They began their searches. All three had visited these cellars before, but now they moved carefully along the musty dark passageway, going from one chamber to the next. Most were filled with rubbish: broken chairs, benches, disused implements, cracked jugs, and cups, piles of sacking, barrels, broken coffers and chests. Corbett was sifting amongst some of these when he heard Chanson shout. The groom had started in the furthest cavern and was moving back towards them. He now held up his torch, waving excitedly at Corbett and Ranulf. They hurried in his direction. Chanson lowered the torch. Corbett saw how wet the floor was. Chanson turned to a huge barrel or vat with a spigot at the bottom, standing in a recess.
‘That’s been turned on and emptied, master, and it’s big enough to contain a corpse.’
Corbett ordered one of the broken chests to be brought. Standing on this, he drew his dagger and prised the massive lid loose. As he felt further in, his fingers brushed cold, marble-hard flesh. He hastily withdrew his hand and stepped down.
‘Chanson, Ranulf, tip this vat over.’
They squeezed between the vat and the brickwork and began to rock the barrel. Eventually it teetered over and fell with a crash; more liquid gushed out, but also the ale-drenched corpse. In the poor light Corbett glimpsed a peaked white face, black leather, and what looked like bloodied bandages across the man’s stomach. Slopping through the ale, he told Ranulf and Chanson to lift the body. They went back along the cellar and up the steps, and laid the corpse out in the porchway. Corbett wiped his hands on his cloak and stared down at it.
‘Always ugly in death,’ he murmured.
Ranulf agreed. Servinus had a thin, lean face; his eyes were stark open, staring in glassy fear; his head was completely shaved, cheeks slightly sunken, his mouth blood-splattered. In the man’s chest was a hideous black and red wound in which a crossbow bolt still lay embedded. Wrinkling his nose at the smell, Corbett crouched down and removed the pieces of cloth from the man’s stomach. Chanson began to retch and hurry for the door, hand to his mouth.
‘Killed by a crossbow bolt,’ Corbett declared, ‘but then his assassin ripped open his stomach, God knows the reason why. The assassin staunched the wound with those cloths; that is why we found no trace of blood. Servinus was dragged, probably under the armpits, wounds to the front, from the hall down the cellar and thrust into that barrel. It would be easy enough. I am sure if that cavern was better lit we’d have glimpsed the occasional bloodstains. The ale was run off, the lid placed back on. .’
‘Why?’ Ranulf asked.
‘To distract us,’ Corbett declared. ‘To make us think, at least for a while, that Servinus might even be the assassin, Hubert the Monk in disguise. Now here is an interesting question, Ranulf.’ Corbett got to his feet. ‘If the other four were mysteriously murdered by hanging, why did our assassin use a crossbow bolt against Servinus?’ He paused as the door opened and Chanson returned wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
‘Sorry, master.’
Wendover followed.
‘I told you to wait outside!’ Corbett snapped.
Wendover gasped in horror at the gruesome corpse sprawled on the hall floor, clothes soaked in ale, the ghastly face, the awful wounds to the chest and stomach.
‘Sir Hugh.’ The captain’s hand went to his mouth. ‘A messenger has arrived for you. He went first to St Augustine’s Abbey. He is from Sir Walter Castledene, who asks you to come to St Alphege’s. There has been a murder, Berengaria. What shall we. .?’ Wendover looked once more at the corpse, then turned, hand to his mouth, and ran outside.
‘Master Ranulf, come with me,’ Corbett ordered. ‘Chanson, stay here, examine that corpse. Go back to the vat; was there anything else put in there with him? Tell Wendover I want this house searched one more time, then he is to join me at St Alphege’s. Tell him to fetch a cart and bring the corpse over. Parson Warfeld has another Requiem to sing. Servinus can be buried in the poor man’s plot in Gods acre; the city will bear the expense.’
Once outside, Corbett repeated his orders to Wendover, who stood by a tree, still retching and clearing his mouth. The captain nodded quickly.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ he gasped.
‘You’ll do what I order!’ Corbett declared, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Come, Master Ranulf.’
Chapter 12
Conserva requiem mitis ab hoste mem.
Guard my sleep against the enemy.
They left Maubisson, taking one of the city guards with them to show them the swiftest route around the city walls and in through the lychgate of St Alphege’s. Castledene and members of his comitatus were already there. They’d dismounted, and their horses were being hobbled. Corbett called Castledene’s name and the mayor hurried over. Corbett dismounted and quickly told him what he had discovered at Maubisson, ignoring the mayor’s gasps, exclamations and litany of questions.
‘No, no, Sir Walter.’ Corbett shook his head. ‘This is the heart of the problem. Four people were murdered by hanging in that dreadful manor; Servinus was killed by a crossbow bolt. Why?’
Sir Walter rubbed his hands and pointed back towards the church door. ‘Sir Hugh, there’s other business.’
‘Yes, there is other business, but I must ask you to concentrate on this. Is there anything you knew about Servinus which might be useful? Why he was murdered in one way, the others differently? Please?’ Corbett patted Sir Walter on the shoulder and hurried up the steps into the church.
Desroches was leaning against a pillar, staring down at Parson Warfeld, who was busy anointing the corpse with holy oil. Berengeria had lost all her prettiness, the noose fast around her throat, eyes glaring, face mottled, tongue protruding. She sprawled haphazardly. Corbett, listening to the priest’s murmured prayers, knelt down and, using his dagger, cut the cord, loosened it and handed it to Ranulf. The body jerked strangely in death. Corbett straightened the legs and arms even as Parson Warfeld raised his hand in the final blessing and absolution. The priest looked haggard, eyes red-rimmed.
‘She’s gone!’ he murmured. ‘Such a sweet girl. May the Lord Christ forgive her many sins and mine.’
Corbett felt tempted to ask Warfeld to explain, but decided it would wait. He rose to his feet, beckoning the others to join him further up the nave near the rood screen before the sanctuary.
‘Well?’ he asked, turning abruptly. ‘What happened here?’
Parson Warfeld explained how Berengaria had felt comfortable in the lodgings he had provided. This morning he had come down and celebrated his morning Mass and they were planning to break their fast in a city cookshop when Physician Desroches had arrived and demanded to see him. He had told Berengaria to wait in the church and taken Desroches into the priest’s house. When they’d finished, they walked back into the church thinking that Berengaria would be still waiting there.
‘What you’ve seen, Sir Hugh,’ the priest added mournfully, ‘is what we discovered.’
Corbett glanced at Desroches.
‘The flesh is slightly warm,’ Desroches said. ‘She was hale and hearty when we left. The assassin must have slipped into the church and killed her. God knows why a poor maid should be murdered.’
‘I don’t think she was as poor as you think,’ Corbett declared. ‘Berengaria had keener eyes and sharper wits than perhaps many of us presumed. I do wonder why she was murdered.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Master Desroches?’
The Physician glanced up. ‘Sir Hugh?’
‘We have found the corpse of Servinus, Paulents’ bodyguard. He was killed by a crossbow bolt to his chest, his belly slit open, and hidden in an ale vat deep in the cellar. I asked Sir Walter a question. I also ask it of you. Four people were murdered in that hall, killed by hanging, very similar to poor Berengaria’s death. Why should Servinus die differently?’