‘Are you sure Monsieur Crotoy isn’t elsewhere in the castle?’ he asked.
‘Sir Edmund, my apologies if I troubled you, but Louis is not a wanderer,’ Corbett replied.
‘Has he been seen?’
‘What is the matter?’ De Craon, followed by his cowled man-at-arms, came striding up.
‘Louis Crotoy,’ Corbett declared. ‘Is he with you?’
‘No, he isn’t,’ de Craon replied, wiping his face, ‘and he should be. The rest are gathered in my chamber; I wished to have words with him. A servant came down and told me about this. I hastened across. Is there something wrong? Louis is a member of my retinue. Sanson claims he hasn’t seen him since early afternoon.’
‘Force the door,’ Corbett urged.
At first there was confusion, but eventually Sir Edmund organised the men-at-arms to bring a battering ram, nothing more than a stout tree trunk with poles embedded along each side. Because of the steps, the men-at-arms found it difficult, and the pounding and crashing alerted the rest of the castle. The ward began to fill. The soldiers concentrated just beneath the iron ring, and at last the door broke free.
Corbett ensured he was the first through, almost pushing de Craon aside. The inside was cold and dark. Sir Edmund passed him a torch. Corbett held it before him and stifled a moan. Crotoy lay at the bottom of the inside steps leading up to the chamber, his head cracked, the dark pool of blood glistening in the light. Corbett glanced quickly to either side; there was no window. He took a step forward, shouting at Sir Edmund to keep the rest back. At first glance he knew his old friend was beyond any help: those staring eyes, the cold flesh, the blood like a stagnant pool. He moved the body tenderly; he could see no other wound or mark apart from the gruesome gash on the side of the head. He heard a jingle from the dead man’s wallet, and opening it took out two keys, small and squat; he realised these must be to the door of the Jerusalem Tower as well as Crotoy’s chamber. Meanwhile, the Constable’s men had forced the curious down the steps, leaving only Corbett, Sir Edmund and de Craon standing in that draughty passageway. Corbett crouched down and glanced at the door that had been forced. The lock had been snapped, but he realised that when he inserted the key he could turn it easily. He took the key out, thrust it at Sir Edmund and hurried back down to Crotoy’s corpse.
‘Send a messenger for Father Andrew,’ Corbett whispered to the constable.
Corbett plucked out the torch which he had placed in a sconce holder and, holding this out carefully, examined the steps leading up to Crotoy’s chamber. They were steep and narrow, with sharp edges, and to the left of the chamber was a stairwell filled with fallen masonry. He looked back at the corpse. Crotoy had his cloak wrapped around his arm, its hem trailing down. Corbett sighed, went up the steps and using the second key opened the door. The chamber inside was cold and dark. Sir Edmund came up, and Corbett stepped gingerly into the room, allowing the Constable to light the candles and large lanternhorn which stood on the round walnut table in the centre. A neat, tidy room. Corbett felt a pang of sadness at the sweet smell of herbs.
‘He always liked that,’ he whispered.
‘Liked what?’ Sir Edmund asked.
‘He loved the smell of herbs and spices.’ Corbett went over and placed the torch in a holder on the wall. ‘Very precise, was Louis. He loved the smell of spring and summer; his clothes, his chamber, his books, his manuscripts always had that faint smell of flowers and herbs.’
Corbett noticed the manuscripts piled high on the window, the candle pricket, the wax formed thick around the base, the clothes hanging from the peg. The curtains on the small poster bed were drawn and, on the far side, stood the lavarium, with napkins neatly folded next to a precious bar of sweet-smelling soap in a little copper dish.
Corbett heard voices from below. Father Andrew had arrived, busily intoning the prayers for the dead as he anointed the corpse. Ranulf came up the steps.
‘What happened, do you think?’ Sir Edmund sat down on the chair next to the bed. He glanced quickly at Corbett.
‘Another accident?’
‘That is for me to decide.’ De Craon spoke up, standing in the shadows. ‘I’m cut to the heart that my colleague is dead.’
‘No, sir,’ Corbett snapped. ‘Louis may have been a member of your retinue but he was my friend and this castle is under the direct governance of the King of England. Sir Edmund,’ Corbett called over his shoulder whilst holding de Craon’s gaze, ‘I would like to examine both the chamber and Monsieur Crotoy’s corpse. Is his death an accident, misadventure, or is there some other cause?’
‘I’ll delay the meal,’ Sir Edmund sighed. ‘Monsieur de Craon, Sir Hugh is right. This is the King’s castle, he has the right to act as coroner.’
‘Then I will stay and help him.’
Corbett didn’t object, and the Constable’s men cleared the stairwell below, bringing back the broken door so as to block some of the cold night air. Corbett had every candle and torch lit and scrupulously began his search. He and Ranulf carefully examined the chamber, de Craon keeping close to the table, watching them sift through various manuscripts, loudly objecting when Ranulf picked up a piece of parchment to study it more closely. Yet they could find nothing significant. Crotoy’s corpse, now laid out under a sheet at the foot of the steps, bore no mark other than the wound to the head, which was definitely the result of hitting the hard ground at the foot of the steps. Corbett fought back the memories of walking arm in arm with that clever scholar through Christchurch Meadows, or the orchards down by the Iffley Stream, or sitting in a tavern on the corner of Turl Street.
‘Master,’ Ranulf murmured, ‘look at his boot.’
Corbett did so; the heel on the right boot was loose.
‘He tripped,’ Ranulf explained. ‘The heel of the boot was loose, or his foot may have become caught in his cloak. He fell, bruising his head against the ground.’
‘But would that kill him?’ Corbett wondered. He returned to scrutinising the corpse, and lifting it up by the shoulders noticed how the head hung slightly to one side.
‘I’ve seen the same before,’ Ranulf muttered, ‘when a man has broken his neck.’
They stood aside as the castle leech arrived. He also inspected the wound to the head and, pulling up Crotoy’s thick woollen cotehardie, pointed to the light bruising to the right of the dead man’s chest and similar marks on his right arm and shoulder. He then examined the neck, moving the head slightly between his hands.
‘An unfortunate accident,’ he sighed, getting to his feet. He pointed to the door at the top of the steps. ‘Monsieur Crotoy locked the door behind him, his cloak over his shoulder. He became confused, his boot may have slipped, his other foot caught in the cloak. Those steps are steep and sharp, and they bruised his body as he fell, but he died of a broken neck.’
Corbett glanced up. De Craon stood in the doorway above, staring impassively down at him.
‘Sir Hugh.’ Corbett looked over his shoulder. Bolingbroke was calling from outside. ‘Sir Hugh, can I help?’
‘Tell him to wait for me in my chamber,’ Corbett whispered to Ranulf. He climbed the steps. The Frenchman didn’t stand aside. ‘Monsieur?’
‘Yes, Sir Hugh?’
‘Your colleague died of an unfortunate accident.’
‘So it seems.’ De Craon’s eyes held Corbett’s. ‘I lay no blame on Sir Edmund or you. Crotoy should have been more careful, shouldn’t he? I say the same to Vervins, who likes to stand on the parapet walk and stare out across your bleak countryside.’ De Craon lifted a hand. ‘What more can you do, Sir Hugh? Louis’ death will be mourned by his daughter, his colleagues, and by my Grace, his master.’ His eyebrows rose. ‘Perhaps it was my mistake,’ he continued silkily. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have chosen these old men and brought them to this cold castle. Well now, Sir Hugh, if you have finished, there are things I and my retainers must do.’
‘Crotoy had a copy of Friar Roger’s work, the Opus Tertium?’