‘Castledene could have hired someone else.’
‘I doubt it,’ Corbett replied drily. ‘As I’ve said, you’d proved to be most accommodating. Moreover, and I’ve asked Castledene this,’ he bluffed, ‘when Paulents and his family arrived in Canterbury, you happened to be in the Guildhall or nearby. Yes?’ His adversary gazed stonily back. ‘You swiftly established a cordial relationship with Castledene’s guests, assuring them that all was well. Paulents’ wife was much taken with you and even asked you to stay at Maubisson. Of course, you refused; you had other plans. Now, Wendover was to guard Maubisson. However, our captain was deeply distracted, you knew that. He had been playing the fornicator, the adulterer with Lady Adelicia, who had now been arrested and lodged in the Guildhall dungeons for the murder of her husband. It would be easy for you, with your skill at disguise, to pretend to be a city guard dressed in his cloak, hood pulled up against the cold, and slip into Maubisson carrying this parcel or that.’
‘As easy as that, Sir Hugh?’
‘Very much so! Wendover was distracted. Guards milled about. Who would notice you? Who would really care? No one suspected an assassin had crept in carrying the means to inflict bloody mayhem.’
‘And?’ The self-proclaimed physician leaned forward. Corbett’s fingers curled round the catch of the arbalest.
‘A short while later Paulents and his family arrived. They locked themselves in. The guard was set, the fires lit, the food cooked, the wine served, and you emerged.’
‘Corbett, you are raving: too much time spent on idle speculation. How could I-’
‘Very easily, Master Hubert. You’d learnt the guards’ password; you pretended to leave. No one would give you a second glance either disguised as a guard or as the special friend of Castledene, the mayor of Canterbury. You made your farewells, went down the stairs, then slipped quickly into that cellar. Even if you’d been discovered, a remote possibility, you could have bluffed and lied your way out, but fortune favoured you. Paulents and his family wished to relax, Castledene to be gone, Wendover to reflect on his own troubles.’
‘If I emerged, as you put it, why wasn’t the alarm raised?’
‘Because Paulents would see you as a friend: the gentle physician who carried no weapons. You’d offer some pretence as to why you had been allowed to slip back into the manor. They must have thought Wendover had let you pass. You’d make up some story, how, perhaps, the mayor had given you a key to this postern door or that. You were the kindly physician, Castledene’s close colleague: why on earth should they suspect you? You had the night in front of you. You reassured them that all was well; they would relax as you secretly mixed a sleeping potion with their wine. While they drank, you took Servinus outside on some pretext or other. You’d already established, when talking to them earlier, how Servinus did not drink alcohol, so he was brutally dispatched with a swift crossbow bolt to the chest. You laid his body down, turning it over so no blood dripped on to the floor, staunching it with a rag. By the time you returned to the hall, Paulents and his family were sleeping. You had the rope; it was simply a matter of dragging your hapless victims across to those iron brackets, putting a noose around their necks and hoisting them up. You are a strong man, Hubert; they eventually all dangled like corpses on a gallows. They never regained consciousness, slipping from sleep into death,’ Corbett snapped his fingers, ‘like that! Servinus was a different matter. In all this you had to be careful of time passing. You knew I was coming to Canterbury. Castledene told you that. Your business had to be done quickly, then you and Lechlade were to be gone. You slit Servinus’ stomach so its foul vapours could escape and thus slowed the stench of putrefaction, staunching the wound with more cloths and napkins.’
‘I know so much about physic, the bodily humours?’
‘Of course you do, Master Hurbert. You are highly intelligent and skilled. I wager you know as much about the art of healing as you do about killing! You’ve read books, the pharmacopoeia of the Ancients. You’re probably more erudite than many a physician; you proved that when you treated Chanson’s ulcer. After all, your expertise in physic as well as artful diplomacy had secured the patronage of Castledene and others.’
‘And what did I do with Servinus’ corpse?’
Corbett eased the arbalest back. Hubert was waiting for him to tire.
‘You dragged it down into the cellar, took the lid off that vat, having first run off some of the ale, lowered the corpse in and resealed the barrel. You carefully looked for any spilt blood. I can imagine you going along the floor with a candle, wiping away any stain of violence. You then returned to the hall. You took all the wine cups, emptied them, washed them and refilled them with fresh, untainted wine. Your task was completed. Servinus was dead and so was Paulents. Revenge had been carried out. You went to the merchant’s chamber, took out the fresh copy of the Cloister Map and replaced it with another piece of parchment which was really nothing more than a farrago of nonsense.’
‘And how did I escape?’ The prisoner on the stool moved his head to ease the tension at the back of his neck.
‘Oh, that was quite easy for you, Hubert: a hunter of men, a skilled assassin. You had your city guard cloak which you had filched from somewhere. Wendover burst into the house; people were scurrying hither and thither, shouting the pass-call; you were just another figure hurrying about. Nobody would think to stop a city guard during the immediate confusion. I did wonder, however, about Oseric killed out at Sweetmead Manor. Did he notice something untoward? Did you kill him, or did Lechlade on your order, because you wanted him dead, or was it just to create more terror? Whatever, Hubert, you slipped into that manor and hid yourself away. You were elated but you also had to be prudent: the King’s man was coming, so you sent me warnings.’
‘Why?’
Corbett moved the arbalest. Hubert was whiling away the time, waiting, searching for a weakness, a mistake; the clerk strained to listen for any sound, but the guesthouse lay wrapped in an ominous silence.
‘Because three people were involved in the death of your brother: Castledene, Paulents and His Grace the King. You already knew I was hunting you. You murdered poor Griskin, didn’t you?’ Corbett accused. ‘You discovered that he wasn’t really a leper but an emissary from the Royal Chancery seeking out information, making enquiries in that part of Suffolk where the ancient treasure was supposed to be buried, about who had been there, why and when. Griskin had learnt something but it became garbled. He talked about Simon of the Rocks, a play on the name of the physician from Canterbury who was making similar enquiries. Was that Griskin’s way of concealing your true name? Or was it something else? Another alias used by you when you travelled into Suffolk? Had Griskin glimpsed you in the ruins of that lonely hermitage?’ Corbett shook his head. ‘I cannot say.’
‘I never knew the time and place Griskin was supposed to meet you.’
‘Oh, Master Hubert.’ Corbett smiled at the consternation on his enemy’s face as he realised his mistake, ‘who said anything about the time and place of my meeting with Griskin? Did you find my letters giving such information, or did you torture him? We will never know. In the end you trapped him in some lonely alleyway or on some wind-blasted heath. You killed him, strung his corpse up on that gallows, cut off his hand, pickled it and sent it as a warning to me. You also took Griskin’s chain; he would never be separated from that. You left it here in the chantry chapel of St Lazarus, a clear warning of the danger you posed. In the end you learnt about Griskin as I did about Edmund Groscote, also known as the Pilgrim. Oh yes, I’ve met him. He is a member of Les Hommes Joyeuses. He confessed everything. What I said to you at supper about what he knew of you was a mere fabrication, yet you believed it; hence your appearance tonight.’