‘And you, Sir Walter?’
‘I went to apologise for my men.’
‘And the meeting was amicable?’
Bullock opened his mouth to reply.
‘The truth!’ Corbett demanded.
‘It was far from amicable,’ Bullock admitted. ‘At first Appleston accused me of being a bullyboy, of enjoying the discomfiture of the Masters and scholars at Sparrow Hall. I told him not to be so stupid. I was about to leave when he also called me a traitor: he had seen my name amongst the adherents of de Montfort. I told him he was too young and too foolish to pass judgement on his elders.’ Bullock shrugged. ‘Then I left.’ The Sheriff sat down on a stool. ‘Why,’ he added, ‘can’t de Montfort’s ghost leave us alone?’ He glanced up. ‘Sir Hugh, what will happen now? I can’t keep guarding Sparrow Hall for ever and a day. The King must be told.’ A touch of malice entered his voice. ‘He will order the dispersal of the Masters and this place closed.’
‘The Proctors of the University and others will have something to say about that,’ Barnett brayed. ‘Our status and property are the same as Holy Mother Church. We are not puffs of smoke to be wafted away.’
‘Why are you so sure Appleston is not the Bellman?’ Churchley asked. ‘We have only conjecture for your conclusions.’
‘In a while, in a while,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Master Alfred, I would like to look in your library. I’ll take this book back myself. Ranulf here will return The Confessions. He can always study the work at the royal libraries in Westminster.’ Corbett, followed by Ranulf, walked to the door. He turned. ‘But none of you is to leave,’ he warned. ‘The fire still burns,’ he added, ‘and the pot has yet to come to the boil.’
‘What did you mean by that?’ Ranulf asked as they walked down towards the library.
Corbett stopped. ‘I don’t know, but it will make them think. Perhaps the Bellman will make another move and, this time, may not be so clever. Go back and collect their book. I’ll wait for you in the library.’
Corbett pushed open the door of the library and went in. The arrow slits high in the walls provided some light but he opened the shutters at the far end, which gave him a view out over the garden. He went to the archivist’s desk and opened the register. He noted the entries for Ranulf and afterwards Appleston for the book he had just brought back. Corbett walked round the library. Each shelf had its own mark and these were copied on the inside folio of every book. He found the place for Appleston’s book, then carefully removed and studied other works on the same shelf. Many of them were similar, writings from the time of the great civil war as well as extracts from chronicles about de Montfort. One folio, thicker than the rest, contained the private papers of Henry Braose, the founder of the college. As he leafed through these, Corbett’s heart skipped a beat. Certain pages had been neatly cut out with a knife. Corbett did not know whether this was recent or had occurred when the book was first bound. There was no index. Corbett took the book to a seat underneath the window and scrutinised it. Most of the contents were letters between Braose, the King and members of the Royal Council. Some were from Braose’s beloved sister Mathilda; three or four to Roger Ascham his friend. Corbett closed the book and examined the cover: there was no dust so someone had quite recently taken it out. The door opened and Ranulf came in.
‘I’ll put it back, Master,’ he offered, holding up The Confessions. ‘I know where it goes. Have you found anything interesting?’
‘Yes and no,’ Corbett replied. He showed Ranulf the book with the pages ripped out.
They went back to the shelves and continued their searches. Servants came in to ask if they wanted anything to eat or drink but they refused. Tripham and then Lady Mathilda also entered to see if they needed further assistance. Corbett murmured absentmindedly that they did not and he and Ranulf returned to their searches. Now and again a bell rang and they heard the sound of feet pattering outside.
‘Nothing,’ Corbett concluded. ‘I can discover nothing.’
He paused as the door opened and Master Churchley came in.
‘Sir Hugh, Appleston’s corpse must be dressed and prepared for burial. Master Tripham also asks if your servant has returned our book; it is quite costly.’
‘The corpse can be removed,’ Corbett replied. ‘And Ranulf has brought your book back.’
‘How much longer will you be?’
‘As long as we want, Master Churchley!’ Corbett snapped. He waited until the door closed. ‘But if the truth be known,’ he whispered, ‘there is little more we can do here.’
‘Monica!’ Ranulf declared abruptly.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Monica,’ Ranulf explained, beaming across the table. ‘I was thinking about Augustine’s mother, St Monica, who prayed every day that her son be converted.’ His eyes grew soft. ‘She must have been a woman of great strength and patience,’ he added. ‘I wish…’ Ranulf paused. ‘Is there anything we know about her?’
Corbett clapped Ranulf on the shoulder. ‘A true scholar, Ranulf,’ he declared, ‘never leaves a library without learning something. This place must have a book of hagiography: The Lives of the Saints,’ he explained, seeing the puzzlement in Ranulf’s face.
Corbett went along the shelves and took down a huge calf-skin tome which he laid gently on the table. He opened it, pointing to the titles.
‘You see, St Andrew, Boniface, Callixtus.’ He opened the pages.
‘The writing’s beautiful,’ Ranulf muttered. ‘And the illuminations…’
‘Probably the work of some monastic scribe,’ Corbett explained. He turned back to the cover of the book where Henry Braose’s name was boldly etched.
‘Henry must have been a very wealthy man,’ Ranulf remarked.
‘After the civil war ended,’ Corbett replied, ‘De Montfort and all his party were disinherited. Their lands, manors, castles, libraries and treasure chests were all deemed spoils of war. Edward never forgot those who supported him: de Warrenne and de Lacey were lavishly rewarded. It was wholesale plunder,’ Corbett continued. ‘And Braose was one of the principal beneficiaries. Now. St Monica-’ He sifted through the pages to the chapter which began with ‘M’, the letter being painted in blue and gold. Corbett looked down the page and gasped. Ranulf came round so he turned the page over quickly. He found the place for St Monica and pushed the book over. Ranulf seized it eagerly and began to read the entry, his lips moving soundlessly. Corbett walked to the window, so Ranulf would not glimpse his excitement. He stood, breathing in deeply, calming the excitement in bis belly. But how, he thought? How could it be done? He stared into the garden. The assassin came here, slunk along the walls with an arbalest. But why did Ascham open the shutters? And what of the other murders?
‘Master, I’m finished.’
Corbett went back, picked up the book and placed it back on the shelf. He was sure it would be safe there: that and the book found in Appleston’s chamber were all the proof he really needed.
‘We’d best go.’
Ranulf caught Corbett by the shoulder. ‘Master, what is it?’ He smiled. ‘You’ve found something, haven’t you?’
‘A faint suspicion.’ Corbett winked. ‘Suspicion but not proof.’
‘So what now?’
‘Doucement, as the French would say,’ Corbett replied. ‘Gently, gently, lad. Come, let’s walk.’
They left the library. Corbett became infuriatingly quiet as he walked round the Hall, upstairs and along the galleries. At one point near a back door, Ranulf stopped and pointed to an iron boot bar cemented into the floor.
‘Just like the one in St Michael’s Church,’ he observed.
‘It’s to clean boots,’ Corbett absentmindedly replied.
‘According to Magdalena the anchorite,’ Ranulf replied, ‘Passerel’s assassin tripped against the one in St Michael’s.’
‘Did he now?’ Corbett replied slowly and he stared down at the boot bar.
‘We must go there,’ he added enigmatically.