‘At least thirteen. The cursed number,’ Godric replied defiantly.
‘And have you told anyone else?’ Corbett asked.
‘I told Brother Angelo but he just laughed.’ Godric laid his head back on the bolsters. ‘That’s all I know and now old Godric has got to sleep.’ The beggar turned his face away.
Corbett and Ranulf left the infirmary. They followed Brother Angelo out, down the stairs and into the still busy yard.
‘Have you heard such stories before?’ Corbett asked.
‘Only Godric’s babble,’ the friar replied. ‘But, Sir Hugh — ’ Brother Angelo’s lugubrious fat face became solemn ‘- God knows if he’s roaming in his wits or what?’ He lifted one great paw in benediction. ‘I bid you adieu!’
Corbett and Ranulf left the hospital and entered Broad Street. The crowd had thinned because the schools were open, and the students had flocked there for the early morning lectures. Corbett led Ranulf across the street, stepping gingerly along the wooden board placed across the great, stinking sewer which cut down the centre of the street.
Outside the Merry Maidens tavern, a butcher, his stall next to that of a barber surgeon, was throwing guts and entrails into the street. Beside the stall, a hooded rat-catcher, his ferocious-looking dog squatting next to him, was touting for business.
‘Rats or mice!’ he chanted above the din,
‘Have you any rats, mice, stoats or weasels?
Or have you any old sows sick of the measles?
I can kill them and I can kill moles!
And I can kill vermin that creep in and out of holes!’
The man hawked and spat; he was about to begin again but stood aside as Corbett and Ranulf kicked their way through the mess.
‘Do you have any rats, sir?’ the fellow asked.
‘Aye, we have,’ Ranulf replied. ‘But we don’t know where they are and they walk on two legs!’
Before the startled man could reply, Ranulf followed Corbett into the tavern. The greasy-aproned landlord, bobbing like a branch in the breeze, showed them to the garret Ranulf had rented: a stale-smelling chamber with a straw bed, a table, a bench and two stools. Ranulf stretched out on the bed only to leap up, cursing at the fleas gathering on his hose. He sat on a stool under the open window and watched as Corbett opened his chancery bag and laid out his writing implements: quill, pumice stone and ink horn.
‘What do we do now, Master?’ Ranulf asked sharply.
Corbett grinned. ‘We are in Oxford, Master Ranulf, so let’s follow the Socratic method. We state a hypothesis and question it thoroughly.’
He paused at a knock on the door and a slattern asked if they wished anything to eat or drink. Corbett thanked her but refused.
‘Now,’ he began. ‘The Bellman. Here is a traitor who writes proclamations espousing the cause of the long-dead de Montfort. He pins them up on church or college doors throughout the city. This, apparently, is always done at night. The Bellman claims also to live in Sparrow Hill. So, what questions do we ask?’
‘I cannot understand,’ Ranulf broke in, ‘why we can’t discover the identity of the Bellman by his writing and style of letters?’
Corbett dipped his quill into the open ink-horn and carefully wrote on the parchment. He handed this to Ranulf who pulled a face and passed it back.
‘The Bellman,’ he declared. ‘It’s the same letters, you’d think it was the same hand.’
‘Precisely,’ Corbett replied. ‘A clerkly hand, Ranulf, as you know, is anonymous. All the clerks of the Chancery or Exchequer are taught what quills to use, what ink, and how to form their letters and the Bellman hides behind these. Even if we did find the scribe, it does not necessarily mean he is the Bellman.’
‘But why does he claim to live at Sparrow Hall?’ Ranulf asked.
Corbett rocked backwards and forwards on his stool.
‘Yes, that does puzzle me. Why mention Sparrow Hall at all? Why not the church of St Michael’s, or St Mary’s or even the Bocardo gaol?’
‘There’s the curse?’ Ranulf offered. ‘Maybe the Bellman knows of this? He not only wishes to taunt the King but also the memory of Sir Henry Braose who founded Sparrow Hall.’
‘I would accept that,’ Corbett replied. ‘There is a bravado behind these proclamations, as well as a subtle wit. The Bellman might truly be from elsewhere but he hopes the King will lash out and punish Sparrow Hall. Yet-’ he scratched his head ‘- we do suspect the Bellman is at Sparrow Hall, what with Copsale dying mysteriously in his bed; Ascham in his library; Passerel poisoned in St Michael’s church and Langton’s death last night.’
‘Yes,’ Ranulf added. ‘Langton’s murder seems to prove the assassin lurks in Sparrow Hall.’
‘Let’s move on,’ Corbett replied. ‘We have the Bellman posting his proclamations. He does so in the dead of night. Now, who could flit like a bat through the streets?’
‘At Sparrow Hall?’ Ranulf replied. ‘All the Masters, including Norreys, are strong-bodied men. Lady Mathilda, however, has no reason to hate the Hall her brother founded. I can’t see her hobbling through the streets of Oxford at night, her arms full of proclamations.’
‘There’s Master Moth!’ Corbett replied.
‘He’s witless,’ Ranulf replied. ‘A deaf mute, who can neither read nor write. I noticed that in the library last night. He picked up a book and was looking at it upside down.’ He grinned. ‘Can you imagine him, Master, going through the streets of Oxford in the pitch dark, posting the Bellman’s proclamations upside down?’
‘Of course,’ Corbett added, ‘there’s also our scholars, led by the redoubtable David Ap Thomas. You challenged him last night?’
‘No, Master, I frightened him. But I did notice something: Ap Thomas was wearing his boots, as were his companions, and all had wet streaks of grass clinging to their footwear and clothing. Moreover, Ap Thomas wore a charm or amulet round his neck, as did some of his companions: circles of metal with a cross in the centre, surmounted by a cheap piece of glass in the shape of an eye.’
‘A wheel cross,’ Corbett explained. ‘I saw them in Wales. They are worn by those who believe in the old religion, who hark back to the glorious days of the Druids.’
‘Who?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Pagan priests,’ Corbett explained. ‘The Roman historian, Tacitus, mentions them when writing of Anglesey: they worshipped gods who lived in oak trees by hanging sacrificial victims from the branches.’
‘Like the heads of our beggars?’
‘Possibly,’ Corbett replied. ‘There’s Godric’s wild ravings about fires and garishly dressed people practising rites in the woods. But is that our Bellman?’ Corbett shrugged. ‘Let us keep to our hypothesis. Who is the Bellman and how does he act?’ He drew a deep breath. ‘We know Ascham was close to the truth. He was searching for something in that library but he betrayed himself to the Bellman. Ergo-’ Corbett tapped the quill against his cheek. ‘Ascham was an old and venerable man. He was not used to going to the schools or wandering around Oxford so he must have voiced his suspicions to someone at Sparrow Hall.’ Corbett rose, walked over and looked out of the window. ‘I think we can rest assured,’ he declared, ‘that the Bellman lives in Sparrow Hall or the hostelry across the lane.’
‘But what was Ascham looking for?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Again that proves the conclusion we have reached,’ Corbett replied. ‘Apparently Ascham had a book out on the table but this was later returned to the shelves: an easy enough task for someone at the Hall. However, let’s move on. Ascham was shot by a crossbow bolt, fired by an assassin who persuaded him to open the library window. The Bellman then tossed in his contemptuous note. Ascham, knowing he was dying, grasps it and begins to write what appears to be Passerel’s name in his own blood. Now, why should he do that?’
‘I know.’ Ranulf sprang to his feet, clapping his hands with excitement. ‘Master, how do we know Ascham wrote those letters? How do we know that the assassin didn’t climb through the window, take Ascham’s finger, dip it into his own blood and scrawl those letters to incriminate Passerel?’