As he moved from St Mary-le-Bow down Cheapside into Poultry, Corbett realized the city was at last trying to reassert itself against the inclement weather. The courts had certainly been busy. A line of felons and night-walkers, the whores in striped hoods and each carrying a white wand, were being led off to the prison at the Tun in Cornhill. The stocks were also full with bakers and fishmongers, their foul produce being burnt under their noses. Another man accused of slander had a whetstone round his neck and a placard calling him a false liar for all to ridicule.
As Corbett saw the whores he remembered Abigail, the woman who lived in de Montfort's house in Candlewick Street. Again he wondered if she had played a part in the murder. She had been present at the mass and de Montfort, never the most pleasant of people, had threatened her with public insult; any whore thrice convicted could be whipped from prison to the city bounds and told to abjure the city for ever. There again, and so Corbett dismissed the idea, if de Montfort's liaison with any courtesan was known, he too would be taken to the open prison at the Tun at Cornhill and there exposed all day for public ridicule. Corbett stopped to watch the chaos surrounding a huge canopied wagon which had overturned, spilling its produce out into the slushy show. The carter and his apprentices were driving off the urchins and would-be thieves. The confusion he was watching reflected what was going on in his own mind. Why should a man who had achieved so much risk it all in order to manage a brothel? De Montfort would have fallen from grace if that had become public knowledge. Perhaps the solution was to do with frustrated arrogance: de Montfort, having reached the pinnacle of his career, perhaps believed he could do things forbidden to others and specifically denied to priests?
Corbett found Ranulf waiting for him and gave him some silver to go and purchase certain foodstuffs they needed; whilst he went to the shop of his banker, Gisors the goldsmith, a modest affair which seemed to argue against the accumulated wealth of the merchant. Inside, Corbett looked around at the neatly stacked leather trunks and the parchment rolls, each docketed and tagged, listing those who had banked with Gisors, to whom he had lent gold and at what rates. In spite of the Church's ruling about usury, the banking and depositing of money was now a thriving business in the capital. The goldsmith greeted Corbett with his usual subservience. The clerk was a regular and trusted customer, the sort, beloved by any banker, who deposits silver and gold and rarely takes away again. This morning, however, Corbett disappointed him. Usually, the clerk stayed and shared the gossip of the court and the palace, information, however petty, Gisors could always use. This morning the clerk was curt, absent-minded; he stated what he wanted and, once Gisors had counted the money out into a small leather purse, took it with a mutter of thanks and left the shop.
Corbett breakfasted in the tavern where he was joined by Ranulf, who had spent a profitable hour buying the provisions they needed. He returned the little that was left of Corbett's silver.
The clerk looked down at it. 'Is that all?'
'Yes, Master.'
Corbett groaned quietly. He had been so engrossed in this matter and other affairs of the court that he had neglected to keep an eye on his money. He had forgotten how the cruel winter would have sent the price of goods soaring. Two loaves usually cost a penny, but now the price had doubled; the same went for vegetables, meat, drink and anything brought into the city from the country. Once Ranulf had eaten, they left and went back up Cheapside towards St Paul's. The mist was beginning to lift and there were more people in the market-place. So immersed was Corbett in the coming meeting with Plumpton, giving half an ear to Ranulf s protests about the price of things, that neither he nor his servant noticed the young man with slit eyes, pock-marked face and long greasy hair, dressed completely in black, who had followed them from the tavern like a bird of evil omen. The fellow kept them under scrutiny until they entered the precincts of St Paul's, then he smiled and, with a nod of satisfaction, walked away.
In the courtyard Corbett stopped so Ranulf could watch the end of a miracle play. The stage was set on a two-storied affair on wheels, the lower tier where the actors dressed, the upper for the play itself. The stage, and its brilliant backdrop of a grotesquely painted mouth of hell with demons leaping out of it, was topped by a roof and a huge silver griffin. The story was of the Passion. The actor playing Christ, costumed in a white robe and a silver-braided wig, drew the sympathetic murmurs of the surrounding crowd; while Pilate, in his purple cloak and false red hair, drew jeers, boos, catcalls and the occasional piece of dirt. Ranulf would have stayed there longer but Corbett, tiring of the scene and fearful of the pickpockets he had recognized entering the crowd (one of them from a court case he'd attended a few months previously), pulled his protesting servant up into the doorway of the cathedral. The nave was crowded and noisy with business: parchment-sellers, professional scribes, lawyers talking loudly, servants waiting to be hired. They pushed through these and made their way up into the choir; by the smell of candle-grease and incense, Corbett knew that nones had just finished.
They found Plumpton in the sacristy. The priest looked surly and exclaimed in anger at Corbett's request,
'What do you mean, man? That I lay out the entire altar as it was.' The priest looked as if he was about to refuse. 'Again,' Corbett wearily added, 'I must remind you that I do not do this out of any sense of power or pleasure. I am simply following His Grace's request. I would be grateful, Sir Philip, if you would see it done, now.'
Corbett went out and sat in the sanctuary chair whilst Plumpton, aided by a number of servants, pulled back the green gold-embroidered covering cloth and laid the altar as it was after mass.
'Sir Philip,' Corbett called out, 'I would not like it arranged as if mass was beginning, but as you remember it when you cleared the altar after it was finished.'
Sir Philip glared at him and nodded. It took some time, but Plumpton, now warming to his task, brought on the cruet dish which held the water and wine, two long, glass-stemmed jugs with a cluster of golden grapes on the caps, each set in a pure silver dish. He laid out the white linen cloths the priests used to clean the chalice and their fingers; even a few unconsecrated hosts were scattered about.
Once he pronounced himself satisfied, Corbett went up and inspected the altar. He ordered the candles to be lit to give the right reflection, positioning himself where de Montfort would have stood and where he himself had been when examining the altar on behalf of the king. De Montfort's chalice was there, the wine winking in the light, the cruets to the far side, one containing the water three-quarters filled, the wine cruet completely empty.
'You have forgotten to put wine in this?' Corbett asked.
Plumpton shook his head. 'No, it was empty after the mass. I remember, because there was no wine to throw away.'
Corbett nodded. There was something missing, something he had not grasped. He could feel his stomach churning with excitement. He looked again, putting the altar scene firmly in his mind. He imagined he was staring at a picture, some stained-glass window he found impressive or beautiful and always wanted to remember.
'Sir Philip,' he said eventually, 'I thank you. I cannot find the solution. Perhaps you may.' He then turned on his heel and walked out of St Paul's.
It was early afternoon, the mist had not lifted during the day and was now thickening as evening drew in. The play in the cathedral courtyard had finished and in Cheapside the markets were closing early, the merchants setting the obligatory lantern-horns outside their houses. Only the beggars and scavengers, those looking to cull what they could from a day's trading, were there. A group of horsemen rode by, the hooves of their mounts breaking and scattering the ice. Corbett nearly slipped and suddenly realized Ranulf was missing. He had been with him when he went into the cathedral but, as was customary, he had once again slipped away to his own private pleasures. Corbett shrugged. He felt hungry and bought a pie from a baker but, after two bites, tossed it away, for he could taste the rancid meat beneath the spices. He went into the tavern on the corner of Bread Street and sat near the fire warming himself with a bowl of soup. He tried to ignore the globules of fat bobbing about amongst the pieces of meat and vegetable by drinking three tankards of London ale, specially spiced and warmed to keep off the chill. Afterwards, he went outside, relieved himself in the gutter and, turning the corner, made his way down to his lodgings.
Corbett was used to violence; he had fought in Scodand and Wales and been the victim of ambush but the attack that evening was as sudden and savage as he had ever experienced. He was gingerly trying to avoid the open sewer, at the same time keeping his feet on the ice, when a figure in black stepped out of a doorway. If Corbett hadn't seen the glint of steel, the sword would have taken his head off in one chopping curve. Corbett instead swerved and sprang away. He slipped on the ice and fell, squirming as his assailant, his eyes glaring through holes in the black hood, brought his sword up for a crashing blow. Corbett, his legs caught in his cloak, his sword slewed round making it impossible for him to draw, scurried backwards like a child facing an irate parent. He felt his hand slip into the sewer, as the assassin-cum-executioner, still advancing, held up the sword and searched where to give the death blow. Corbett could not even think of what to do. He sat transfixed, watching those dreadful eyes and the curve of the sword behind the man's shoulder. He knew this was no alley bully or common felon but an assassin; the man was calm, rhythmic in his movements, like a dancer taking his time. And why not? The streets were empty, it was dusk and who would care that a man stupid enough to go out on his own was now being attacked? Corbett tried to call for help but his mouth was dry and the sound stuck like a piece of unchewed food in his throat. He found the dagger in his belt and pulled it out, but that only made him slip further on the icy ground. He looked up in desperation as the man, legs now apart, prepared to bring the sword down for the killing blow. The assassin came forward. Suddenly, he threw his head back and, crumpling like a loose piece of cloth, slumped onto his knees, his sword slipping out of his hand, his head falling forward onto his chest. Corbett saw the blood dribble out of his mouth. The assassin coughed and, gently toppling over to one side, curled up like a child going to sleep. Corbett looked up. Ranulf stood there, grinning broadly, feet apart, in his hand a long dagger bloodied right up to the hilt.
'For God's sake, man,' Corbett said testily, 'I never heard you arrive!'
Ranulf shrugged and squatted down to wipe the dagger on the dead assassin's cloak.
'I'll never understand, Master Corbett,' he said drily, 'when I'm around, you hardly talk to me. When I am here you have only criticisms. Do you wish I had come later?'
'Where have you been? It was a miracle that you did come.' Corbett spoke snappily with fright.
'I was outside the cathedral,' Ranulf said, his voice rising in protest. 'I went to watch the stage, I saw you disappear round the corner and I followed. I was going to catch you up but I saw this character.' Ranulf nudged the dead body with his foot. 'He seemed to appear from nowhere. He followed you so I decided to stay back to see what would happen. The rest you know.'
Corbett smiled.
'I am grateful, Ranulf. I am sorry I was angry with you.'
Ranulf, however, refused to be mollified. 'I waited. Once his back was turned it was easy. He never,' he added with pride, 'heard me. Neither did you. Did you?'
Corbett grinned. 'No, I did not, Ranulf. But I have never been so pleased to see you. Here, help me up.'
Ranulf helped the clerk back to his feet, solicitously dusting the back of his cloak off, smacking hard as if relishing every brush with his hand.
'Thank you, Ranulf. That will do.'
Corbett squatted down again beside the assassin, turned him over on his back and pulled off the hood. He had never seen the man before, the staring eyes, the thin sallow face, the greasy hair, the pock-marked skin. A professional assassin. London was full of them, ex-soldiers, veterans from the wars, men prepared to carry out a murder for a bag of silver.
Corbett rose. 'I'll be fine now, Ranulf. It's best if you go and see the alderman. Tell him what happened. Tell him if he has any questions to direct them to the king, but ask him to send men for the body.'
Ranulf needed no second bidding. Any opportunity to lecture the portly, pompous alderman, whose young wife
Ranulf had long lusted after, could not be resisted. In spite of the slippery ice, he ran down Bread Street and back into Cheapside. The sooner the task was done, the sooner he could visit his son.
Corbett climbed back to his chamber and poured himself a generous cupful of wine. He sat on the edge of his bed holding the goblet between his hands, now and again taking deep draughts as he tried to control the trembling in his body and calm his churning stomach. He felt he might disgrace himself and vomit due to a mixture of fear and relief at his unexpected deliverance from death. The darkness drew in and Corbett, now fearful of the night, lit the candles. He refilled the goblet and collected his thoughts; the assassin had been sent by someone, undoubtedly one of the priests of St Paul's. Corbett realized he must be close to the solution of the mystery, or else the assassin would never have been sent. Once again he wondered what he had learnt but had so far misunderstood. He looked down at the goblet and swirled the wine around absent-mindedly. Suddenly, like an arrow speeding out of the darkness, Corbett knew what he had missed. He became so excited he refilled his cup, took five or six deep draughts and swirled the lees of the drink around the cup before replenishing it again. He now remembered what he had seen on the high altar the day de Montfort had died and, at the same time, remembered the stain on the cope in the cupboard in the sacristy. He would have liked to have returned to St Paul's but realized that the people he wanted to question had probably left. Moreover, the rapid gulps of wine were making their presence felt. He was tired, sleepy, so he extinguished the candle, bolted the door and sat in the darkness trying to calm the excited beating of his heart.
In St Paul's Sir Philip Plumpton was likewise excited. It had first begun while singing vespers in the choir. He had intoned the responsorial verses along with the other canons, letting his mind drift back to the events earlier in the day. He gazed up into the sanctuary, recalling how he had laid out the chalice, patens, monstrances, cruets and candles for Corbett. He remembered every item and how the altar had looked after de Montfort's death. – That was his job and Sir Philip was proud of how carefully he had replicated matters for that sanctimonious clerk. Even minor details like the cruets. Sir Philip stopped his mindless chanting. No, he had forgotten something. He gasped in surprise. 'No,' he murmured to himself. 'It had been the same as on the morning de Montfort had died but it shouldn't have been. Oh, no!'
Sir Philip's excitement was such that he dropped the book from which he was chanting the responses and, gazing around apologetically, stooped down to pick it up. He continued the divine service but with his mind on the murderer's flawed plan. Had Corbett realized it? And if he told the clerk what would happen?
During the meal in the refectory of the chapter-house Sir Philip's excitement grew so much that he could hardly eat. He was nervous, agitated, refusing food but drinking deeply, so he drew the curious glances of his colleagues though he would not be drawn. He could hardly wait to gabble through compline, not bothering, as was his wont, to stay in the cathedral to pray and reflect on the day's events. Sir Philip was not a bad man but one always in a hurry and that night more than most. Alone in the chamber, still obsessed with his discovery, he heard a knock on the door.
'Come in,' he called and turned back to his desk, pen in hand as he prepared to write his thoughts down on a piece of parchment. If Sir Philip had turned, perhaps he would have lived. However, so immersed was he in his own thoughts that he let the visitor into his chamber – allowing Death to wrap the cord round his neck, pull it dght and, after a few gasping, throttling seconds, Sir Philip's life was extinguished as quickly and as effortlessly as the murderer licked his fingers and doused the candles in the chamber.