Corbett then went outside, staring up at the different windows, particularly those at the back of the hall. Before he left, Corbett plucked a red rose, still wet with the morning’s dew. When they went out into the stinking alleyway where Maltote had been fatally wounded, he ignored the curious stares of Bullock’s soldiers and placed the rose in a niche on the wall.
‘A memento mori,’ he explained. ‘But come, Ranulf, it is time for prayer.’
They went out into the streets and made their way through the thronging crowds of hucksters and traders into St Michael’s Church. Corbett walked up the nave and stood in the mouth of the rood screen.
‘So, a Daniel has come to judgement!’ The anchorite’s voice echoed down the church. ‘You have come to judgement, haven’t you?’
‘How does she know?’ Ranulf whispered.
‘A matter of faith rather than deduction,’ Corbett replied. ‘I wager that poor woman has prayed every day for vengeance on Sparrow Hall. Oxford is a small community — Appleston’s death must now be known by all.’
Corbett genuflected towards the sanctuary lamp and walked to the side door where Passerel’s assassin had crept in. He crouched down to examine the iron boot bar cemented into the paving stones. It was just within the door so people could scrape the mud and dirt from their boots.
‘Passerel’s assassin stumbled there,’ the anchorite shouted. ‘I saw him, like a thief in the night, but that’s what Death is, the silent stealer of souls.’
Corbett ignored her. He then walked out of the church, not bothering to listen to the anchorite’s fresh cry, ‘The justice of God will shoot out like a flaming rod against sinners!’
He and Ranulf walked across the street, turned a comer and went down Retching Alley into a small ale shop. The room inside was no bigger than a peasant’s hovel, with a mud-packed floor, some stools and large, overturned vats as tables. Nevertheless, the ale was tangy and frothy.
‘Well?’ Ranulf put his blackjack down. ‘Are we going to walk round Oxford or sit here on our arses looking at each other?’
Corbett smiled. ‘I was thinking about chance, Ranulf. Luck, the throw of the dice. Take Edward’s great victory over de Montfort at Evesham — oh, Edward’s a fine general but he was lucky. Or the outlaw we hanged at Leighton. What was his name?’
‘Boso.’
‘Ah yes, Boso. How did you catch him?’
‘He decided to flee,’ Ranulf replied, ‘but took the wrong path. You can’t run far when you are trapped fast in a marsh.’
‘And if he had taken another path?’
‘We’d have lost him. As you know, an army could hide in Epping Forest.’
‘It’s the same here,’ Corbett replied. ‘We can use logic and deduction but what brings results is luck.’
‘Is it, Master?’ Ranulf cradled the blackjack in his hands. ‘In a few months it will be November, the feast of the Holy Souls. I keep remembering the story you told me about the murder in your parish when you were a boy. Think of all the dead, all the victims of the Bellman crying to God for justice.’
Corbett toasted him silently with his own pot of ale.
‘Quite the theologian, Ranulf. Divine intervention is a possibility but God also helps those who help themselves. Let’s go through the list of victims.’ Corbett put his ale down.
‘Copsale died in his sleep, probably poisoned or smothered like Appleston.’
‘And Ascham?’
‘Was foolish enough to open the window shutters: he probably didn’t even think.’
‘And Passerel?’
‘I don’t know why Passerel was killed except that as he and Ascham were close friends, the Bellman might have feared that the archivist had shared his anxieties with him.’
‘And Langton?’
‘Again, very easy. People were gathered in the library and cups of wine stood on the table; an easy target. What I can’t understand is how the dead man had a letter for me from the Bellman in his wallet?’ Corbett stared at a chicken which was pecking at the mud-packed floor.
‘And Appleston?’ Ranulf asked. ‘It must have been someone strong to keep that bolster over his face.’ Ranulf called across to the tapster to fill their blackjacks. ‘But who, Master, and why?’
‘According to Aristotle,’ Corbett replied, ‘man is naturally good. This confused your favourite philosopher Augustine: how could Man, who must be good if he is created by God, do evil?’
‘Did he resolve the problem?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Yes, Augustine did: he said that when a man sins, he is seeking a selfish good. He is in fact saying, evil be thou my good.’
‘And the Bellman is doing that?’
Corbett finished off his ale. ‘Perhaps? Anyway, enough theory, Ranulf. Let me reflect for a while.’
Corbett rose and walked into the yard behind the small ale house: he sat on a turf-built bench, staring into the oval-shaped carp pond as if fascinated by the fish. Ranulf let him be. He supped his ale and, making himself comfortable in a corner, dozed for an hour. He was woken by Corbett tapping his boot.
‘I am ready now.’
They returned to Sparrow Hall, where Corbett sought out Tripham.
‘Master Alfred, I would be most grateful if you could keep your colleague Churchley under close supervision. However, I must first have words with Lady Mathilda.’
Corbett, followed by a still-mystified Ranulf, climbed the stairs. A servant directed them to Lady Mathilda’s chamber at the far end of the gallery. Corbett knocked.
‘Come in!’
Lady Mathilda was seated by the hearth, a piece of embroidery on her lap, needle poised in mid-air. On a stool opposite sat Master Moth, his ghost-like face and watchful eyes reminding Corbett of an obedient lapdog.
‘Sir Hugh, how can I help?’
Lady Mathilda waved him to a chair. She dismissed Ranulf with a cursory glance.
‘Lady Mathilda.’ Corbett pointed to her writing desk. ‘I need to see Sir Walter Bullock urgently. If I could borrow pen and paper, would Master Moth take my message to the castle?’
‘Of course. Why, is there something wrong?’
‘You are the King’s spy at Sparrow Hall,’ Corbett replied, sitting down at the desk, ‘so, you should know before the others do; I believe that Master Churchley has a great deal to answer for as, perhaps, does his colleague Barnett.’
Corbett seized a quill, dipped it into the inkpot and wrote a short note asking the Sheriff to come as quickly as he could. He sanded the paper, folded and neatly sealed it with a blob of hot wax. Lady Mathilda made her strange hand signs to Master Moth who nodded solemnly.
‘The Sheriff may not be at the castle,’ Dame Mathilda pointed out.
‘Then ask Master Moth to wait until he returns. Lady Mathilda, I have some questions, which I believe you may be able to assist me with.’
Corbett watched and waited as Moth took the letter, knelt, kissed Lady Mathilda’s hand then quietly left the room. Once he was gone, Corbett locked and bolted the door behind him. Lady Mathilda looked up in alarm, placing the piece of embroidery on the small table beside her. Ranulf watched fascinated.
‘Is that really necessary, Sir Hugh?’ Lady Mathilda snapped.
‘Oh, I think so,’ Corbett replied. ‘I don’t want Master Moth coming back, Lady Mathilda, for I have never seen a man, anyone, being so close to a manifestation of someone else’s soul.’ Corbett sat down in the chair opposite and picked at the hem of his cloak. ‘On any other occasion, Lady Mathilda, I would have gone back to my chamber, written out my conclusions and reflected on what I should do. But I can’t do that here: with you, time is very dangerous!’
Lady Mathilda’s face remained impassive.
‘No one suspects you,’ Corbett continued, ‘old and venerable, resting on a cane. How could Lady Mathilda go out and stab someone in an alleyway or send a crossbow bolt into a man’s chest? Or place a bolster over Appleston’s face and keep it there?’
‘This is preposterous!’ Lady Mathilda protested.
‘No, it’s not preposterous,’ Corbett replied. ‘But, when you have someone like Master Moth to do your bidding for you…’