Corbett, still half asleep, pulled himself up and swung his legs off the bed. Ranulf went across, fetched a stool and sat opposite him.
‘What news?’ Corbett asked.
‘Those three names . . .’ Ranulf paused as Corbett took a tinder and lit the small candelabra on the bedside table. He pulled both table and candelabra closer towards him.
‘The three names, Ranulf?’
‘All senior clerks of the chancery, old men. They died rather mysteriously in the eighth and ninth year of the present king’s reign.’
‘Mysteriously?’
‘One at a time. Their deaths,’ Ranulf shrugged, ‘were seen simply as accidents, but it’s strange that Boniface Ippegrave should list their names. Rescales fell down the steps of the old turret tower – you know where the chancery records are stored. He was an old man, the light was poor, he stumbled and broke his neck. Furnival? Well, he liked his wine and often drank deep at night. He also liked the river; his corpse was fished from the Thames close to King’s Steps. The verdict was that he was so inebriated he must have missed his footing and fallen into the water.’
‘And Bassetlawe?’
‘He died rather quietly, sitting at the buttery table enjoying a tankard of ale and some bread and cheese. He was found with his head on his arm as if asleep, but his heart had failed. Master, you don’t think they were accidents?’
‘A month ago I would have said they were.’ Corbett pulled his boots towards him, put them on and got to his feet, picking up his sword-belt. He rearranged his cloak. ‘There’s something else?’
‘Yes, master.’ Ranulf snuffed the candle and followed Corbett out of the chamber into the cold passageway outside. Only then did Corbett, glancing through a window, realise how long he’d slept.
‘I went to Evesham’s house and made diligent enquiries, and sure enough, I was given the name of Elizabeth Vavasour, a sort of maid and nurse to Lady Emma. When she retired, Evesham used his influence to obtain a corrody for her, a pension at St Catherine’s by the Tower. I went there and spoke to the master of the hospital, who introduced me to Elizabeth. I told her she must come to the chancery chamber after compline this evening, that it was urgent, King’s business.’
‘Did she object?’
‘Far from it. She was looking forward to a journey upriver, even if it was through the icy blackness of night.’ Ranulf grinned. ‘Be careful, master, she chatters like a sparrow on a branch. She is full of praise for Sir Walter Evesham, loudly proclaiming that she’ll brook no ill against him. She’ll be here soon.’
By the time Corbett reached his chancery chamber, washed his hands and face, prepared his table and instructed Ranulf and Chanson what to do, Elizabeth Vavasour had arrived. Two bargemen had escorted her through the palace corridors, and by the look on their faces, Corbett realised that they were more than happy to hand over their passenger. Elizabeth Vavasour not only chattered like a sparrow, she looked like one, her small nut-brown face framed by a white wimple above the grey garb of the hospital of St Catherine’s. Despite her age, she moved quickly, plumping herself down on a stool, her little black eyes darting around the candlelit chamber before coming to rest on Corbett.
‘So you’re Sir Hugh, I’ve heard of you. You must have known my master?’
‘Slightly.’
‘He was a good man, Sir Hugh. I know he made mistakes,’ she leaned across the table, her voice falling to a conspiratorial whisper, ‘but he was good, very good indeed.’
‘Tell me, Mistress Elizabeth, you worked for Lord Walter and Lady Emma?’
‘Oh yes, your grace.’
Corbett glanced sharply at Ranulf and Chanson standing behind the old lady, a threatening glance against their laughter.
‘Oh yes, your grace,’ she repeated, ‘I worked for them for many years. I was hired by Lady Emma when she first married Sir Walter. He was very ambitious, determined to rise high in the royal service. Sometimes he did not feel at home with the other clerks, but he soon won the King’s favour.’
‘And the Lady Emma?’
‘She was quiet, very pious, engaged in good works.’
‘And their marriage, it was happy?’
Mistress Elizabeth’s eyes rounded, lips pursed. ‘Of course, Lord Walter was devoted to her.’
‘There was another woman, Beatrice, Lady Emma’s maid?’
‘Oh, her!’ Mistress Elizabeth snorted, and turned slightly, glancing at Corbett out of the corner of her eye. ‘She had airs and graces, a rather haughty young woman. She kept herself to herself. I think there was bad blood between her and Lord Walter, though I never knew the reason. Sir Hugh, I was quite happy with my own little tasks. There was the usual chatter, but in the main, it was a happy household.’
Corbett studied this old woman. She was telling the truth. Walter Evesham had looked after her and made sure that in her old age she’d never starve. He had provided her with a comfortable, warm chamber at St Catherine’s, all the food she could eat and the delicious gossip of other retired retainers.
‘And Lady Emma’s death?’
‘Oh, sir, an evening like this. Lady Emma and Beatrice went out late in the afternoon. They were taking Mary loaves to the almshouses somewhere near the old Roman wall. Darkness had fallen. Lady Emma was courageous. She had Beatrice with her, so there was no link boy or guard. We don’t really know what happened; the attackers were never arrested. Beatrice fled, but Lady Emma was beaten to the ground, her head staved in, her money, goods and all the jewellery she wore taken.’
‘And Lord Walter?’
‘He was overcome with grief. He locked himself in his chamber for days and refused to come out. He didn’t eat or drink. We organised her funeral at St Botulph’s.’
‘And this Beatrice?’
‘Lord Walter scoured London, and her name was proclaimed at St Paul’s Cross. The mayor, sheriffs and bailiffs were all advised, but she had vanished, disappeared off the face of God’s earth. And of course, Sir Hugh, as you know, life goes on. Look at me, I’m a widow four times over! Oh yes, met my husbands at the church door and within a few years followed their coffins in. Surely the Good Book is true in what it says: life is changed not taken away.’
Corbett glanced up. Ranulf had turned his back and walked away, shoulders shaking.
‘Well,’ Mistress Elizabeth blinked, ‘two years after Lady Emma’s death, Sir Walter married again, the Lady Clarice. She was a hussy. I didn’t like her. By then I was growing too frail for heavy duties. Lord Walter said he would give me safe, comfortable lodgings, and so he did, God bless his name. Now, Sir Hugh, if you have finished, I would like to go back, if possible by barge. I know it’s dark, but the lantern horns are bright and those bargemen are so kind and attentive, they listen to every word I say. I must be back soon. There’s a special supper tonight. Cook has offered lampreys cooked in a rich sauce with soft white bread. Oh, every time I eat, every night I press my head against a feather-filled bolster, I always praise Sir Walter, and say a prayer for him. Terrible what happened, wasn’t it, Sir Hugh?’
Corbett nodded. ‘Mistress Elizabeth, I can see that you’re very busy.’ He got to his feet and, taking a silver piece out of his purse, stretched across and placed it in her vein-streaked hand. ‘Please take that, buy some comforts for yourself. I thank you. God bless you, mistress.’
11
Luparius
: a wolf-hunter
Mistress Elizabeth, still chattering, allowed Chanson to escort her out of the chamber. Corbett sat down and heaved a sigh. ‘Ranulf,’ he glanced up, ‘when Chanson returns, go about your business. You must be hungry. One final thing, send a courier to Cripplegate ward, find out who holds the keys to St Botulph’s and have them brought here.’
When Ranulf had left, Corbett paced the chamber for a while. He shifted the brazier close to his desk, moving candles and lamps to create a pool of light and warmth, and settled himself. He tried to imagine being Ippegrave, so close and secretive, then smiled: he was that already.Yet in truth, Boniface had been different from him, a bachelor with a doting sister and a secret lover whose name began with M. Corbett smoothed the piece of vellum in front of him, dipped his quill pen in the ink and began to write.
Item: This mysterious Beatrice, Emma Evesham’s maid, had been present when her mistress was attacked and murdered. Was the assault simply a bloody street affray and Emma Evesham the wrong woman in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or was it a planned assault? Was Beatrice party to it? And what had happened to her? Was she killed and her corpse taken elsewhere? Evesham and Coroner Fleschner appeared to have searched for this elusive maid but discovered no trace of her alive or dead. So did Beatrice flee, but where? To whom? Why? Was she abducted and still alive? Again why? What had happened to her?
Item: Why had Boniface collected some of those horrid messages left on the corpses of the Mysterium’s victims? What was he searching for?
Item: How had Boniface been able to discover the secret machinations of the Mysterium and his use of the great hoarding at St Paul’s? Evesham had only established the truth of that after he had trapped the merchant Chauntoys and Boniface in Southwark.
Item: Why had Boniface listed Emma alongside other victims of mysterious death? She was certainly murdered, but there was no real proof that Bassetlawe, Furnival and Rescales had been. All three deaths could have been accidents, the verdict recorded at the time.
Item: Why had Boniface listed other clerks, Blandeford, Staunton, Evesham and Engleat? For what purpose?
Item: Boniface had protested his innocence.What was that phrase he’d scrawled on the page of the Book of the Gospels at St Botulph’s: ‘I stand in the centre guiltless and point to the four corners.’ What did it mean?
Item: Why did Evesham and others believe the Mysterium was a chancery clerk? Who had reached that conclusion? Why not a scribe at the Guildhall?
Item: Why did the Mysterium always leave that mocking message, ‘
Mysterium Rei
– the Mystery of the Thing’, on the corpses of his victims?
Item: Evesham, Engleat, Waldene, Hubert the Monk, Clarice, Richard Fink and now Fleschner had all been killed within a short period of time by the same killer: why? What linked all these victims to this bloody mysterious mayhem?
Item: Nevertheless, there were incidents that seemed out of harmony with this murderous pattern. The writer from the Land of Cockaigne, who was he? The riot at Newgate: who had really caused both that and the furious fight at St Botulph’s?
Item: If Boniface was innocent and, for sake of argument, had survived, why had he returned to his sister to proclaim that he was carrying out vengeance? Why his interest in the woman Beatrice?
Corbett put his pen down. He felt lost, unable to form a rock-hard conclusion on which to construct a thesis that would match the evidence. He rose, paced the chamber, ate some of the stale food left on Chanson’s platter and returned to his chair. He dozed for a while and startled as the door latch rattled and Staunton and Blandeford strode in. Corbett immediately grasped the hilt of his knife. Both men looked sinister in their heavy cloaks and deep cowls, more like monkish rats than judge and clerk. They parted to go around the table, walking swiftly towards Corbett, who, hand still on his dagger, rose to his feet. Staunton stopped abruptly, drew a set of keys out of the pocket of his cloak and waved these tauntingly in Corbett‘s face.
‘We were coming to see you, Sir Hugh. We found the catchpole from Cripplegate wandering the galleries below. One of the guards stopped him. He was demanding to see you, so we took his keys. I gather,’ he smirked, ‘your companions Ranulf and Chanson are savouring the joys of a nearby tavern.’
‘They have worked hard.’ Corbett grasped the heavy bunch of keys and slammed then down on the desk. ‘So these are the keys to St Botulph’s?’
‘So the catchpole said.’
‘And you, sirs, what do you want?’
Staunton, uninvited, sat down on a chair; Blandeford pulled a stool up close.
‘We’ve heard rumours, Sir Hugh. You seem to be concentrating on events of twenty years ago rather than—’
‘I dig for the roots,’ Corbett intervened, asserting himself. He did not like the arrogance of these two men, who seemed slightly menacing in the shifting shadows. ‘Tell me,’ he sat down, ‘Boniface Ippegrave put your names on a list.’
‘So?’ Staunton pushed back the deep cowl from over his head.
‘Were you suspected of being the Mysterium?’
‘What do you mean? What are you implying? How dare you . . .’
‘Oh, I dare.’ Corbett laughed. ‘And I would dare again. Listen, Evesham believed the Mysterium was a chancery clerk, someone like us, party to the chatter of both city and court.’
‘That’s logical,’ Staunton conceded.
‘I disagree.’ Corbett crossed his arms and leaned closer, holding Staunton’s arrogant stare. ‘Learned judge, it is not logical. What about the clerks at the Guildhall, or even those of the merchants?’
‘What are you implying?’
‘Who first raised the possibility that the Mysterium must be a chancery clerk?’ Corbett glanced down the floor, waiting for the answer. Outside, the strengthening night breeze rattled the shutters, the icy draught seeping in making the timbers of the ancient palace creak.
‘I don’t know,’ Staunton blustered. ‘I cannot remember. Old Chancellor Burnell was beside himself. An assassin was loose in the city, hired by the great merchants to settle scores with their enemies. The Mysterium was taunting the authority of the law. You know how the King would regard that, especially in London. Burnell turned to his clerks for advice and help; that’s how I suspect the conclusion was reached that the Mysterium was a chancery official.’ Staunton rose abruptly. ‘Sir Hugh, we simply came to give our greetings.’
‘No you didn’t.’ Corbett also stood up. ‘You came to give me a bunch of keys and pry on what I’m doing. Why, sirs, are you reporting to the King? Or are you worried about your clerk Lapwing? I hold you responsible for him.’ He wagged a finger in Staunton’s face. ‘I must have close words with Lapwing on a number of matters. Now, sirs, unless you have further information for me . . .’