man?’
‘He suffered from stomach trouble,’ the fellow replied. ‘But nothing serious. I gave him some medicine. I don’t know if he—’
Corbett undid the pouch on the dead man’s belt. He drew out a square piece of parchment and handed this to Churchley. He searched again but, apart from some coins and a broken quill, found nothing.
‘This is yours.’ Churchley handed the parchment back. ‘It bears your name.’
Corbett took the piece of vellum, a neat square about four inches long, the corners expertly gathered and sealed with a blob of red wax. It bore his name, ‘Sir Hugh Corbett’, but he recognised the same clerkly hand that was behind the Bellman’s proclamations. He stood up, leaving the rest to gather round Langton’s corpse. Corbett broke the seal. The words written inside seemed to leap up in their cry of defiance.
‘The Bellman greets Corbett the King’s crow: the royal lap dog. The Bellman asks what the crow does in Oxford? The crow should be careful where he pecks and where he flies. This follower of carrion, this hunter of bloody morsels has been warned. Do not tarry long in the fields of Oxford or your beak may be bent, your claws broken, your wings pinioned, to be despatched back dead to your royal master. Signed ‘the Bellman’.
Corbett hid his fear and passed the proclamation around. Ranulf swore. Maltote, who could barely read, asked what it was? Lady Mathilda’s fingers went to her lips, and the rest of the Masters seemed to sober up.
‘This is treason,’ Ranulf hissed. ‘This is treason against the King’s clerk and against the Crown itself!’
‘It’s murder,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Horrible murder. Bring the cups here, all of you!’
They scurried about until all the cups were on the table in front of him: it was difficult to tell which had been Langton’s. Corbett and Ranulf, assisted by Churchley, sniffed tentatively at each. All bore the juicy fragrance of sweet wine except one: Corbett held it up to his nose and caught a sharp, acrid smell.
‘What is it?’ He passed the cup to Churchley who sniffed it, swilling it around.
‘White arsenic,’ he finally declared. ‘Only arsenic has that tang, particularly white arsenic: it is deadly in its effect.’
‘Wouldn’t Langton have tasted it?’
‘Perhaps,’ Churchley replied. ‘But, there again, if his palate was sweetened by what we have eaten and drunk, he might dismiss it.’
‘But how did it get there?’ Barnett bellowed. ‘Master Alfred.’ He grasped Tripham’s arm. ‘Are we to be poisoned in our beds?’
Lady Mathilda snapped her fingers and gestured to Master Moth who, throughout it all, had stood silently near the door. She made those strange, bird-like gestures and Moth hurried off. He returned accompanied by two sleepy-eyed servitors who had arranged the library and brought the wine down. Somehow the news of Langton’s death had already begun to spread and the servitors crept like mice into the library. Tripham interrogated them but their mumbled replies shed no light on what had happened.
‘Master Tripham,’ one of them wailed, ‘we filled the wine and put the goblets on a tray.’
Corbett dismissed them. ‘Did any of you see someone playing with the cups, moving them about?’ he asked the rest.
‘No,’ Barnett replied on behalf of them all. ‘I was next to Langton all the time.’ His voice faltered as he realised the implications of what he had said. ‘I did nothing!’ he gasped. ‘I would not do such a thing!’
‘Was Langton holding his cup all the time?’ Corbett asked.
Churchley flailed his hands. ‘Like the rest,’ he whispered, ‘he probably put it down on the table and then picked it up.’
‘But what I can’t understand,’ Barnett declared, ‘is why Langton should be carrying a message to you, Sir Hugh, from the Bellman?’
‘I know.’ Corbett sat on a stool, ‘Master Alfred Tripham. Bring the servants back, and have the corpse removed! The
‘He suffered from stomach trouble,’ the fellow replied. ‘But nothing serious. I gave him some medicine. I don’t know if he—’
Corbett undid the pouch on the dead man’s belt. He drew out a square piece of parchment and handed this to Churchley. He searched again but, apart from some coins and a broken quill, found nothing.
‘This is yours.’ Churchley handed the parchment back. ‘It bears your name.’
Corbett took the piece of vellum, a neat square about four inches long, the corners expertly gathered and sealed with a blob of red wax. It bore his name, ‘Sir Hugh Corbett’, but he recognised the same clerkly hand that was behind the Bellman’s proclamations. He stood up, leaving the rest to gather round Langton’s corpse. Corbett broke the seal. The words written inside seemed to leap up in their cry of defiance.
‘The Bellman greets Corbett the King’s crow: the royal lap dog. The Bellman asks what the crow does in Oxford? The crow should be careful where he pecks and where he flies. This follower of carrion, this hunter of bloody morsels has been warned. Do not tarry long in the fields of Oxford or your beak may be bent, your claws broken, your wings pinioned, to be despatched back dead to your royal master. Signed ‘the Bellman’.
Corbett hid his fear and passed the proclamation around. Ranulf swore. Maltote, who could barely read, asked what it was? Lady Mathilda’s fingers went to her lips, and the rest of the Masters seemed to sober up.
‘This is treason,’ Ranulf hissed. ‘This is treason against the King’s clerk and against the Crown itself!’
‘It’s murder,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Horrible murder. Bring the cups here, all of you!’
They scurried about until all the cups were on the table in front of him: it was difficult to tell which had been Langton’s. Corbett and Ranulf, assisted by Churchley, sniffed tentatively at each. All bore the juicy fragrance of sweet wine except one: Corbett held it up to his nose and caught a sharp, acrid smell.
‘What is it?’ He passed the cup to Churchley who sniffed it, swilling it around.
‘White arsenic,’ he finally declared. ‘Only arsenic has that tang, particularly white arsenic: it is deadly in its effect.’
‘Wouldn’t Langton have tasted it?’
‘Perhaps,’ Churchley replied. ‘But, there again, if his palate was sweetened by what we have eaten and drunk, he might dismiss it.’
‘But how did it get there?’ Barnett bellowed. ‘Master Alfred.’ He grasped Tripham’s arm. ‘Are we to be poisoned in our beds?’
Lady Mathilda snapped her fingers and gestured to Master Moth who, throughout it all, had stood silently near the door. She made those strange, bird-like gestures and Moth hurried off. He returned accompanied by two sleepy-eyed servitors who had arranged the library and brought the wine down. Somehow the news of Langton’s death had already begun to spread and the servitors crept like mice into the library. Tripham interrogated them but their mumbled replies shed no light on what had happened.
‘Master Tripham,’ one of them wailed, ‘we filled the wine and put the goblets on a tray.’
Corbett dismissed them. ‘Did any of you see someone playing with the cups, moving them about?’ he asked the rest.
‘No,’ Barnett replied on behalf of them all. ‘I was next to Langton all the time.’ His voice faltered as he realised the implications of what he had said. ‘I did nothing!’ he gasped. ‘I would not do such a thing!’
‘Was Langton holding his cup all the time?’ Corbett asked.
Churchley flailed his hands. ‘Like the rest,’ he whispered, ‘he probably put it down on the table and then picked it up.’
‘But what I can’t understand,’ Barnett declared, ‘is why Langton should be carrying a message to you, Sir Hugh, from the Bellman?’
‘I know.’ Corbett sat on a stool, ‘Master Alfred Tripham. Bring the servants back, and have the corpse removed! The
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