Corbett drew a deep breath. ‘In truth I recalled that whenever anything happened, you were the one person who could account for his movements, be it the attack in the woods, the bolt loosed at my shutter, the poisoned wine, the death of Decontet, the murder of Berengaria, or the death of that poor city guard.’ He paused. ‘Oseric was killed in the garden. You were being questioned by me. Lechlade perpetrated that murder, opening the shutters of one of the rear windows. Why was that innocent man killed?’ Corbett pulled a face. ‘To frighten Wendover, or just to establish your own alibi? You and Lechlade are killers to the bone. Who would suspect the drunken servant? In truth he was your murderous shadow, following you, ready to exploit any opportunity. On all these occasions Physician Desroches could have gone on oath that he could not possibly be involved. Such obvious innocence certainly made me suspicious. Moreover, you also had the means to travel to and from Suffolk. You were known to Paulents, his wife and his family. It’s like a game of logic, isn’t it, Master Hubert? What is common to all these events? Why, Physician Desroches!’
‘If I stole the Cloister Map,’ Desroches replied, ‘why didn’t I just escape?’
‘Ah,’ Corbett nodded, ‘I thought of that, but of course you couldn’t allow there to be two maps, could you? You had Paulents’ copy, which you would certainly decipher, but you suspected Decontet still had the original. Moreover, you had unfinished business with him and others, including me. You wanted to make sure there’d be no other map, no rival hunter for that gold and silver. You realised the hour candle was burning away. Sooner or later you might make a mistake; sooner or later you would have to move, but you had to be certain. If Sir Rauf and Lady Adelicia didn’t have the map, there was the possibility that Wendover, that blaggart, that roaring boy, had it in his possession, so you watched him. He tried to flee Canterbury but you trapped him. You questioned him but he knew nothing, so he died. You and Lechlade then conferred on what might happen next. You had pushed matters to their logical conclusion — enough was enough, time was passing, the candle of opportunity was about to gutter out. Physician Desroches must suddenly disappear, Lechlade with him, but then you were invited to my supper. I dropped hints about Groscote, the ordinaires — the secret spies of the Chancery — as well as the possibility that I had found Decontet’s map. You had to act. Ranulf and Chanson had left for London. You watched how much I drank. I was very careful; I also kept my cup covered: I didn’t want a powder mixed with my wine. I begged the guest master for that poor man’s corpse to do some good before it was interred in sacred ground. You sent Lechlade ahead whilst you guarded the door. He came in here, stabbed a body he thought was mine and fled. You are quick-witted, Desroches. Lechlade alive might incriminate you, so you killed him and pretended to be my noble rescuer.’
Corbett paused at the faint sound of horses in the yard below. Voices echoed. Ranulf and Chanson had returned!
‘Of course, my companions were never travelling to London.’ He moved the arbalest as Hubert leaned forward, but the man simply undid the clasp of his cloak and let it fall away.
‘You have no evidence,’ Hubert said, ‘not really.’ He stretched out his hands in mock innocence.
‘Oh, I think I have,’ Corbett retorted. ‘The logic of my argument; your presence here. Moreover, Master Hubert, Ranulf and Chanson merely journeyed to the other side of Canterbury and back. They carry royal warrants and have mustered the city watch. By now they have searched Lechlade’s chamber and your house. I am sure they will find evidence enough.’
Hubert Fitzurse, the Man with the Far-Seeing Gaze, slumped his shoulders, Corbett glimpsed the stricken look in his eye. ‘You never considered that, did you?’ Corbett asked. ‘They too went hunting, and Ranulf is a good lurcher.’ He paused at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. ‘I am sure he has brought enough evidence to hang you, Fitzurse!’ Corbett stretched out a hand. ‘The Cloister Map?’
Fitzurse smiled thinly. ‘Like Decontet,’ he murmured, tapping the side of his head, ‘I’ve memorised it. If you want to know, then I’ll trade it for my life. I’ll give you the map, I’ll even accompany you there, but I’ll demand a royal pardon and enough money to go where I want.’
Corbett chewed the corner of his lip. He thought of Griskin dangling from the gallows, that hand of glory sent to him. Staring at the killer in front of him, he reflected on all the others who had died at Hubert’s hands, especially Paulents and his family, strung up like a line of dead crows from those grim iron brackets in that ghostly hall at Maubisson.
‘I don’t think so.’ Corbett shook his head and watched the smile fade from his opponent’s face.
‘Sir Hugh?’
‘In here, Ranulf,’ Corbett called.
Ranulf swaggered into the chamber, followed by Chanson. He threw a leather pannier at Corbett’s feet.
‘Enough?’ Corbett asked.
‘Yes, master, enough to hang him, but no Cloister Map. Documents, memoranda; the same at Lechlade’s. He wasn’t the toper he pretended to be.’
‘Very good.’ Corbett clicked his tongue, then gestured at Hubert. ‘Bind his hands, Ranulf. Chanson, you and I will go into Canterbury. I have a goldsmith to visit, whilst you rouse Sir Walter Castledene. Tell him that before the day is out, the King’s Justice of Oyer and Terminer, Sir Hugh Corbett of Leighton, will sit in judgement.’
Two days later, just before Christmas Eve, the execution party left Canterbury, making its way through the streets to the gallows erected outside the main entrance to Maubisson manor. The news of Hubert Fitzurse’s summary trial, conviction and sentence had swept the city. Crowds had gathered to see justice carried out. Corbett, Ranulf and Chanson on either side, sat on his horse, cloaked and hooded. He watched Fitzurse be shriven by a friar. The prisoner thrust the priest aside and clambered to his feet, face towards Corbett.
‘King’s man,’ he bellowed, ‘I didn’t ask to be created. I didn’t ask to be redeemed. All I wanted was peace, my parents, my brother. .’
Fitzurse was seized and pushed on to the cart beneath the gallows rope. Corbett felt a deep pang of sorrow and recalled what he’d said to Ranulf. They were now watching the hideous flowering of an evil, the roots of which stretched back over thirty years. The prisoner’s hands were swiftly tied, the noose positioned around his neck, the knot placed expertly behind his left ear. The red-masked executioner jumped from the cart and looked at Corbett, who sat like a statue, left hand raised.
‘Hubert Fitzurse,’ Corbett called out, ‘you have been justly tried. You have been found guilty of heinous crimes against the King, his peace and the city of Canterbury. Do you have anything to say before sentence is carried out?’
‘Yes,’ Fitzurse shouted back, twisting his head to where Castledene sat further along the line. ‘I’ll be waiting for you, Master Mayor!’
Corbett dropped his hand. The cart creaked away. Fitzurse kicked and jerked for a while, then hung still.
‘The King’s justice has been done,’ Corbett called out. ‘Let everyone take careful note.’ He nodded at Sir Walter and turned his horse, determined to leave Canterbury as quickly as possible. Castledene and Lady Adelicia would have to wait until the weather thawed. Spring would come and so would a royal summons to both of them to account for their actions before the King’s Bench at Westminster.
Once they were free of the crowd, Ranulf urged his own mount forward and placed his hand on Corbett’s arm.