin, pope and martyr, whose mass we celebrate on April thirteenth.’

‘But the last one, Hawisa’s death, did not follow this sequence,’ Cade interrupted.

‘Yes, I know,’ Corbett replied. ‘But that was meant to puzzle us. You see, Master Cade, only a handful of people realised the pattern in the deaths. Ranulf, myself, you and two other people I talked to: Lady Mary Neville and Lady Catherine Fitzwarren.’ Corbett smiled weakly. ‘I confess, for a while, Master Cade, you were under suspicion. Lady Mary, I also began to wonder about you. However, both Puddlicott and the beggar described the killer as very tall. Finally, His Grace the King unwittingly told me the date of Lord Fitzwarren’s death. You killed that last girl, Lady Catherine, just to muddy the water.’ Corbett drummed his fingers on the table top. ‘You were always dirtying the water,’ he added.

‘When we visited you at St Katherine’s by the Tower you hinted that the monks of Westminster were involved in some scandal which could be linked to the deaths of the street girls.’ Corbett smiled thinly. ‘I suspect when the dust settles, everyone will be so knowledgeable. You, however, saw such rumours as a cover for your own murderous activities.’

Fitzwarren preened herself, smiling spitefully. ‘All of this is conjecture,’ she retorted. ‘You have no real proof.’

‘Perhaps not, but enough for the King’s Justices to try you at Westminster. And what then, Lady Catherine? Public humiliation? Suspicion? You will be regarded as the lowest of the low.’ He watched the smile fade from the old woman’s face. ‘And after conviction? God knows what. If you are found innocent or, more likely, the case not proven, will you ever be able to walk the streets of London? And, if you are found guilty of so many deaths, you will be taken from the Fleet prison, dressed in the scarlet rags of a murderer and burnt at Smithfield, where every whore in the city will gather to laugh at your dying screams.’

Fitzwarren looked down then quickly back at Corbett.

‘What other choices are there?’ she asked softly.

‘The King would wish this matter kept quiet. A full and frank confession and forfeiture of all your goods to make compensation.’

‘And me?’

‘You will take the veil in a lonely, deserted convent. Perhaps somewhere on the Welsh or Scottish march and live out the rest of your days on bread and water, making reparation for the terrible crimes you have committed.’

The old lady grinned and cocked her head sideways.

‘You are a clever, clever boy,’ she murmured. ‘I should have killed you,’ she added softly. ‘With your hard face, worried look and cunning eyes.’

‘You tried to, didn’t you? You hired those killers who attacked us in the Walbrook?’

Fitzwarren wriggled her shoulders and pouted as if Corbett had made some mild criticism.

‘You are a clever, clever boy.’ Fitzwarren repeated. You see, Corbett,’ she moved in her chair, as if she was telling a story to a group of children. ‘You see, I loved my husband. He was a noble man. We had no children so I lived for him.‘ She looked around, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘Don’t you understand that? Every breath I took, my every thought, my every deed was centred on him. He died a warrior’s death fighting for the King in Wales.’ Fitzwarren crossed her arms, her face became sad, losing its mask of hatred as she withdrew deeper into the past. ‘I really loved my husband,’ she repeated. ‘In a way, I still do, despite the terrible injury he did me.’ Her eyes quickened with malice and she glared at Corbett. ‘I joined the Order of St Martha, devoting my life to good works, I pitied these girls and I never dreamt what secrets I would find. One day I was talking to one of them, she was young, with skin as white and smooth as marble and eyes as blue as the summer sky, she looked like some angel, beautiful and innocent.’ Fitzwarren tightened her arms. ‘That was until she opened her mouth. I tried to reason with her, tried to explain the wrong she was doing. I pointed out how hard my life had been, a Fitzwarren, with a husband who had been a general in the King’s army.’ Lady Catherine’s lips curled. ‘The bitch asked my name and I repeated it. She asked me again and again whilst rocking to and fro with peals of laughter.’ The old woman stopped speaking and looked down at the table.