Corbett returned to sit at the table. He wafted at the flies which were hovering above the stains in the wood grain.
‘I hadn’t thought of that, Ranulf,’ he declared. ‘It’s possible; but let’s continue. Passerel is depicted as Ascham’s murderer and he, in turn, flees the college only to be later murdered at St Michael’s. But why was Passerel killed?’ he asked. ‘Why not leave him as he was depicted, the possible murderer? Unless, of course,’ Corbett concluded; ‘Passerel might reflect on what his good friend Ascham had told him.’ He paused and glanced up. ‘Do you know something, Ranulf? When we return to Sparrow Hall I must do two things. Firstly, I want to look through Passerel’s and Ascham’s possessions, particularly their papers.’ Corbett began to write.
‘And secondly?’ Ranulf asked hopefully.
‘I want to ask our good physician, Master Aylric Churchley, if he keeps poisons? Copsale was probably poisoned and we know Passerel and Langton certainly were. Now such potions are expensive to buy; moreover, some apothecary or leech would certainly recall anyone asking to buy them…’
‘But would Churchley have some?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Yes, and I suspect the poisons used were from his stock. Anyway, to conclude-’ Corbett sighed. ‘We know the Bellman is at Sparrow Hall or the hostelry. We are not too sure about his motives, except for his deep hatred for the King and the Hall itself. We know the Bellman is a skilled clerk, able to move round Oxford in the dead of night. A ruthless murderer who has already killed four men in order to conceal his identity…’
‘Master?’
Corbett glanced at Ranulf.
‘If, as you say, the Bellman hates the King and Sparrow Hall, then that places me, and certainly you, in grave danger. Can you imagine what would happen if Sir Hugh Corbett, the King’s principal clerk, friend and companion, was found poisoned or with his throat cut in some Oxford alleyway, with a proclamation from the Bellman pinned to his corpse?’
Corbett didn’t flinch but Ranulf saw the colour fade from his face.
‘I am sorry, Master, but if we are going to put up hypotheses then I am going to study mine very carefully. If Sir Hugh Corbett is hurt or killed, the King’s wrath would know no bounds. That sullen bastard at the castle would soon find the King shaking him by the collar whilst the Royal Justices would be in Sparrow Hall as quick as an arrow, expelling the community, sealing its rooms and confiscating possessions.’
Corbett smiled thinly. ‘You put a very high price on my head, Ranulf.’
‘No, Master. I am a rogue, a street fighter, and, whoever he is, the Bellman is no different: he will reach the same conclusion as I have, if he hasn’t already.’
‘Then we should be careful.’
‘Aye, Master, we should. No more food or wine in Sparrow Hall. No wandering the streets of Oxford at night.’
‘That is going to be hard!’
Corbett returned to his writing, listing quickly the conclusions he had reached, his pen skimming over the smooth vellum he had taken from his chancery bag. He put the quill down.
‘And now to our final problem,’ he declared. ‘Every so often, the headless corpse of a beggar is found in the fields outside Oxford, the head tied by its hair to the branches of some nearby tree. We know that beggars are chosen as victims because they are lonely and vulnerable. In a sense, no one will miss them. However-’ Corbett ticked the points off on his finger. ‘Firstly, why aren’t the corpses found within the city walls? Secondly, according to Bullock there’s been very little sign of violence around where the severed corpses were found. Thirdly, why are they always found near some trackway? And finally, why are they never found along the same road but at different places around the outskirts of the city?’
Corbett dropped his hand. ‘Which means, my dear Ranulf, that they must have been killed inside Oxford and then transported out by different routes to be later disposed of. However, if the murders occur within the city, surely someone would notice? The only conclusion we can draw is that, perhaps, they are killed outside the city at one particular spot but the remains deliberately displayed elsewhere. What else?’
‘I am just thinking about Maltote. We shouldn’t leave him alone too long.’
Corbett shook his head. ‘No, if you are correct, the Bellman will hunt the King’s dog or crow. Maltote is safe — except, perhaps, from the teasing of Ap Thomas and others.’ He picked up his quill. ‘Concentrate on the problem. What other questions can we ask about the murders of these poor beggars?’
‘Why?’ Ranulf asked. ‘Why are they killed in such a barbaric way?’
Corbett stared at a wine stain on the far wall. ‘Godric may indeed have seen something in the woods around Oxford: the activities of a coven or a group of warlocks, and this group must be based here in Oxford. We know there’s some connection with Sparrow Hall, because of the button we took from the last corpse. Now, I can’t see any of the Masters engaged in some devilish activity. However, our scholars, under David Ap Thomas, might have something to answer.’
‘Do you think Ap Thomas could be the Bellman?’ Ranulf asked. ‘After all, scholars can move round Oxford at night? David Ap Thomas is a rebel by nature: he might enjoy baiting the King.’ He paused. ‘Have you forgotten Alice atte-Bowe and her coven?’
Corbett closed his eyes. So many years ago, he thought. It had been the first task entrusted to him by Chancellor Burnell, the rooting out of a coven of witches and traitors around the church of St Mary Le Bow in London. Corbett recalled Alice’s dark, beautiful face. He opened his eyes.
‘I shall never forget,’ he replied. ‘I think I have but then — a sound, a smell and the memories come tumbling back.’ He packed away his writing equipment. ‘There’s always the library,’ he added. ‘We have yet to search for what Ascham was studying, although that might be an impossible task: there are so many books and manuscripts! We don’t even know if the book is still there. We could waste days, even weeks, playing a game of Blind Man’s Buff!’ Corbett rose. ‘It’s time we left for Sparrow Hall.’
They left the chamber and went downstairs. The landlord was waiting for them, a battered leather bundle in his hands.
‘Sir Hugh Corbett?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
The landlord thrust the small bundle into Corbett’s hands.
‘A beggar child came in.’ He pointed to the doorway. ‘A man, cowled and hooded, was standing behind. The child gave me this for you.’
Corbett wrinkled his nose at the foul smell and the greasy scrap of parchment, with his name scrawled on it, tied on a string round the leather bundle. He walked out into the street, stood in the mouth of an alleyway and cut the cord. He crouched down and gingerly tipped the contents into the muddy street. His stomach clenched and he gagged at the sight of the tattered, foul remains of a crow, its body slit from throat to crotch, the innards spilling out. Corbett swore, kicked the dead bird away and went back into the street.
Ranulf stayed behind. He examined the bird carefully and then the tattered, leather bag.
‘Leave it, Ranulf!’ Corbett called.
‘A warning, Master?’
‘Aye,’ Corbett breathed. ‘A warning.’
He stared across Broad Street. The crowd had thinned: it was well past noon: the Angelus bell had tolled and the cookshops and taverns were now full, the traders enjoying a slight lull in the day’s frenetic activities. Corbett and Ranulf walked back towards Sparrow Hall. Now and again Ranulf would turn, staring up a narrow alleyway or glancing at the windows on either side, but he could detect no sign of pursuit. They entered the lane; the door to Sparrow Hall was closed so they crossed the street, went down an alleyway and into the yard of the hostelry. Norreys, assisted by some porters, was rolling great barrels out of a cart to be lowered through an open trap door into the cellar below.