‘Master, where are we going?’
‘St Bartholomew’s. I want to look into the soul of a murderer.’
Chapter 6
They crossed a street and went down another alleyway dark as night with the houses tightly packed together. The gables of the upper stories jutted out so far that they met each other and blocked out the sunlight. At last they reached Smithfield, the great open expanse still thronged with people attending the horse fair, particularly the rich, eager to bid in an auction for Barbary mares. Young gallants in thick doublets with fiercely padded shoulders and tight waists, their sleeves were puffed out in concoctions of velvet, satin and damask, their legs covered in tight, multi-coloured hose which emphasized the shape of the calf and the grandeur of their codpieces. On the arms of these fops rested ladies equally splendid in rich tapestry dresses, square-cut at the breast and gathered high with cords of silk; their head-dresses were ornate, billowing out above eyebrows and foreheads severely plucked of hair. Corbett smiled when he compared these with the Sisters of St Martha, with their sober attire and unpainted faces.
They struggled through the crowd, past the great charred execution stake where criminals were burnt to death, and entered the arched doorway of St Bartholomew’s hospital. They crossed an open yard, past stables, smithies and other outhouses to the hospital’s long, high vaulted hall which ran parallel to the priory church. An old soldier, now turned servant, basking in the warm afternoon sun, offered to guide them in. They went along corridors, past chambers, clean and well swept, the windows thrown open, the rushes on the floor fresh and sprinkled with herbs. In each chamber there were three or four beds and Corbett glimpsed sick men and women, heads pressed against crisp linen bolsters. In the main, these were the poor unfortunates of the city whom the brothers took in to tend, cure or at least provide their deaths with some dignity. The old soldier stopped and knocked at a door. A voice cried ‘Enter!’ and Corbett and Ranulf were ushered into a sparsely furnished chamber. The air was fragrant with the smell from pots and bowls of crushed herbs and other concoctions. The apothecary, Father Thomas, sat with his back to them, crouched over a table under the window.
‘Who is it?’ he asked; his voice testy at being disturbed from the root he was dissecting with a small, sharp knife.
‘We’ll go if you don’t want us, Father!’
The monk turned, a tall, ugly man yet his face was friendly.
‘Hugh! Ranulf!’ Father Thomas’s long horsey features broke into a smile. He rose and clasped the hand of the clerk he had known since their days at Oxford. Corbett gripped the monk’s hand tightly.
‘
Sir
Hugh, now, priest.’
Father Thomas bowed mockingly, greeted Ranulf and asked after Maeve. He then turned back to taunt Ranulf, who smiled but did not indulge in the usual banter he so characteristically directed at close friends and acquaintances. Father Thomas pulled stools out.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Corbett replied. He hadn’t eaten since the small bowl of meat earlier in the day and he had vomited most of that in the cemetery of St Lawrence Jewry. Father Thomas went to the door, opened it and shouted down the corridor. A few minutes later a lay brother entered with small freshly baked loaves wrapped in linen and two blackjacks of brimming frothy ale.
‘I brewed it myself,’ Father Thomas announced proudly.
Corbett tasted the cool, tangy ale and smiled appreciatively whilst Ranulf murmured his approval.
‘Well,’ Thomas sat opposite him. ‘How can I help, Hugh? More murder? Some rare poison?’
‘No, Thomas, I want you to let me look into the soul of a killer. You have heard of the prostitutes being killed and Lady Somerville’s murder?’
‘Yes, yes, I have.’
‘I understand Lady Somerville called here on the night she died?’
‘Yes, she did that.’
Corbett leaned forward. ‘So, Father, what kind of man haunts whores, slits their throats then mutilates their sexual parts?’
Father Thomas made a face. ‘Hugh, I know digitalis affects the heart, but how . . . ?’ He shook his head. ‘I know red arsenic in minor doses will ease stomach complaints but, if large doses are administered, it rips the stomach out. How and why, I cannot tell you. So, when it comes to the mind, the brain, the spirit, I am ignorant.’ He drew in his breath, turned and picked up a yellowing skull from his desk. He held it out in the palm of his hand. ‘Look, Hugh, this skull once housed a brain. In the palm of my hand I hold a receptacle which once had the power to laugh, cry, tell stories, sing, perhaps plumb divine mysteries or plan the building of a great cathedral.’ Father Thomas put the yellowing skull on the ground beside him. ‘When I studied at Salerno I met Arab physicians who claimed the human mind, the contents of the skull I have just shown you, the working of the brain, are as much a mystery as the nature of God.’
He rearranged his gown as he warmed to his theme. ‘To put it bluntly, Hugh, these physicians had a number of theories. First, all physical disease comes from the mind. They even argue that people who are cured by miracles actually heal themselves. They also point out that, as the body is affected by what it eats and drinks, the mind is influenced by what it experiences. Some men are born with cleft palates or malformed limbs. Perhaps some men are born with twisted minds with a desire to kill?’
‘Do you believe that, Father?’
‘No, not really!’
‘So, what explains our killer?’
Father Thomas stared at his hands. ‘Let us go back a step. These Arabs maintained the brain, the mind, is moulded by its own experiences. If a person as a child, for example, is brutalised, he will become a brutal man. Now some priests would reject that. They will claim that all evil is the work of Satan.’
‘And you, Father?’
‘I believe it is a combination of the two. If a man drinks wine inordinately,’ Father Thomas grinned at Ranulf, ‘his belly becomes bloated, his face red, his mind hazy. Now, to continue the analogy, if a mind is fed on hatred and resentment, what would happen then?’
‘I am sorry, Father, I don’t know!’
‘Well, the killer of these girls could be someone who has satiated every sexual desire and now wishes to expand his power. He acts as if he has the power of life and death.’
‘So the cutting of their throats is part of the sexual act?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Then why the mutilation?’
‘Ah.’ Father Thomas raised his eyebrows. ‘That might contradict my theory. Perhaps the killer is someone who has lost his sexual potency or, indeed, can only achieve it by such a dreadful act.’ Father Thomas ran his fingers through his thinning hair. ‘I do not know all the details but I suspect the latter theory is the more correct. Your killer, Hugh, hates women, prostitutes in particular. He blames them for something, holds them responsible and feels empowered to carry out sentence against them.’
‘So the killer is mad?’
‘Yes, probably, driven insane by the canker of hate growing within him.’
‘Would such a person act insane all the time?’
‘Oh, no, quite the opposite. Indeed, such killers possess tremendous cunning and use every trick and foible to draw a curtain over their evil deeds.’
‘So, it could be anyone?’
Father Thomas leaned closer. ‘Hugh, it could be you, it could be me, Ranulf, the King, the Archbishop of Canterbury.’ Father Thomas saw the puzzlement in Corbett’s eyes. ‘Oh, yes, it could be a priest, even someone living an apparently saintly life. Have you ever heard of the Slayer of Montpellier?’
‘No, no, I haven’t.’
‘About ten years ago in France in the city of Montpellier, a similar killer was at large. He slew over thirty women before being captured and you know his identity? A cleric. A brilliant lecturer in law at the university. I do not wish to frighten you, Hugh, but the killer could be the last person you suspect.’
‘Father Thomas,’ Ranulf leaned forward, his inertia now forgotten as he listened to the chilling words of the priest. ‘Father Thomas,’ he repeated, ‘I can understand, perhaps, such a man killing whores; but why Lady Somerville?’
Father Thomas shook his head. ‘Ranulf, I cannot answer that. Perhaps she was the only woman available at the time.’
‘But she wasn’t mutilated?’
‘Perhaps the killer felt angry at the way she helped the victims of his malice or . . .’
‘Or what, Father?’
‘Perhaps she knew the true identity of the killer and had to be silenced.’
Corbett put his tankard down. ‘It’s strange you say that, Father, because Lady Somerville kept repeating the phrase, “The cowl does not make the monk”.’
‘Ah, yes, quite a popular one now and rather fitting to your task, Hugh. No one is what he or she may appear.’ Father Thomas rose and tightened the cord round his middle. ‘I cannot help you with Lady Somerville’s death, but wait.’ He went to the door, summoned a lay brother and whispered instructions to him. ‘I have sent for somone who might be able to assist you. Now, come, Hugh, what do you think of the ale?’
They were halfway through a discussion on brewing when a knock on the door disturbed them and a young monk, sandy haired and fresh faced, entered the room.
‘Ah, Brother David.’ Father Thomas made the usual introductions.
The monk gave Corbett a gap-toothed smile which made his freckled face look even more boyish. ‘Sir Hugh, how can I help you?’
‘Brother, on Monday, May eleventh, two women came here, Sisters of the Order of St Martha. Lady Somerville and Lady Mary Neville.’
‘Oh, yes, they came to visit two sick patients, women we had taken in.’
‘And what happened?’
‘They stayed about an hour, chatting and talking, then Lady Somerville said she had to go. Lady Mary tried to stop her, offered to accompany her across Smithfield but the older one, Lady Somerville, said no, she would be safe. She left and that was it.’
‘When did Lady Mary Neville leave?’
‘Oh, shortly afterwards.’
‘And what route did she take?’
The young brother smiled. ‘Sir Hugh, I cannot help you with that.’
Corbett thanked him and Brother David was halfway out of the room when he suddenly turned.
‘I heard about Lady Somerville’s murder,’ he remarked. ‘Her body was found near the scaffold in Smithfield?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s correct.’
The monk nodded towards the window. ‘It’s growing dark, the horse fair is now ended. If you wish, and this may help, I know there’s a beggar, a half-crazed man, who lost his legs in the King’s war. At night, he sleeps beneath the scaffold; he feels he is safe there.’ The young monk shrugged. ‘He may have seen something. I heard him one night, as he passed the priory gates, screaming that the devil was stalking Smithfield. I asked him what he meant but he lives in a world of his own. He is always claiming to see visions.’
The young monk closed the door behind him and Corbett stared first at Father Thomas then at Ranulf.
‘Chilling,’ he murmured. ‘The killer could be anyone but somehow I believe that Lady Somerville’s death does lie at the root of it all.’
They took their farewells of Father Thomas. Corbett paused awhile in the hospital to visit the wizened crones whom the Ladies Neville and Somerville had visited on the night of May the eleventh. These, however, proved witless, their minds wandering, their speech rambling so Corbett let them be. In the hospital courtyard he readjusted his cloak and looked at Ranulf who still appeared subdued, lost in his own thoughts.
‘Ranulf,’ Corbett teased gently. ‘What is the matter?’
‘Nothing, Master.’
Corbett linked his arm through his companion’s and pulled him closer. ‘Come on, man, you’ve been quiet as a nun!’
Ranulf shook himself free, stepped away and stared up into the gathering darkness; the blue sky was tinged with the dying rays of the setting sun and a faint breeze carried the fading sounds of the city towards them.
‘There’s something,’ he muttered. ‘But I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘And the rest?’
Ranulf sighed. ‘Perhaps I am growing old, Master. I go out drinking and roistering in the taverns. I rub shoulders with the kind of girls this killer has slain. I see their eyes dance with merriment. I tease them and pay them gold.’ He blew his cheeks out. ‘Now I see another side to their lives and . . .’
‘And what?’
‘What really frightens me, Master, is what Father Thomas said. The killer could be anyone. If you and I hadn’t been in Winchester, like every other man in the city, we’d be under suspicion and that includes our friend Alexander Cade.’
Corbett’s face hardened. ‘What do you mean, Ranulf?’
‘Well, Cade’s a good law officer. He never takes bribes. He is thorough and ruthless. So why was he so quiet at the abbey? And I noticed that at St Lawrence Jewry he soon left the death house, he kept his distance. Perhaps I am wrong, Master, yet, I agree with you, he is hiding something.’
‘I suggest everyone is hiding something,’ Corbett answered. ‘You have heard Father Thomas. We are dealing with a man who leads two lives; an upright life in the daylight but, at night, he crawls the streets and alleyways hell bent on murder. Well, Ranulf, hold your nose and harden your stomach. It’s time we visited the scaffold.’
They left the priory and crossed the now deserted ground of Smithfield market. A few people still tarried; a horse coper, desperately trying to sell two old nags who looked so exhausted they could hardly stand; a huckster with his barrow almost empty of apples; two boys kicked an inflated pig’s bladder, whilst a drunk leaned against one of the elms and chanted some ribald song. The darkness was now gathering. They passed the spot where criminals were burnt and climbed the gently sloping hill where the great three-branched scaffold stood. The night breeze wafted down the bittersweet smell of corruption. Corbett and Ranulf immediately lifted the hems of their cloaks to cover their mouths and noses for in the poor light they could see the bodies still dangling from their ropes. Corbett told Ranulf to stay and went ahead to inspect. He kept his eyes away from the lolling heads, tried not to glimpse the bloated stomachs, the bare feet dangling as if still trying to grasp the earth. He looked round the scaffold: nothing. But then he heard the clatter of wooden slats so he stopped and waited. A strange-looking creature was making his way up the beaten track towards the scaffold. In the gathering dusk he looked like some dwarf swathed in rags. He stopped when he saw Ranulf, one hand went out, followed by a whine for alms. Then he glimpsed Corbett striding purposely down the track towards him. The hand fell away and the fellow turned as quick as a rabbit, despite the wooden slats fastened to the stumps of his knees.