‘Well, Alfred Tripham is the Vice-Regent. Until Ascham’s and Copsale’s deaths there were eight Masters. Now Tripham is in charge with five others: Leonard Appleston, Aylric Churchley, Peter Langton, Bernard Barnett and Richard Norreys, the Master of the Hostelry. Henry Braose’s younger sister, the Lady Mathilda, also has a chamber in the Hall.’
‘That’s unusual! — for a woman to be given residence in an Oxford Hall?’
‘Lady Mathilda,’ Simon replied, ‘is a good friend of the King. She’s constantly petitioning the Crown for further recognition of her dead brother and extra grants to enlarge the Hall.’ Simon pulled a face. ‘But the Exchequer is exhausted, the treasury’s empty.’
‘And no one at the Hall knows anything about the Bellman or about Copsale’s death?’
‘No.’
‘And Ascham?’ Corbett asked.
‘He was the librarian and archivist,’ Simon replied. ‘A great friend of the founder. Five days ago, late in the afternoon, Ascham went into the library. He locked and bolted the door, and the window was shuttered. He lit a candle but we don’t know whether he was working or looking for something. When he failed to arrive at the buttery, the Hall bursar, William Passerel, went looking for him.’ Simon shrugged. ‘The doors were forced and Ascham was found lying in a pool of his own blood, a crossbow quarrel in his chest. But he didn’t die immediately.’
The clerk pushed back his stool, opened his pouch and passed across a piece of parchment. Corbett unrolled it.
“‘The Bellman fears neither King nor clerk,”’ he read aloud. ‘“The Bellman will ring the truth, and all shall hear it.”’
The message was written in the same script as the proclamation.
‘Turn it over,’ Simon remarked.
Corbett did so and noticed the strange symbols daubed in blood. ‘P ASS E R…’ He spelt out the letters.
‘Apparently,’ Simon explained, ‘Ascham wrote that in his own blood as he lay dying.’
‘But that’s almost the name of the bursar you mentioned at the hall?’
‘Yes, William Passerel,’ Simon replied. ‘But no action can be taken against him. For most of that day, when Ascham died, Passerel was in Abingdon on official business. He returned and went straight to the buttery, and then decided to look for Ascham who was his friend.’
‘And the library was sealed?’ Corbett asked.
‘The door leading to the passageway was locked and barred from the inside. The garden window was shuttered. There are no other entrances.’
‘Yet,’ Corbett said, studying the scrap of parchment, ‘someone not only shot Ascham but was able to leave this note? And Passerel the bursar still remains free?’
‘Oh yes, there’s no evidence against him. Passerel can prove he was in Abingdon. Servants attested that when he came back he went straight to the buttery.’ Simon gave a lop-sided smile. ‘There’s one further problem. Passerel’s eyesight isn’t very good. He also suffers from the rheums in his fingers. He could not hold or pull back a crossbow winch. Nor is there any explanation of how he could enter and leave the library, locking the windows and doors from the inside.’
‘The King and his council have discussed this?’
‘Oh yes, Edward and his principal henchmen have spent hours on the matter. They have even got a spy in Sparrow Hall. I don’t know who it is.’ Simon licked his lips. ‘The King said the spy would make himself known when you arrived in Oxford…’
Corbett tapped the parchment against the table. ‘Why now?’ he murmured. ‘Why does this mysterious writer called the Bellman appear, writing and posting his proclamations attacking the King? What does he hope to gain?’ He glanced at Simon. ‘There’s no evidence of interference by the King’s enemies either here or abroad?’
Simon shook his head.
‘And the writing?’
‘As you can see,’ Simon replied, ‘it’s in a clerkly hand. Those proclamations could be the work of you, or me or Ranulf.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Clerks are ruthlessly trained in the same style of writing.’
‘No threats have been made, there’s been no attempted blackmail?’
‘No.’
‘And you think Copsale’s death and Ascham’s were the work of the Bellman?’
‘Possibly.’ Simon spread his hands. ‘But, there again, the antagonism between these Masters is so intense, that Ascham may have been killed for other reasons and his death made to look like the work of the Bellman.’
‘And the beggars who have been found dead?’
‘Ah, that’s a tragedy.’ Simon sipped from his blackjack of ale. ‘The corpses are always found outside the city, with the head sheared off and tied by the hair to the branch of some tree. There are two other things common to the deaths. Firstly, the corpses all belong to men, old beggars. Secondly, they are always found near a trackway leading to or from the city.’
‘Are the bodies marked?’
‘One had been killed by an arrow — again a crossbow bolt, fired at close quarters. It went clean through the body. Another had been struck on the back of the head by a club or mace. The rest appeared to have had their throats cut.’
‘And they were all from the hospital of St Osyth?’
‘Yes, it’s a charitable foundation near Carfax, the crossroads in Oxford.’
‘Could it be the work of some gibbet lord?’ Ranulf asked. ‘The magicians and warlocks who always lurk around cities like Oxford?’
‘No, there’s plenty of them about but, there’s no mutilation, no clear reason for such deaths.’
‘Is there any connection between these deaths and the Bellman?’ Maeve asked, fascinated by the task entrusted to her husband. She had forgotten the twinges in her belly and her determination to settle accounts with the reeve whom, she believed, was helping himself.
‘None,’ Simon replied. ‘Except in the case of the old soldier, Brakespeare. About two days before his corpse was found, he was seen begging in the lane between Sparrow Hall and the hostelry. However, apart from that — ’ he got to his feet ‘- I can tell you no more.’ He looked at the hour candle burning on its wooden spigot near the fireplace. ‘I must go. The King told me to join him at Woodstock.’ His voice became more pleading. ‘You will go, Sir Hugh, for all our sakes?’
Corbett nodded. ‘Ranulf, make sure Simon is fed and his horse ready.’ He rose and took Simon’s hand. ‘Tell the King that, when this is finished, I’ll see him at Woodstock.’
Corbett sat down and waited till Ranulf had taken Simon out of the hall. Maeve grasped his hand.
‘You should go, Hugh,’ she said softly. ‘Eleanor is well. Oxford is not far away and the King needs you.’
Corbett pulled a face. ‘It will be dangerous,’ he murmured. ‘I can sense that. The Bellman, whoever he may be, is full of malice. He hides behind the customs and traditions of the University and could do the King great damage. He will do his best not to be caught for, if he is, he will suffer a terrible death. Edward hates de Montfort, his memory and anything to do with him.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘Two years ago, during the council meeting at Windsor, some poor clerk made the mistake of mentioning de Montfort’s Provisions of Oxford. Edward nearly throttled him.’ Corbett put his arm round his wife and drew her closer. ‘I’ll go there,’ he continued, ‘but there’ll be more deaths, more chaos, more heartache and bloodshed before this is over.’
Corbett’s words were prophetic. Even as he prepared to leave for Oxford, William Passerel, the fat, ruddy-faced bursar, sat in his chancery office at Sparrow Hall and tried to ignore the clamour from the lane below. He threw his quill down on the desk, put his face in his hands and tried to fight back the tears of fear pricking his eyes.
‘Why?’ he whispered. ‘Why did Ascham have to die? Who killed him?’
Passerel sighed and sat back in his chair. Oh why? Oh why? The words screamed within him. Why had Ascham written his name, or most of it, on that document? He had been in Abingdon the day Ascham had been murdered. He had only returned a short while before. Now he stood accused of murdering the man he had regarded as a brother. Passerel stared up at the crucifix fixed on the white-washed wall.