Corbett sifted through the pot, noticing how the powder at the top seemed finer than that lying underneath. Churchley handed him a horn spoon and Corbett shook some of the fine chalk-like substance into it. Churchley stopped his protests and watched quietly, his face rather worried.
‘You are thinking the same as I,’ Corbett murmured. He scooped some of the powder on to the spoon. ‘Master Churchley, I assure you, I am not skilled in physic.’ Corbett held the powder up to his nose. ‘But I think this is finely ground chalk or flour and no more deadly.’
Churchley almost snatched the spoon out of his hand and, plucking up courage, he dabbed at the powder and put some on the tip of his tongue. He then took a rag and wiped his mouth.
‘It’s finely ground flour!’ he exclaimed.
‘Who keeps the keys?’ Corbett asked.
‘Well, I do,’ Churchley replied in a fluster. ‘But, Sir Hugh, surely you do not suspect me?’ He stepped out of the pool of light, as if he wished to hide in the shadows. ‘There could be other keys,’ he explained. ‘And this is Sparrow Hall, we don’t bolt and lock all our chambers. Ascham was an exception in that. Anyone could come into my chamber and take the keys. The Hall is often deserted.’ His words came out in a rush.
‘Someone came here,’ Corbett replied, putting the spoon back on the table, ‘and removed enough white arsenic to kill poor Langton. Someone who knew your system, Master Churchley.’
‘Well, everybody does,’ the man gabbled.
‘He filled the jar with powder,’ Corbett explained.
‘But who?’
Corbett wiped his fingers on his cloak.
‘I don’t know, Master Churchley.’ He waved round the room. ‘But God knows what else is missing.’ He stepped up close and saw the fear in Churchley’s eyes. ‘But I ask myself what else, Master Aylric, has been taken?’ Corbett turned and walked to the door. ‘If I was a Master of Sparrow Hall,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘I would be very careful what I ate and drank.’
Chapter 8
A worried Churchley locked the door of the store room and followed Corbett down the gallery.
‘Sir Hugh,’ he wailed. ‘Are you saying we are all in danger?’
‘Yes, yes, I am. I would strongly advise that you scrupulously search to see if any more powders are missing.’
Corbett paused at the top of the stairs. ‘Who is acting as bursar after Passerel’s death?’
‘Well, I am.’
‘Is it possible to sift through Ascham’s and Passerel’s belongings?’
Churchley pulled a face.
‘I need to,’ Corbett persisted. ‘God knows, man, all our lives are at risk. I might find something there.’
Churchley, grumbling under his breath and anxious to get back to his herbs, led Corbett downstairs. They passed the small dining hall to the rear of the building. Churchley unlocked the door and led Corbett into a store room, a large vaulted chamber full of barrels with sheaves of parchment, ink, and vellum ranged along the shelves; further back stood buckets of sea coal and tuns of malmsey, wine and ale.
Churchley took Corbett over to a far corner. He unclasped two great chests.
‘Passerel’s and Ascham’s possessions are here,’ he declared. ‘They had no relatives — or none to speak of. Once their wills have been approved by Chancery, I suppose all these items will be inherited by the college.’
Corbett nodded and knelt down beside the chests. He smiled as he recalled his own experience as a clerk of the Chancery court, having to travel to some manor house or abbey to approve a will or order the release of monies and goods. He began to sift through the belongings. Churchley mumbled something about other duties and left Corbett to his own devices. Once Churchley’s footsteps faded away, Corbett realised how quiet the Hall had become. He controlled a shiver of unease and went across to close and bolt the door before returning to his task. He then searched both chests, sifting through clothes, belts, baldrics, a small calf-skin-covered Books of Hours, cups, mazers, pewter dishes and gilt-edged goblets that each man had collected over the years. Corbett was experienced enough to realise that what was not actually listed in Ascham’s or Passerel’s will would have already been removed. He was also sure the Bellman would have also scrutinised the dead men’s possessions to confirm that nothing suspicious remained. Ascham’s belongings provided little of interest and Corbett was about to give up on Passerel’s when he found a small writing bag. He opened this and tossed the fragments and scraps of parchment it contained on to the floor. Some were blank, others scrawled with different lists of provisions or items of business. There was a roll listing the expenses Passerel had incurred in travelling to Dover. Another listed the salaries of servants in both the hostelry and Hall. A few were covered with graffiti: one in particular caught Corbett’s attention. Passerel had scrawled the word ‘Passera’, ‘Passera’, many times.
‘What is this?’ Corbett murmured, recalling the message left by the dying Ascham. Was Passerel playing some pun on his name? Did ‘Passera’ mean something? Corbett put the pieces of parchment back, tidied up both chests and pushed down the clasps. He went back into the hall and along the passageway to the library. The door was half open. Corbett pushed it aside and walked quietly in. The man seated at the table with his back to him was so engrossed in what he was reading that Corbett was beside him before he turned, the cowl falling back from his head, his hands moving quickly to cover what he was reading.
‘Why, Master Appleston,’ Corbett smiled his apologies. ‘I did not mean to alarm you.’
Appleston closed the book quickly, turning on his stool to face Corbett.
‘Sir Hugh, I was… er… well, you remember what Abelard said?’
‘No, I am afraid I do not.’
‘He said there was no better place to lose one’s soul than in a book.’
Corbett held his hand up. ‘In which case, Master Appleston, may I see the one you are so engrossed in?’
Appleston sighed and handed the book over. Corbett opened it, the stiff, parchment pages crackling as he turned them over.
‘There’s no need to act the inquisitor,’ Appleston declared.
Corbett continued to turn the pages.
‘I have always had an interest in the theories of de Montfort: “Quod omnes tangent ab omnibus approbetur”.’
‘What touches all should be approved by all,’ Corbett translated. ‘And why the interest?’
‘Oh, I could lie,’ Appleston replied, ‘and say I am interested in political theory, but I am sure the court spies or city gossips have told you the truth already.’ He stood up, pulling back his shoulders. ‘My name is Appleston, which was my mother’s name. She was a bailiffs daughter from one of de Montfort’s manors. The great Earl, or so she told me, fell in love with her. I am their child.’
‘And are you proud of that?’ Corbett asked. He studied the square, sunburnt face, the laughter lines around the eyes and wondered if this man, in some way, was a fair reflection of his father. ‘I asked a question.’
‘Of course I am,’ Appleston retorted, touching the sore on the comer of his mouth. ‘Not a day goes by that I don’t pray for the repose of my father’s soul.’
‘Concedo,’ Corbett replied. ‘He was a great man but he was also a traitor to his King.’
‘Voluntas Principis habet vigorem legis,’ Appleston quipped.
‘No, I don’t believe that,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Just because the King wants something does not mean it’s law. I am not a theorist, Master Appleston, but I know the gospels: a man cannot have two masters — a realm cannot have two kings.’
‘And if de Montfort had won?’ Appleston asked.
‘If de Montfort had won,’ Corbett replied, ‘and the Commons, together with the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, had offered him the crown, then I and thousands of others would have bent the knee. What concerns me, Master Appleston, is not de Montfort but the Bellman.’