‘Whatever he is, Sir Hugh, he still cannot read or write!’
‘Of course he can’t: that’s why you drew the bell at the top of each proclamation. He would understand that, and know where to pierce it with a nail.’ Corbett paused. ‘Every proclamation had the same symboclass="underline" each proclamation was pinned through that symbol. I wondered why. Now I know the reason.’
Corbett was pleased to see he had gained Lady Mathilda’s attention: her needle no longer stabbed the piece of embroidery.
‘Murder is like any game,’ Corbett continued. ‘As in chess, you begin the game and you plan your moves. I doubt if your mind was bent on murder at first: more on catching the King’s eye and getting your own way here at Sparrow Hall… until Ascham became suspicious, God knows why or how? He was your brother’s friend. He, too, remembered the tracts and writings of de Montfort’s faction. He knew you were a trained clerk.’ Corbett pointed to her stained fingers. ‘That’s why you snatched your fingers away when I tried to kiss them once. A busy scribbler, eh, Lady Mathilda? Ascham was perceptive. He knew the Bellman was in Sparrow Hall with ready access to de Montfort’s writings. Perhaps he voiced those suspicions? And so you decided to kill him. On the afternoon he died, you were with Tripham — or so you said — but I suspect you murdered Ascham before you met the Vice-Regent. You, and Master Moth, had to move quickly before Ascham’s suspicions hardened into certainty. You went down into the deserted garden and there, hidden by the line of bushes, you and Moth committed dreadful murder. Moth tapped on the shutters, and when Ascham peered through, he did not see him as any danger and so opened. But you were there, as well, hidden beneath the sill or to the side. Anyway, you killed him with a crossbow bolt and then threw in that piece of parchment. Ascham, his mind drifting, tried to write down the name of his murderer with his own blood on that same scrap of parchment. He was still thinking about Henry Braose and Mathilda, his sister, the “Parva Passera”. He never finished.’
Corbett glanced towards Ranulf who was staring at Lady Mathilda. Corbett hoped Moth would not return though he was confident that, if he did, Moth would be no match for Ranulf. Corbett wetted his lips.
‘Now, as in a game of chess, mistakes can occur when you make your moves. Ascham should have died immediately: however, you seized on his dying message as a stroke of good fortune — Passerel would take the blame. But then you started to brood: Ascham and the bursar had been friends, perhaps Ascham had voiced his suspicions about you to Passerel. So you arranged for a little legacy to be handed over to David Ap Thomas and his students, and the rest was easy. They blamed Passerel and he fled for sanctuary, but you knew the King was sending one of his clerks to Oxford, and that Passerel must not have the chance to talk with me. So, out went Master Moth with a jug full of poisoned wine and Passerel was no longer a danger. I know it was Master Moth, for when he entered St Michael’s by the side door, the anchorite saw him hit his leg against the iron boot bar but he did not cry out. Being a deaf mute, Moth would simply have to bear the pain.’
‘And Langton?’ Lady Mathilda asked.
‘Before I left for Oxford,’ Corbett replied, ‘I hanged an outlaw called Boso. Before I sentenced him to death, I asked him why he killed? His answer had its own strange logic: “If you have killed once,” he replied, “the second, the third and all other murders follow on easily enough.” You, Lady Mathilda, have a great deal in common with Boso. You are the Bellman, the avenger of all the insults over the years. You would carry out sentence of death against those Masters who had dared even to consider changing the Hall founded by your beloved brother. At the same time, you would prick the King’s conscience.’
Lady Mathilda smiled and put the embroidery on the side table.
‘You talked of chess, Sir Hugh. I enjoy a good game: you must visit me some day and play against me.’
‘Oh, I’in sure you enjoyed your game,’ Corbett replied. ‘You were once the King’s spy: you like the cut and thrust of intrigue. Anyway, after you returned the book Ascham was studying, you felt safe; after all, you have been through your brother’s papers and removed any reference to his “soror mea, parva passera”. You had the run of Sparrow Hall, access to the papers and manuscripts of the dead men, Churchley’s poisons, all the time in the world to prepare, plot and protect yourself. Did you ever think that the deaths of the old beggar men might be connected to Sparrow Hall?’
Lady Mathilda simply grimaced.
‘No,’ Corbett continued. ‘I suppose you were locked into your own foul and murderous plans. Perhaps you forgot your original purpose — to have the Masters of Sparrow Hall disbanded and the college closed down, only to be re-founded after you won favour with the King — and became more interested in the game than the outcome? The death of Langton was merely to increase the grip of terror,’ Corbett continued. ‘As the Bellman, you wrote me a letter before that dinner party, which you gave to Langton to hold. He was very biddable and would accept any story you told him, and you instructed him only to hand it over once the evening’s business was finished.’
‘Things might have gone wrong,’ Lady Mathilda mused.
‘In which case you would have asked for it back,’ Corbett replied. ‘It was a gamble but you enjoyed it. It would increase the fear and perhaps make me panic, as well as make the Bellman appear more sinister and powerful. We adjourned to the library. The servants brought in cups of white wine. You knew I was going to visit the library after the meal. Perhaps you handed Langton the letter as we left the refectory: I followed Tripham, and the rest, including my servants, had drunk deeply. During the conversation there, you picked up Langton’s cup, poured the potion in and ensured it wasn’t far from his hand. Langton drank, died and the letter was delivered.’
‘Is that how Copsale died?’ Ranulf interrupted brusquely. ‘Did you give him a sleeping draught to ease him into eternity?’
Lady Mathilda didn’t even bother to acknowledge the question.
‘We can never prove that,’ Corbett replied. ‘But I am convinced that his murder was a sentence carried out against a man who had dared to question and plan changes at Sparrow Hall.’
Corbett was about to continue when there was a knock on the door. He nodded at Ranulf to open it, and Tripham came in.
‘Sir Hugh, is there anything wrong?’
‘Yes and no,’ Corbett replied. ‘Master Alfred, I would prefer it if you stayed downtairs. Oh, and if Master Moth returns, detain him on some pretext.’
Tripham was about to protest but Corbett held up his hand.
‘Master Alfred, I shall not be long. I promise you!’
Ranulf locked the door behind him. Lady Mathilda made to rise but Corbett stretched across and pressed her back in the chair.
‘I think it’s best if you stay where you are. God knows what this room holds; knife, crossbow, poison? There’s plenty of poison, isn’t there, in Sparrow Hall? And it was not difficult for you to gain access to Master Churchley’s stores as, of course, you’ve got a key to every chamber.’
‘I have listened, Sir Hugh.’ Lady Mathilda breathed in deeply.
Corbett marvelled at her poise and equanimity.
‘I have listened to your story but you have still offered no proof.’
‘I shall come to the evidence soon enough,’ Corbett replied. ‘You are like all the assassins I have met, Lady Mathilda — arrogant, locked in hatred, full of contempt for me. Hence the mocking messages, the rotting corpse of a crow.’ He pointed a finger at her. ‘Now and again, you made small mistakes: like snatching your fingers away when I attempted to kiss your hand lest I notice the ink-stains, or feeling safe to drink your wine just after Langton had died from drinking his poisoned wine. Moreover, you, amongst all those at Sparrow Hall, seemed the least perturbed by Norreys’s killings.’