Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle (6 page)

Brother Gildas stared round his workshop. He would have to leave soon. Prior Cuthbert had called a meeting of the Concilium. Gildas had glimpsed the arrival of that tall clerk in his heavy military riding cloak, its cowl making his dark face even more enigmatic. With the King involved, no doubt Corbett would haunt this abbey until the truth was found. Gildas climbed down from his high stool and walked over to a bench. For some strange reason he stared up at a painting on the far wall, a gift from a local merchant. It had been painted on wood and depicted Death outside a house knocking on the door. Death was dressed like a knight, one hand on his sword, the other beating angrily as if determined to collect the soul within. Brother Gildas did not realise it but Death was close by, hunting for his soul.

He was about to return to his desk when he heard sounds from the storeroom, just near the side door.

‘Who’s that?’ he called. Perhaps it was a rat, or it was not unknown for a fox, or even one of the wild cats which haunted the marshy copses, to come inside in search of warmth. Gildas walked to the half-open door and pushed it open. ‘Who’s there?’ he repeated. He walked inside, narrowing his eyes against the gloom. ‘Who’s there?’ he called.

‘Gildas!’ The words came as a hiss. ‘Gildas! Guilty Gildas!’

The stonemason decided to flee. Yet, even as he made to hasten away, he realised his mistake: no soldier should turn his back on an enemy. His foot slithering, Gildas turned. A dark figure hurtled towards him and then a club smacked against his head, sending him crashing to the ground. Brother Gildas lay half unconscious, his head throbbing with pain.

‘Please!’ he whispered. ‘Don’t . . .!’

He was aware of his hands being tied behind his back, as the blood trickling from the gash in his head almost blinded him. His mouth was bone dry. He tried to look up at his assailant but all he could see were soft leather riding boots. His hands bound, he tried to struggle onto one side. He glimpsed his assailant who had closed the door to the workshop and was now standing over the brazier. Gildas gazed in horror as his attacker looked round. A red executioner’s mask covered his entire face. A cloak swathed his body. He could not be a monk, a brother of the abbey. Gildas recalled the stories of Mandeville’s wild huntsmen prowling along the fens. Gildas could smell something burning: his assailant was poking the coals. He turned and came back.

‘Gildas! Murderer!’ The words came out slowly, more of a hiss than a voice.

The assailant was moving behind him then suddenly he was standing over him. Gildas heard shallow breathing and glanced up. The black-garbed assassin was now carrying a heavy block of stone.

‘Oh no, please!’

The assailant lifted the stone higher and let go; it fell smashing Brother Gildas’s skull like a mallet would an egg.

Corbett sat behind Abbot Stephen’s great oaken desk. The clerk disliked such trappings of power and hid a self-conscious smile. He felt like one of the King’s Justices holding a court of Oyer and Terminer or Gaol Delivery. The desk itself had been cleared and Corbett had laid out sheets of vellum, a pumice stone and quill. Ranulf sat at the corner similarly prepared. Chanson stood guard at the door. Around the desk in a semi-circle were chairs and stools for the Abbey Concilium, Prior Cuthbert sitting in the centre. Corbett looked at these powerful monks, in truth lords of this abbey. Brother Francis, the archivist and librarian, rather elegant, soft-faced and dreamy-eyed. Aelfric the infirmarian who looked as if he suffered from a permanent cold, with white sallow cheeks, protruding red nose and watery eyes which never stopped blinking. Brother Hamo, plump and grey as a pigeon, with staring eyes and lips tightly compressed, he looked like a man ever ready to give others the benefit of his wisdom. Brother Richard the almoner, young, smooth-faced, he kept dabbing his lips and rubbing his protruding stomach. Dunstan the treasurer, being bald he had no tonsure, was heavy-featured, small-eyed and tight-lipped: a monk, Corbett considered, used to accounts, tallies, ledgers, bills and indentures. A man who would seek a profit in everything. Their lord and master, Prior Cuthbert, was more relaxed, studying Corbett, assessing his worth. Corbett realised why there had been a delay. Prior Cuthbert had probably gathered these monks together in his room and told them what he had learnt, how this King’s clerk would not stand on ceremony or be cowed by appeals to Canon Law, the Rule of St Benedict or the customs of the abbey. At the far end of the semi-circle sat Brother Perditus. The young man looked decidedly out of place, nervously plucking at his robe and shuffling his feet. Archdeacon Adrian, however, seemed to be enjoying himself, like a spectator at a mummer’s play. He clearly did not view Abbot Stephen’s death as a matter of concern to himself. Corbett sat up in the chair.

‘Are we all here?’

‘Brother Gildas is absent,’ Prior Cuthbert declared.

‘I delivered the summons, Father Prior,’ Perditus declared. ‘Gildas was the first I told but you know how busy he is: you can’t distract him from his work.’

‘Then we’ll begin.’ Corbett picked up his warrant, tapping the black and red seal at the bottom. ‘This is the King’s own seal,’ he declared. ‘It gives me the power to act as Commissioner over the death of Abbot Stephen or any other matter of concern. I do not wish to be challenged. The King’s writ runs here, as it does in Wales or the Marches of Scotland.’

Prior Cuthbert opened his mouth to protest. Corbett held his gaze. The other members of the Concilium stirred restlessly.

‘We have a requiem Mass starting soon,’ Brother Aelfric wailed. ‘For Abbot Stephen.’

‘If the Mass is delayed,’ Corbett declared, ‘then so be it.’

He got to his feet, turning his back on the Concilium, and walked to the great bay window and stared down into the courtyard.

‘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 glared 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?’