Hugh Corbett 06 - Murder Wears a Cowl by Paul Doherty

bed. He recalled Maeve’s teasing and his idle chatter about affairs at court. His wife, however, became anxious as Corbett described the reasons for his return to London.
    ‘I have heard of these murders!’ Maeve commented, sitting up and drawing the sheets round her body. ‘At first no one noticed. In a city like this, girls are killed or disappear and no one cares but,’ she shook her head, ‘the deaths of these women, the manner of their dying – is it true?’ she asked.
    Corbett, lying flat on his back, suddenly stirred.
    ‘Is what true?’
    ‘They say the murderer—’ Maeve shivered and brought her knees up under her chin. ‘They say the killer mutilates the bodies of the girls.’
    Corbett looked up in surprise. ‘Who told you that?’
    ‘It’s common gossip. Most women are frightened to go out at night but that last death was during the day.’ Maeve went on to tell him of the recent killing and the mutilated corpse of a whore being found in the porch of a church in Greyfriars.
    Corbett gently stroked her bare arm. ‘But why the fear? The women he has killed have all been whores and courtesans?’
    ‘So what?’ Maeve tossed her head. ‘They are still women and Lady Somerville was certainly not an whore!’
    Corbett had fallen silent. Somehow he believed that Lady Somerville’s death was different from the rest. Had the old lady discovered something? Had she surprised the killer?
    Corbett looked round as Cheapside began to fill. Already he could glimpse the whores in their bright clothes and garish wigs. Suddenly the day didn’t seem so bright and as he recalled Maeve’s words about mutilation he felt uneasy. His usual adversaries, be they de Craon or some calculating murderer, had reason and motive for their actions. But what now? Was he hunting – as Ranulf had described the previous day – some mad man, some lunatic with a twisted hatred of women who found it easier to prey upon poor street-walkers but who might change and strike at any woman, lonely and vulnerable enough. Corbett wished he could turn and go back home. He felt he was about to enter a very darkened house with shadowy labyrinthine passages and, somewhere, a killer lurked waiting for him to come. Oh, God, he prayed, bring me out of this safely; from the snare of the hunter, Lord, deliver me.
    At the Guildhall, Corbett’s sombre mood was not helped by a beadle standing on the steps auctioning the goods of a hanged felon: a battered table, two broken chairs, one ripped mattress, two thimbles, a set of hose, a shirt, a doublet and a battered pewter cup inlaid with silver. The man had apparently robbed a church but his accomplice had escaped so a rather shabby cleric, holding a candle in one hand and a bell in another, was loudly proclaiming his excommunication in a litany of curses.
    ‘May he be cursed wherever he be found. At home or in the field, on a highway or a path, in the forest or on water. May he be cursed in living and in dying, in eating and drinking, whilst hungry and thirsty, sleeping, walking, standing, sitting, working, resting, urinating, defecating and bleeding. May he be cursed in the hair of his head, in his temples, brow, mouth, breast, heart, genitals, feet and toe-nails!’ On and on the dreadful, sonorous declamation continued.
    ‘I think,’ Ranulf whispered to Corbett, ‘that the poor bastard should get the message now!’
    Corbett grinned and threw the reins of his horse at Ranulf. ‘Stable him in a tavern,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll meet you inside.’
    A beggar, his face hooded and masked, crouched in the doorway of the Guildhall whining for alms whilst, on the other side, a huckster sold pretty ribbons. Corbett stopped and indicated both to move out of his way.
    ‘I know who you are,’ he said softly. ‘You’re upright men, counterfeiters, and whilst I am busy with the beggar, the other will try and pick my purse.’
    The two men fairly scuttled away and Corbett walked down the passageway, across