on, someone entered the church and left a flagon of wine and a cup near the rood screen door. Passerel drank it; but it contained an infusion of poison. He died almost immediately.’
‘How do you know that?’ Corbett asked.
‘St Michael’s has an anchorite, a mad, old woman called Magdalena. She saw the person steal into the church, a mere shadow. She glimpsed Passerel drinking and then heard his death screams.’ Bullock moved to the door. ‘Come on, I’ll take you down to the corpse chamber!’
The Sheriff led them down, out of the gate house, across a still busy yard. They went down a long, narrow staircase which led into the cellar and dungeons of the castle. It was as black as night, only occasional pitch torches provided pools of dancing light. Bullock took them along the dank, musty passageway, round a corner to a room at the far end. He pushed the door open, and they were assaulted by the sour air inside; fetid, soggy straw covered the floor. The squat, tallow candles and smelly oil lamps placed on ledges gave the vaulted room a macabre atmosphere. As Corbett’s eyes grew accustomed to the light, he saw two tables, like those found in a slaughterhouse, on each of which lay a corpse. One was covered by a sheet, bare feet protruding beneath: the other was naked except for a loin cloth; the man bending over it was dressed like a monk in a cowl and gown. He didn’t look up as they entered but kept dabbing at the corpse’s face with a cloth.
‘Good day, Hamell!’
The man turned, pulling back his hood, and leaned against the table. His face was a cadaverous yellow, long like that of a horse, with mournful eyes and slobbering mouth. His upper lip was covered by a straggly moustache, cut unevenly at one end. He gazed blearily at the Sheriff.
‘This is Hamell, our castle leech.’
‘And a drunken sot,’ Ranulf whispered.
‘I’m not drunk.’ Hamell staggered towards them. ‘I’ve just taken a little cordial. This is a filthy business.’ He breathed strong ale fumes in Corbett’s face. ‘You’ve come to claim the corpse?’
‘He’s the King’s clerk,’ Bullock explained.
‘Oh, Lord save us!’ Hamell slurred. ‘So the King wants the body, does he?’ He staggered back towards the corpse, the wet rag still clutched in his hand. ‘Dead as a doornail, this one is.’
‘What caused it?’ Corbett asked, coming up behind him.
‘I’m not a physician,’ Hamell slurred.
He pointed to the purple scratches on the man’s stomach, chest and neck: the face was a liverish hue, the eyes popping, the mouth half-open, the swollen tongue thrust out.
‘He consumed deadly nightshade,’ Hamell explained. ‘I’ve seen cases before - people who have taken it accidentally.’ He gestured at Corbett to go to the other side of the table. ‘But the face and swollen tongue -’ he pointed to the discoloration of the skin ‘- means he drank a lot. It’s easily done,’ he added. ‘Particularly if it’s stirred into strong wine.’
‘And there are no other wounds?’ Corbett asked. ‘Or marks?’
‘Some scratches,’ Hamell explained.
‘And the other corpse?’ Corbett asked.
Hamell turned and pulled back the sheet. Corbett flinched. Ranulf cursed and Maltote was promptly sick in the corner. Senex’s corpse was a dull white like the underbelly of a stale cod but it was the head, severed from the bloody neck, and placed beneath one of the arms, which rendered the whole scene ghastly.
‘I haven’t sewn it back yet,’ Hamell explained cheerily. ‘I always do that.’
Bullock, hand to his mouth, also turned away.
‘And make sure you do it properly this time,’ he growled. ‘Last time, you were so drunk, you sewed it on back to front!’
Corbett looked at the severed neck and the dark blood encrusted there, and recognised the sheer cut of a sharp axe brought down with great force.
‘Cover it up!’ he ordered.
Hamell did so.
‘What was found in his hand?’
The leech pointed to
‘How do you know that?’ Corbett asked.
‘St Michael’s has an anchorite, a mad, old woman called Magdalena. She saw the person steal into the church, a mere shadow. She glimpsed Passerel drinking and then heard his death screams.’ Bullock moved to the door. ‘Come on, I’ll take you down to the corpse chamber!’
The Sheriff led them down, out of the gate house, across a still busy yard. They went down a long, narrow staircase which led into the cellar and dungeons of the castle. It was as black as night, only occasional pitch torches provided pools of dancing light. Bullock took them along the dank, musty passageway, round a corner to a room at the far end. He pushed the door open, and they were assaulted by the sour air inside; fetid, soggy straw covered the floor. The squat, tallow candles and smelly oil lamps placed on ledges gave the vaulted room a macabre atmosphere. As Corbett’s eyes grew accustomed to the light, he saw two tables, like those found in a slaughterhouse, on each of which lay a corpse. One was covered by a sheet, bare feet protruding beneath: the other was naked except for a loin cloth; the man bending over it was dressed like a monk in a cowl and gown. He didn’t look up as they entered but kept dabbing at the corpse’s face with a cloth.
‘Good day, Hamell!’
The man turned, pulling back his hood, and leaned against the table. His face was a cadaverous yellow, long like that of a horse, with mournful eyes and slobbering mouth. His upper lip was covered by a straggly moustache, cut unevenly at one end. He gazed blearily at the Sheriff.
‘This is Hamell, our castle leech.’
‘And a drunken sot,’ Ranulf whispered.
‘I’m not drunk.’ Hamell staggered towards them. ‘I’ve just taken a little cordial. This is a filthy business.’ He breathed strong ale fumes in Corbett’s face. ‘You’ve come to claim the corpse?’
‘He’s the King’s clerk,’ Bullock explained.
‘Oh, Lord save us!’ Hamell slurred. ‘So the King wants the body, does he?’ He staggered back towards the corpse, the wet rag still clutched in his hand. ‘Dead as a doornail, this one is.’
‘What caused it?’ Corbett asked, coming up behind him.
‘I’m not a physician,’ Hamell slurred.
He pointed to the purple scratches on the man’s stomach, chest and neck: the face was a liverish hue, the eyes popping, the mouth half-open, the swollen tongue thrust out.
‘He consumed deadly nightshade,’ Hamell explained. ‘I’ve seen cases before - people who have taken it accidentally.’ He gestured at Corbett to go to the other side of the table. ‘But the face and swollen tongue -’ he pointed to the discoloration of the skin ‘- means he drank a lot. It’s easily done,’ he added. ‘Particularly if it’s stirred into strong wine.’
‘And there are no other wounds?’ Corbett asked. ‘Or marks?’
‘Some scratches,’ Hamell explained.
‘And the other corpse?’ Corbett asked.
Hamell turned and pulled back the sheet. Corbett flinched. Ranulf cursed and Maltote was promptly sick in the corner. Senex’s corpse was a dull white like the underbelly of a stale cod but it was the head, severed from the bloody neck, and placed beneath one of the arms, which rendered the whole scene ghastly.
‘I haven’t sewn it back yet,’ Hamell explained cheerily. ‘I always do that.’
Bullock, hand to his mouth, also turned away.
‘And make sure you do it properly this time,’ he growled. ‘Last time, you were so drunk, you sewed it on back to front!’
Corbett looked at the severed neck and the dark blood encrusted there, and recognised the sheer cut of a sharp axe brought down with great force.
‘Cover it up!’ he ordered.
Hamell did so.
‘What was found in his hand?’
The leech pointed to
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