him? All a great mystery,’ she continued in a whisper. ‘I shall think, reflect and sleep. Perhaps the ghosts of yesteryear will return. If I remember anything, I shall tell you.’
‘And Brother Cuthbert, do you and he ever meet?’
‘Of course we do, especially on a warm summer’s evening when the sun is setting and Goose Meadow is bathed in God’s glory. We sit on the grass, hold hands and remember happier days. Farewell, Sir Hugh.’
The shutters across the window closed abruptly. Corbett shrugged and walked back through the trees to meet Ranulf striding across the frost-glistening grass, clapping his hands to keep them warm and loudly assuring Corbett that Father Abbot confirmed all that Brother Cuthbert had told them. The peace and harmony of the abbey had not been disturbed, not a jot or a tittle, until Abbot Serlo had been roused after his dawn Mass with the news that Evesham would not answer any knocking.
‘Gone to God,’ murmured Corbett, staring up at a crow circling above him. ‘Gone to God’s tribunal now, Ranulf, to join Ignacio Engleat. Lord knows the indictment they’ll have to answer.’ He breathed out, half listening to the faint sounds of the abbey, the drifting words of a cantor, the muffled clatter of cart wheels and the peal of a handbell being rung along the cloisters. ‘Ranulf, who murdered Ignacio Engleat? Who crept in here with subtle wit and cunning mind to execute Lord Evesham? Why the secrecy, why the mystery?’
‘Brother Cuthbert?’ Ranulf stared hard at his master. Corbett was thinking and Ranulf relished what was about to happen. The pursuit would begin with Corbett the lurcher, the staghound. He’d twist and turn like the hunter he was until his prey was trapped, penned and marked for slaughter.
‘You think so?’ Corbett mused. ‘Possible, Ranulf. Brother Cuthbert and Adelicia could be the murderers, at least of Evesham. They certainly had good cause to hate him, and yet . . .’
‘And yet what?’
Corbett’s eye was caught by the twinkle of light from one of the gilded windows of the abbey church.
‘Too simple,’ he murmured. ‘Sin is like a fox, Ranulf, it leaves a stinking trail that even the years cannot wash out or hide. A killer has now taken up that scent. Ancient sins, long-buried evil, a tangle of poisonous roots are now festering. There is a time and season under heaven for everything, or so Scripture would have us believe. The year’s thawing is over, long gone, harvest beckons, vengeance time is here.’
‘And so, master?’
‘Look,’ Corbett shook himself free of his reverie, ‘we’ll return to London. Ranulf, you and Chanson are off to the Comfort of Bathsheba at Queenshithe, to establish what actually did happen to Ignacio Engleat.’
‘And you, master?’
‘I am going back down the tunnel of the years. I’ll return to the chancery, to the pouches of the Secret Seal, and see what seeds of sin I can detect there.’
The Teller of Tales, as the assassin called himself, his hooded face dirty behind its garish mask, stood on the plinth that according to the city worthies was once part of a pagan temple. He was not interested in that; he was carefully watching the great open expanse before the towering iron-clad doors of Newgate. It was a filthy, sombre building, and the stench from behind its grey-stone walls curled and wafted everywhere, an odour of dirt, despondency and despair. At the close-barred windows of the soaring towers either side of the great gate, mad, frenetic faces, hair all tangled, peered greedily out at those now assembling on the cobbled bailey before the prison. The gathering crowd cursed and shouted as they slipped and slithered on the wet offal and blood that poured from the nearby fleshers’ stalls. A motley collection of rogues, cutpurses, counterfeiters, cunning men, coney-catchers, rifflers and ribauds was congregating to greet Giles Waldene and Hubert the Monk. An abrupt proclamation regarding these
‘And Brother Cuthbert, do you and he ever meet?’
‘Of course we do, especially on a warm summer’s evening when the sun is setting and Goose Meadow is bathed in God’s glory. We sit on the grass, hold hands and remember happier days. Farewell, Sir Hugh.’
The shutters across the window closed abruptly. Corbett shrugged and walked back through the trees to meet Ranulf striding across the frost-glistening grass, clapping his hands to keep them warm and loudly assuring Corbett that Father Abbot confirmed all that Brother Cuthbert had told them. The peace and harmony of the abbey had not been disturbed, not a jot or a tittle, until Abbot Serlo had been roused after his dawn Mass with the news that Evesham would not answer any knocking.
‘Gone to God,’ murmured Corbett, staring up at a crow circling above him. ‘Gone to God’s tribunal now, Ranulf, to join Ignacio Engleat. Lord knows the indictment they’ll have to answer.’ He breathed out, half listening to the faint sounds of the abbey, the drifting words of a cantor, the muffled clatter of cart wheels and the peal of a handbell being rung along the cloisters. ‘Ranulf, who murdered Ignacio Engleat? Who crept in here with subtle wit and cunning mind to execute Lord Evesham? Why the secrecy, why the mystery?’
‘Brother Cuthbert?’ Ranulf stared hard at his master. Corbett was thinking and Ranulf relished what was about to happen. The pursuit would begin with Corbett the lurcher, the staghound. He’d twist and turn like the hunter he was until his prey was trapped, penned and marked for slaughter.
‘You think so?’ Corbett mused. ‘Possible, Ranulf. Brother Cuthbert and Adelicia could be the murderers, at least of Evesham. They certainly had good cause to hate him, and yet . . .’
‘And yet what?’
Corbett’s eye was caught by the twinkle of light from one of the gilded windows of the abbey church.
‘Too simple,’ he murmured. ‘Sin is like a fox, Ranulf, it leaves a stinking trail that even the years cannot wash out or hide. A killer has now taken up that scent. Ancient sins, long-buried evil, a tangle of poisonous roots are now festering. There is a time and season under heaven for everything, or so Scripture would have us believe. The year’s thawing is over, long gone, harvest beckons, vengeance time is here.’
‘And so, master?’
‘Look,’ Corbett shook himself free of his reverie, ‘we’ll return to London. Ranulf, you and Chanson are off to the Comfort of Bathsheba at Queenshithe, to establish what actually did happen to Ignacio Engleat.’
‘And you, master?’
‘I am going back down the tunnel of the years. I’ll return to the chancery, to the pouches of the Secret Seal, and see what seeds of sin I can detect there.’
The Teller of Tales, as the assassin called himself, his hooded face dirty behind its garish mask, stood on the plinth that according to the city worthies was once part of a pagan temple. He was not interested in that; he was carefully watching the great open expanse before the towering iron-clad doors of Newgate. It was a filthy, sombre building, and the stench from behind its grey-stone walls curled and wafted everywhere, an odour of dirt, despondency and despair. At the close-barred windows of the soaring towers either side of the great gate, mad, frenetic faces, hair all tangled, peered greedily out at those now assembling on the cobbled bailey before the prison. The gathering crowd cursed and shouted as they slipped and slithered on the wet offal and blood that poured from the nearby fleshers’ stalls. A motley collection of rogues, cutpurses, counterfeiters, cunning men, coney-catchers, rifflers and ribauds was congregating to greet Giles Waldene and Hubert the Monk. An abrupt proclamation regarding these
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