‘Who would do that?’ demanded Roger Blandeford, chief clerk to Justice Hervey Staunton.
Corbett was tempted to reply that half of London would, whilst the other half would have clapped with glee. Instead he leaned closer, ignoring the harsh tang of the herbs in which the cadaver had been washed, and carefully scrutinising the letter ‘M’ carved on to Evesham’s smooth forehead. He felt a chill of apprehension. ‘M’ for Mysterium, the hallmark of a professional assassin who’d prowled London two decades ago. A skilled killer who’d murdered for profit until Lord Walter Evesham had brought him down.
He moved to the second corpse. Ignacio Engleat had never been handsome in life; death only emphasised his ugly face and scrawny hair, the jowly mouth, the snub nose and flared nostrils, those ever-peering eyes now closed for good. Both body and face were bloated with water and, despite the herbs and washing, reeked of mud slime and river offal. Engleat had been Walter Evesham’s faithful clerk and scribe; he had shadowed him in more senses than one. An arrogant, haughty man with a scornful heart and viper-like tongue, he would toady to the great but savage those weaker or more vulnerable than himself.
‘Found floating in the Thames.’
Edward of England walked over. The King’s face was rather pale, the furrowed lines more emphasised, the iron-grey tangle of hair uncombed. Corbett recognised the signs. Edward’s lips were a bloodless line, his right eye drooped almost shut. The King was seething.
‘Again the Mysterium.’ Corbett pointed to the large ‘M’ etched on Engleat’s brow.
‘And these were found pinned to the two corpses.’ Edward handed over two scraps of soaked vellum. The ink was blurred but the two words were clear enough:
Mysterium Rei
– the Mystery of the Thing. ‘Evesham,’ he hissed. ‘I thought Evesham trapped that assassin?’
‘If I recall,’ Corbett replied, ‘the Mysterium escaped. He vanished. Now, your grace, he has apparently returned with a vengeance. And this?’ He moved to the third corpse.
The last cadaver was disgusting. The man had undoubtedly been hanged; his bloated face was a bluish grey. One eye had been plucked out, and the end of his nose and part of his upper lip had been gnawed away.
‘Scemscale,’ called Hervey Staunton, a pomander muffling his nose and mouth. Corbett looked up. ‘Scemscale,’ Staunton repeated. ‘That’s what he called himself. That’s the name I used when I sentenced him to hang on the river scaffold for the turn of three tides.’
‘When?’
‘Oh, about a week ago.’
‘His corpse,’ the King intervened, ‘was found lashed to that of Ignacio Engleat.’
‘An ancient punishment.’ Staunton was determined to show his knowledge. ‘And one more’s the pity, not used today. The punishment for a liar and a perjurer who sent others to their deaths by false accusation and blasphemous oaths.’
‘What else?’
‘The assassin is proclaiming that Engleat was also a murderer, but when, how and why? I don’t know.’
‘A sorry tale,’ Corbett whispered.
‘But not here,’ murmured the King, ‘not here. My lord abbot’s parlour would be more fitting for our deliberations.’
Corbett agreed. The abbot’s parlour proved to be a welcome relief from the haunting, dour corpse chapel. He’d been glad to be free of it, out in the clear night air, the rich smell of burning wood mingling with that of sweet incense and candle smoke. The chanting of compline echoed from the great church. On the fitful breeze faint sounds carried from the surrounding woods as darkness settled. Corbett washed his face and hands at a lavarium in the cloisters, the King constantly by his side whispering how he must stay in the abbey that night, how he wanted this malevolent business swiftly resolved. Corbett just nodded until the King fell silent, glaring at him as a lay brother led them through a labyrinth of hollow-stoned passageways to this exquisitely comfortable chamber where flames sparked and flared as the logs in the great mantled hearth cracked and split. Candlelight glowed in the sheen of oaken panelling and the long table dominated by a small nef, an intricately carved silver cog bearing the Mary and her Divine Child. Many-coloured triptychs decorated the white plaster above the gleaming panelling. The shelves of the open aumbry against the far wall displayed the precious gold and silver plate of the abbey. It was truly a place to relax after the rigours of the day.
A servant poured mulled wine, so hot each goblet was wrapped in a thick white napkin. On a small pewter plate beside it was diced spiced meat covered with breadcrumbs, to be eaten with the horn spoon provided. The King, seated at the top of the table, invited them to eat and swiftly devoured his own portion. Sir Hervey Staunton seemed reluctant, so the King pulled across his platter and quickly cleared it, sitting back in the high-backed chair with a sigh of relief as he warmed his hands around the goblet. Corbett ate carefully, nudging Ranulf with his knee to warn him not to laugh at the King. Ranulf obeyed, keeping his head down, though now and again the red-haired clerk would glance across at Staunton and Blandeford. Corbett did not like either of them; neither did Ranulf, who secretly dismissed the precious pair as ‘cheeks of the same arse’.
Staunton sat in the Court of King’s Bench: he was a small, furtive man with a pointed face that reminded Ranulf of a rat. His lank hair framed thin, solemn features: a small mouth, sharp nose and close-set eyes. Clean-shaven, dressed in a bottle-green cotehardie with a silver chain of office around his neck, Staunton might be considered a lowly official, but that was a dangerous conclusion, Ranulf reflected. In the scarlet silks of his office he was a truly frightening figure, a bully who would often reduce those who appeared before him to a state of nervous exhaustion. A ruthlessly ambitious man who, according to Corbett, believed only in one legal verse:
Voluntas Principis habet vigorem legis
– the will of the Prince has force of law, Staunton was a royal creature, with only one master, the Crown.
Blandeford, his scribe, was tall and slender, his olive-skinned face closely shaved, his black hair neatly cut, his clerical tonsure clear to see. His pious, gentle looks concealed a brain teeming like a beehive and a heart as hard as flint. Court gossips maintained that Blandeford, a truly vaunting clerk, would enter the Church and became a bishop. God help us all on that, Ranulf reflected. He finished his food and stared directly across at Blandeford, who sat watching him just as closely.
Edward I, now warm, his belly full, the royal right eye no longer drooping so much, sat lost in thought. Corbett cradled his own wine cup and stared at a triptych on the wall opposite. Gilt-edged and painted deftly in red, blue, green and gold, it described the death of St Benedict’s sister Scholastica. He concentrated on the pious images, which soothed the harrowing memories of the day.
‘My lords,’ Edward tapped the table, ‘it is good to be here.’ He gestured at the door barred from the inside, then at the polished shutters over the small oriel window on the far wall. ‘We can take close council here, so I shall begin. You know most of the sorry tale, but it becomes richer in its retelling. Twenty years ago, an assassin appeared in London. Now that city, that seething pot of dissent and rebellion, is truly the house of murder: assassins and slayers are manifold, but the Mysterium was different. He’d kill those whom the powerful of London wanted dead. His victims suffered various fates: drowning, stabbing, burning in a fire, garrotting, or the casualty of a falling wall.’ The King raised a hand. ‘When the corpses were found, and I believe not all were, the letter “M” was carved on the victim’s forehead and upon the corpse was a scrap of parchment with the words
Mysterium Rei
– the Mystery of the Thing – an enigmatic, taunting phrase. God knows what it means; perhaps it was left to intrigue or to serve as a hallmark. Now London bubbles with enmities and rivalries of every kind: husband and wife, feuding kin, business rivals, insults given, insults suffered . . .’ The King paused as Staunton lifted his hand.
‘Sire, the writing on the parchment?’
‘By a hand ordinary enough, on parchment that could be found anywhere. Nothing remarkable, except,’ Edward added flatly, ‘this was murder.The number of deaths increased; protests were lodged.’
Staunton and Blandeford murmured their agreement.
‘Now.’ Edward gestured around. ‘All of you served in the chancery at the time. You know most of this through rumour, gossip and tittle-tattle. A murder by the gangs in London is one thing, but the Mysterium was another. Old Burnell, my chancellor, turned to a very ambitious, talented clerk, Walter Evesham. All of you must have known him. Corbett, this was in your green and salad days.’ The King’s glance softened. ‘Before my beloved Eleanor.’ His voice became choked with emotion, as it did whenever he mentioned his first wife. ‘Ah well,’ he whispered, ‘glory days! Do you remember them, Corbett? As for you, Ranulf,’ Edward half smiled, ‘no, you wouldn’t know any of this.’
Corbett just sat and nodded in agreement. He remembered Evesham, sharp as a knife, secretive, always busy on this and that.
‘Keen-witted and cunning,’ he murmured. ‘Evesham was a man of many talents.’
‘He certainly was,’ the King agreed. ‘He was born at Ingachin, a lonely manor along the Welsh March, a desolate place. His father did good service for me in Wales. Walter was the apple of his eye, a scholar. He attended the cathedral schools of Gloucester and Hereford; later the halls of Oxford and Cambridge, studying the Quadrivium and Trivium, though his special talent was logic and the law. He served in the royal levies before being schooled at the Inns of Court, where he was professed as a serjeant. He entered the royal service and did excellent work at the court of France. A true and assiduous collector of information, he had to leave Paris one step ahead of the Secretissimi, my sweet cousin Philip of France’s ruthless agents, and returned to Westminster as a clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax. He later entered the Office of the Secret Seal. I can’t actually remember the details, but Burnell, my chancellor, the same who favoured you, Sir Hugh, entrusted Evesham with one task: to hunt down and trap the Mysterium.’
‘He hid it well,’ Corbett remarked. ‘He still kept busy, busy.’
‘A pretence,’ Edward declared. ‘I shall first move to the conclusion. Evesham actually believed the Mysterium was a chancery clerk, a senior one. Let me explain his logic. Corbett and Staunton, you both know how all the information from home and abroad flows like a river through the offices of the chancery: trade negotiations, alliances, purchases, licences to do this or that, but also the scandal, gossip and chatter from both the court and the city. The faults and foibles of many. Which merchant is playing the two-backed beast, who frequents the stews and bath houses. Above all, the various enmities and hostilities, be it husband or wife, or one guild merchant against another.’ Edward smiled at Ranulf. ‘Even one clerk’s rivalry with a colleague.’
‘And the Mysterium used this?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Yes, he did,’ the King agreed. ‘I said I would first deal with the conclusion. Apparently the Mysterium would learn of an intense hostility, usually hatred, and send a message to one of the parties, the one he believed to be the most susceptible to his advances. All this,’ he waved a hand, ‘can be found in the archives of the Secret Seal. The message would be stark, something to the effect: “Your enemy is my enemy, no mystery. Your enemy can be no more, says the Mysterium. By what name is your enemy called?” Before you ask,’ The King shook his head, ‘the writing on the parchment could have come from a legion of sources.’
‘And the same for how it was delivered,’ Staunton remarked.
‘Slipped into the hand or left at your lodgings,’ added Blandeford, eager to follow his master.
‘But surely,’ Ranulf asked, ‘the recipient would recognise the name Mysterium and realise what this entailed. Wouldn’t someone come forward?’
‘Would they?’ Corbett sipped from the now cooled mulled wine. ‘Very dangerous, Ranulf. A lawyer might argue that you were the Mysterium’s accomplice in some guise or other, whilst God help you if something did befall your enemy.’
‘Precisely!’ Edward tapped the table.
‘But there is something missing, isn’t there?’ Corbett continued. ‘How could the recipient respond?’
‘At the end of the message,’ the King smiled, ‘was a reference; for example, St Paul VI, 2. At first glance the murderer seemed to be referring to one of the Apostle’s letters.’
‘But he wasn’t,’ Ranulf exclaimed. ‘It’s St Paul’s Cathedral and the great hanging board or hoarding in the nave. It’s divided into a hundred and forty-four squares, a reference to the Apocalypse; a wall painting on either side of it depicts how many people will be saved at the Last Judgement.’ He paused. Staunton and Blandeford were smiling at him as if he were a child who’d solved a riddle to which they already knew the answer.
‘Let us hear it, Ranulf,’ Corbett intervened. ‘It’s a long time since I used the great hoarding.’
‘It’s a hundred and forty-four squares,’ Ranulf repeated, wishing the flush in his face would fade, ‘twelve across and twelve down. The horizontal squares are numbered in the Arabic fashion, the vertical in the Roman. VI, 2 would be the square where these two numbers meet. You place your money in an alms box and take a scrap of parchment from a nearby dish. You then write your notice and put it in whatever square you’ve chosen. Everything is advertised there, be it a servant looking for employment, or someone arranging a meeting.’
‘Or a murderer,’ Corbett continued, ‘offering up the name of their intended victim. The Mysterium would come to the cathedral and read what was placed there.’ He pulled a face. ‘Cunning and devious is the human heart. The great hoarding is covered in notices, whilst visitors crowd through St Paul’s many entrances.’
‘And there’s the disguise, the cowl, the visor,’ Staunton declared. ‘People push and shove; who would guess murder was being planned?’