walk at a crouch between the wall and bushes, then tap on the window.’
‘But how were the window shutters closed afterwards?’ Tripham insisted.
‘Ascham himself might have done that,’ Corbett replied. ‘To protect himself further from the assassin. However, I have examined the shutter and noted that the bar has been freshly oiled. What the assassin probably did was pull the shutters closed from the outside, with such force the bar simply slid back into place. Consequently, when you came into the library, you’d see the bar down and conclude the window behind also had its catch in place.’
Churchley nodded; his eyes narrowed as he studied Corbett afresh. ‘No one ever thought of examining that!’ he exclaimed.
‘I also suspect,’ Corbett added, ‘that the assassin later locked the window; just in case anyone did come back to search - it would be a small matter.’
‘So, you are implying,’ Churchley asked, ‘that the assassin deliberately greased the shutter bar?’
‘Of course. So that, when he pulled it from outside, the bar would drop down again. Watch.’
Corbett went and opened the shutters, tilting the bar back. He then closed one side and slammed the other: as soon as the shutters met, the raised bar fell into place.
‘As pure as logic,’ Appleston breathed.
‘Did any of you think of looking for what Ascham was studying?’ Corbett asked.
‘I did,’ Lady Mathilda stepped forward, resting on her cane. ‘I did, master clerk. There was a book, a folio or manuscript on the table but, when I returned the following morning, it was gone.’ She gestured round the library. ‘And God knows where or what it could have been.’
Corbett studied each of the Masters: which one of them was the royal spy? Surely, a man of learning and sharp intelligence would have noticed something amiss?
‘How do you know?’ Churchley paused and looked at Langton who abruptly belched and patted his stomach. ‘How do you know,’ he continued, ‘that Ascham went to the window?’
‘Because there are faint flecks of blood on the floor.’ Corbett replied. ‘Only small drops from when the crossbow bolt took him in the chest. Ascham would turn and hurry away from the window, but then he’d collapse. As he did so, Ascham must have noticed the small scroll the assassin had tossed through the window before closing it. He dragged himself to the table, grasped the piece of manuscript and began to write out his dying message which,’ Corbett sighed, ‘does seem to point the finger of accusation at poor Passerel.’
‘And you have no explanation of that, have you?’ Tripham accused.
‘No, I—’
Corbett’s reply was broken off as Langton rose to his feet, his face taut and pale. He dropped the cup, clutching his stomach. He staggered towards Corbett, his mouth opening and shutting.
‘Oh, sweet Jesu!’ he gasped. ‘Oh, Christ have mercy!’
He crashed into the table and then fell to his knees, both hands still clutching his belly. Corbett hurried towards him. Langton convulsed on the floor, his face purple as he gasped for air. Corbett tried to turn him over. All around was confusion, the others pushing and shoving. Langton gave one final convulsion, a deep shudder. He sighed, and his head fell sideways, eyes open, a dribble of spittle running out of the corner of his mouth. Corbett placed the man’s head gently on the floor. He tried to close the eyes but this was impossible. He stared up at the ring of faces, searching vainly for any clue or glimpse of satisfaction on the part of the unknown assassin. Churchley elbowed his way through. He knelt down beside the corpse, looking for the blood beat in Langton’s neck and wrist.
‘Lord have mercy!’ he whispered. ‘He’s dead! Langton is dead!’
The rest drew away. Corbett saw Lady Mathilda raise her cup to her lips.
‘Don’t drink!’ he shouted. ‘All of you, put your cups down!’ He tapped Churchley on the shoulder. ‘Was Langton an ill
‘But how were the window shutters closed afterwards?’ Tripham insisted.
‘Ascham himself might have done that,’ Corbett replied. ‘To protect himself further from the assassin. However, I have examined the shutter and noted that the bar has been freshly oiled. What the assassin probably did was pull the shutters closed from the outside, with such force the bar simply slid back into place. Consequently, when you came into the library, you’d see the bar down and conclude the window behind also had its catch in place.’
Churchley nodded; his eyes narrowed as he studied Corbett afresh. ‘No one ever thought of examining that!’ he exclaimed.
‘I also suspect,’ Corbett added, ‘that the assassin later locked the window; just in case anyone did come back to search - it would be a small matter.’
‘So, you are implying,’ Churchley asked, ‘that the assassin deliberately greased the shutter bar?’
‘Of course. So that, when he pulled it from outside, the bar would drop down again. Watch.’
Corbett went and opened the shutters, tilting the bar back. He then closed one side and slammed the other: as soon as the shutters met, the raised bar fell into place.
‘As pure as logic,’ Appleston breathed.
‘Did any of you think of looking for what Ascham was studying?’ Corbett asked.
‘I did,’ Lady Mathilda stepped forward, resting on her cane. ‘I did, master clerk. There was a book, a folio or manuscript on the table but, when I returned the following morning, it was gone.’ She gestured round the library. ‘And God knows where or what it could have been.’
Corbett studied each of the Masters: which one of them was the royal spy? Surely, a man of learning and sharp intelligence would have noticed something amiss?
‘How do you know?’ Churchley paused and looked at Langton who abruptly belched and patted his stomach. ‘How do you know,’ he continued, ‘that Ascham went to the window?’
‘Because there are faint flecks of blood on the floor.’ Corbett replied. ‘Only small drops from when the crossbow bolt took him in the chest. Ascham would turn and hurry away from the window, but then he’d collapse. As he did so, Ascham must have noticed the small scroll the assassin had tossed through the window before closing it. He dragged himself to the table, grasped the piece of manuscript and began to write out his dying message which,’ Corbett sighed, ‘does seem to point the finger of accusation at poor Passerel.’
‘And you have no explanation of that, have you?’ Tripham accused.
‘No, I—’
Corbett’s reply was broken off as Langton rose to his feet, his face taut and pale. He dropped the cup, clutching his stomach. He staggered towards Corbett, his mouth opening and shutting.
‘Oh, sweet Jesu!’ he gasped. ‘Oh, Christ have mercy!’
He crashed into the table and then fell to his knees, both hands still clutching his belly. Corbett hurried towards him. Langton convulsed on the floor, his face purple as he gasped for air. Corbett tried to turn him over. All around was confusion, the others pushing and shoving. Langton gave one final convulsion, a deep shudder. He sighed, and his head fell sideways, eyes open, a dribble of spittle running out of the corner of his mouth. Corbett placed the man’s head gently on the floor. He tried to close the eyes but this was impossible. He stared up at the ring of faces, searching vainly for any clue or glimpse of satisfaction on the part of the unknown assassin. Churchley elbowed his way through. He knelt down beside the corpse, looking for the blood beat in Langton’s neck and wrist.
‘Lord have mercy!’ he whispered. ‘He’s dead! Langton is dead!’
The rest drew away. Corbett saw Lady Mathilda raise her cup to her lips.
‘Don’t drink!’ he shouted. ‘All of you, put your cups down!’ He tapped Churchley on the shoulder. ‘Was Langton an ill
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