Corbett, feeling angry and secretly alarmed, mumbled his thanks to the anchorite and strode back into the sacristy. The canons stood there like boys caught in some mischief. None of them would meet his eye.
'So,' Corbett began, 'we have a little mystery here.' He felt beneath his cloak, drew out his sword and held it up by the cross-hilt. 'I swear,' he said, 'unless you tell me the truth, now, about what you saw, felt or heard on that altar when de Montfort died, I swear by Christ's cross, I will see you all in the Tower by sunset!' He glared at each of them, sheathed his sword and leant against the corner of the table, arms folded. Plumpton came forward, licking his lips nervously.
'The anchorite spoke the truth,' he began. 'He must have seen it. One thing an anchorite always demands is a clear view of the altar, in order to see the cross as well as reverence the elevated host and chalice. De Montfort did drink twice from the chalice. You will find that in Canon Law he must.' He looked towards Ettrick. 'De Montfort in fact forgot. It was Sir David here who came across and reminded him.'
'Is that right, Ettrick?' Corbett snapped. The Scotsman nodded.
'I saw the chalice come back. De Montfort was about to turn to take it down the sanctuary steps. I went across and whispered in his ear. To an onlooker it would appear I was helping him in the rite. He raised the chalice, drank from it, the rest you know.'
'Do I?' Corbett said sharply. 'Is there anything else I should know?' No one answered. 'Is there anything else I should know?' he repeated. There was silence.
Corbett looked at Plumpton.
'Well, Sir Philip, there are a few more questions I would like to ask but, before I do that, I would like to remind you, Sir John,' he turned to the librarian, 'that you were the last person to hold the chalice before de Montfort drank from it.'
Sir John's face was a mask of tragedy. 'But that is not fair,' he spluttered. 'That is not fair. Your words are barbs.'
'Once I have solved the mystery,' Corbett replied, 'then these questions will stop. But, Sir Philip, you said de Montfort, like you all, kept the precious plate with which he used to celebrate mass here in the sacristy.'
Plumpton nodded.
'I would like to see it.'
Sir Philip took a bunch of keys from his belt and went to a chest in the far corner. It was made of leather and wood, bound by strips of iron and secured by four locks. Each needed a separate key. Once all the locks had been unclasped, Plumpton pulled back the lid and Corbett had to stifle his cry of astonishment at the gorgeous plate stored there, a treasure hoard even the king would have envied. Jewelled monstrances, golden patens, silver dishes, at least a dozen precious cups. Some were in pouches of red Spanish leather, others in boxes, but most just lay where they had been carelessly tossed. The inside of the trunk was lined with thick samite.
Sir Philip moved the cups around carefully before pulling one out. Corbett recognized the chalice he had held the morning de Montfort had died. Plumpton brought it across to Corbett. A beautiful piece of craftmanship, Corbett thought it must be at least a hundred years old. The cup was of pure gold, the stem and base of thick silver encrusted with gold and precious gems. He turned it over and saw the goldmaker's hallmark displayed on the base. The inside of the cup was beaten gold, pure, bright, so it caught the light of the candles. Corbett held it up to his nose and sniffed; there was a faint smell of polish and sweetened wine but nothing else. He moved it from one hand to the other, feeling its worth.
'There is no other cup like this?' he asked, returning it to Plumpton. A chorus of denials greeted him.
'The cup,' de Eveden said hastily, trying to be of help, 'is unique. Only a master craftsman could have made it. It would be recognized anywhere as de Montfort's cup.'
Corbett nodded.
'There is one other matter. When de Montfort died, he must have left some papers?'
'Yes,' Plumpton said. 'We have them stored down in the treasure room. We have to draw up an inventory for the city sheriff and other officials.'
'Why was I not shown these?' Corbett asked. 'You showed me his chamber readily enough.' He looked around the sacristy. 'This place will do as good as any. I want those papers brought here. Now!'
Plumpton was about to protest but, after one look at Corbett, he changed his mind. He indicated a chair and table and hurried off. Corbett dismissed the rest, gratified to see they left the sacristy a little less arrogandy than when they had entered. At last Plumpton, followed by three servants huffing and blowing under the weight of a large leather-bound chest, returned. Corbett pointed to the table, on which the servants placed the chest and left the room. Corbett opened the lid.
'These are all de Montfort's documents?'
'All his moveables,' Plumpton replied, using the legal term. 'This is everything that de Montfort had, apart from his clothing, which you have seen. A number of books are here, all his papers and precious objects.'
'Fine. If you would, Sir Philip, continue your kindness by lighting more candles and having a brazier placed here, perhaps a little wine? I will go through the contents of this trunk and then you may have it back.' And, not waiting for an answer from the priest, Corbett began to unpack the large chest.
After three hours' searching Corbett concluded it contained little of importance. Apart from a large account-book there was nothing: pieces of parchment filled with notes, sets of prayer beads, a broken crucifix. The remaining documents were bills and memoranda but nothing to excite any interest. Corbett sent for Plumpton, whom he informed that he had finished, though he would take the ledger-book home for personal study. Sir Philip protested loudly but Corbett reminded him that his commission was from the king and, if he had any protests or objections, it was useless making them to the king's messenger but to go direct to His Grace at Westminster. Plumpton, looking very subdued, shouted for the servants to refill the trunk and swept out of the room. Corbett was also about to leave when he heard a faint knock on the door.
'Come in.' The door opened and John de Eveden, the librarian, entered like some contrite boy coming to apologize. He sat down on a stool just inside the door, his hands folded in his lap. Corbett stood, wrapping his cloak around him, toying with the clasp.
'Sir John, you wish to speak to me.'
The canon nodded.
'What is the matter, man?' Corbett asked. 'You come in here like a maid who has a confession to make.'
'I am no maid,' de Eveden said wryly. 'But I do have a confession.'
'Then give it.'
'I did not drink the wine.'
'What do you mean?'
'When the chalice was passed back, I did not drink the wine.'
Corbett went over and looked down at de Eveden. 'Why not?'
The priest shrugged. 'You laypeople do not know what it is like to be a priest,' he replied. 'You pass judgement on us. Hold us up as perfect specimens yet attack us when we are not. I am no different. My weakness, Master Clerk, or my weakness was, the grape, the wine. I used to spend days, long nights, drinking cup after cup – it was my only vice. I took an oath one night after I had drunk too much and found myself in circumstances I cannot describe. I crawled like a child into the sanctuary and took an oath. I would not drink wine ever again be it consecrated or not. That's all you should know.' He shrugged. 'I did not drink the wine de Montfort drank.'
Corbett stared down at him. Deep in his heart he felt the man might be telling the truth but he did wonder why, and why now.
'Tell me, Sir John,' he said, 'when de Montfort died and collapsed, what happened?'
'We stood around. I did not know what had happened, nor did my brethren.' De Eveden passed a hand over his eyes. 'All was confusion, chaos, I cannot remember. People rushing here and there.'
'Did you see anyone go to the altar?'
'No, I did not.'
'Nothing strange?'
'No, I did not,' de Eveden said firmly.
'The gossips amongst your brethren. Did they see anything strange?'
De Eveden looked sharply at Corbett. 'No, they did not. I swear that I have heard nothing, nothing extraordinary, nothing strange.'
'Tell me,' Corbett said, 'how were you dressed for mass? What did each of the celebrants wear?'
De Eveden spread his hands. 'The usual garments. We wore our robes and over them the long, white alb fastened by a gold cord, the amice, a strip of silk on our wrists, the stole about our necks. Over that the chasuble. Why?'
'Nothing,' Corbett replied. 'The chasubles? They are kept here?'
'Yes, they are.'
'And the albs, the white tunics worn under them?'
The librarian shrugged. 'As usual, they are passed to the laundress. She washes and presses them and that is the end of the matter. Why?'
'Nothing,' Corbett replied. 'You have told me all.'
Corbett left the librarian and strode out across the sanctuary and empty choir into the nave of the church. The business for the day was finishing; lawyers and parchment sellers were drifting off, and the twelve scribes, who sold their services to anyone who wished a letter written, were packing away their writing trays in small leather cases.
As Corbett was going out of the main west door, a hand caught his shoulder. He whirled, his hand going beneath his cloak for his dagger but, in the fading light, he recognized the fleshy, still beautiful face of the courtesan.
'What do you want, woman?' he demanded.
'You should not be so aggressive, Clerk,' she replied. 'I know you are probably asking questions about me so I thought I should come and introduce myself.'
'And your name?'
'Abigail. What do you want with me?' 'What did the Dean of St Paul's, Walter de Montfort, want with you?' The woman smiled. 'What any man does.' 'And what is that?'
'You are still too aggressive, Master Clerk. What is your name?'
'Hugh Corbett, senior clerk in the Chancery.' The woman mimicked his words. It was so accurate that, in spite of himself, Corbett smiled.
'I am sorry,' he said. 'I am cold. I don't like the task in which I am involved and I am tired. If you wish to play games then perhaps another time, but not now.'
'Tush, man.' The woman put an ermine-gloved hand on
Corbett's wrist. 'I only thought it was a matter of time before you came to see me so I thought I would do the courtesy of saving you a visit.'
'Fine,' Corbett said. 'But the question still stands. What was your relationship with Walter de Montfort?'
'Simple,' the woman said. 'I hold his house in Candlewick Street.'
'What do you mean, you hold it?'
'He rents it to me.'
'What is so special about that?'
'Oh, you have never been to my house, Master Clerk, but if you did, you would notice that there are many bedrooms, all of them luxuriously furnished.'
'You mean it's a brothel,' Corbett said, immediately regretting his brusqueness as the woman's eyes flinched with pain. Corbett looked steadily at her. Undoubtedly she had once been a most beautiful woman; her face was still heart-shaped, her eyes grey and well spaced; she had a perfectly formed nose and a mouth surely created for kissing. She was quick and intelligent, in a way reminding him of Maeve, with her tart replies and her ability to hold her own in any debate.
'And de Montfort,' Corbett said slowly, 'he knew you ran his house as a brothel?'
'Of course. He took half the profits.'
Corbett threw his head back and laughed. People leaving the cathedral stared at him, laughing so loudly in his dark-coloured clothes; it rang like a bell through the twilight. The woman smiled too.
'What is so amusing?' she asked.
Corbett wiped his mouth with his hand. 'In this world,' he said, 'nothing is ever what it seems to be. Look,' he said, 'tell me about de Montfort.'
She shrugged. 'As any man, he sunned himself like a barnyard cock strutting on his dunghill. He played his roles, acted out his parts. You see it all the time, Master Corbett. De Montfort in his robes up on the high altar – I have seen him in less, how can we say, celebrated positions. And yet,' she continued, 'he is no different from others. No different from the king, who pursues justice yet squeezes taxes from his people; or a knight who wears the red cross of the Crusaders and grabs a sword to hack down people for sweet Jesus's sake; or a priest who pretends that he is better than anyone else, yet who is far worse for not practising what he preaches.' She edged a little closer so Corbett could see the pale creaminess of her skin and catch the fragrance of her perfume. 'What are you, Master Clerk?' She gazed steadily into his eyes. 'No, you are not a barnyard cock,' she said. 'You are a hawk. You sit high up in the tree and survey everything with cold detachment; functional, you carry out your tasks.'
Corbett would have retorted angrily to anyone else, but the woman's wit and strength of character had left him virtually speechless.
'Well, Master Corbett. Now you know who I am and my relationship with de Montfort.'
'One question,' Corbett said. 'Are you glad he is dead?'
He saw the hate blaze like a fire in the woman's eyes.
'Yes, I am,' she replied fiercely. 'He was a cruel villain. He cheated me, persecuted me and, unless I followed instructions to the letter, threatened me with beadles, officials and a public whipping through the streets. He was always there with his hand out, ensuring I gave him half of what I earned. Yes, I am glad he is dead. Whoever killed him performed me a favour. If they hadn't done it, Master Clerk, believe me, in time I would have.' And, spinning on her heel, her skirts billowing around her, she clattered down the steps. Corbett called after her.
'Abigail.'
The woman stopped and turned, a faint smile on her lips. 'Yes, Master Clerk?'
'There are probably only five honest people in this city and you must be one of them.'
Her smile widened, revealing perfect white teeth.
'Perhaps we may meet again, Clerk, in more comfortable surroundings.'
Corbett grinned, but the woman, not waiting for a reply, disappeared into the darkness.
Compline had been sung at St Paul's and the canons had filed out, some to the refectory, others to their own chambers; the doors were closed and locked. Outside the snow-packed earth gleamed under the light of a full moon and a wind had sprung up, its eerie noise singing around the building, making it creak and groan. Even the hardened sanctuary men, who lived amongst the graves in the derelict huts near the huge curtain wall, shivered and pulled their rags closer about them and vowed they would not go out on such a night. During the day St Paul's was a bustle of activity, but this only masked the feeling of menace, of ominous silence, which fell once the cathedral was closed.
The sanctuary men would have been even more frightened if they had got within the locked church and seen the cowled figure crouching at the base of a pillar and singing a hymn softly to himself as he glared into the darkness. The man stopped his humming and chewed his lip thoughtfully. He really should not be here, but it was the best place to think. Plots and plans, like bats, seemed to move more smoothly at night. He had not intended to kill de Montfort though he was glad the silly, pratding hypocrite was dead. The figure cursed his own mistakes: Edward of England should have collapsed in the presence of his subjects, lay and spiritual. All would have seen it as God's judgement, and his brother's death and those of his wife and little ones would have been avenged.
The man raised his head and peered deeply into the darkness. He had heard stories that the cathedral was built over the original place of a temple dedicated to Diana and he wondered if the old demons lingered still. If he could, he would call up these demons and offer them his soul in exchange for Edward's downfall. There would be other opportunities for that, however. He must first deal with that meddling clerk, Corbett. The man bit fiercely at the skin on his thumb but felt no pain. God, how he hated that interfering clerk! There was something cold and detached about him, with his long dark face, black tousled hair and those eyes, like a cat's, slanted, green, ever watchful. The man rubbed his hands and smiled. Yes, he would have to do something about Corbett and it would have to be done very soon.