nodded. Whilst Castledene hurried to prepare an upstairs chamber, Corbett returned to the corpses. In truth, the more he observed, the longer he walked that darkening chamber with those gruesome corpses laid out stark on the floor, the more mystified he became. It certainly wasn’t suicide, yet there was no mark of violence, of intrusion, no sign of any assassin. Nothing except the four corpses and the fact that Servinus was missing. He turned round. Wendover was standing in the doorway talking to one of his guards.
‘You, sir.’ Corbett called him over. ‘Why were Paulents and his family so closely guarded?’
‘They had fallen sick, my lord.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They had some sickness. That is why Sir Walter had them housed safely here.’
‘But they were supposed to lodge here anyway.’
‘Yes.’ Wendover shrugged. ‘Sir Hugh, you must ask Sir Walter that yourself.’
Corbett stared at the captain as if seeing him for the first time. Wendover shuffled his booted feet, plucked at a loose thread on his woollen legging, then adjusted the battered war belt round his waist. Corbett crouched down by one of the corpses and continued his close scrutiny. Wendover, he believed, was highly nervous. He was youngish-looking, with curly brown hair, fair-faced and bright-eyed, but a man who probably hid behind his livery. The weapons, the leather hauberk, even Wendover’s neatly clipped dark brown moustache and beard, indicated a man in love with the pretence of himself. Corbett glanced sideways. He noticed the cheap rings on the stubby fingers, the leather brace around Wendover’s left wrist, the gleam of oil on his hair and beard. A lady’s man, he concluded, a boaster who revelled in his own calling and status.
‘My lord, what do you think?’ Wendover asked, eager to break the silence.
‘Murder,’ Corbett replied. ‘Heinous murder. And as the old proverb has it, murder will out. There’s also another saying, Master Wendover.’ He watched the captain gulp nervously. ‘Evil shall have what evil deserves.’ Corbett rose to his feet.
Wendover tried to control his fear. As first he’d regarded this royal clerk as a May-day boy, but now, standing there cloaked like a raven, black hair swept back, those sharp eyes staring at him from that sombre, watchful face, Corbett frightened him, as did that other one, similarly dressed, with his red hair and keen green eyes. Wendover heard a sound and glanced over his shoulder. Ranulf was standing close behind him.
‘So, sir,’ Corbett took a step closer, plucking at the cords on Wendover’s leather jerkin, ‘did you see anything untoward here? Anything, sir, on your allegiance to the King. After all,’ Corbett added coldly, ‘you were on guard.’
‘I saw nothing!’ Wendover spluttered, stepping back, but Ranulf pushed him forward again.
‘Sir Hugh?’ Castledene was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. ‘No need for your games here, Sir Hugh, or yours, Master Ranulf.’
‘No games.’ Corbett went over to the merchant prince. ‘Oh no.’ He shook his head. ‘No games, Sir Walter, I assure you. Someone will hang for this!’
A short while later Corbett made himself comfortable in the high-backed chair in one of the upper chambers. Castledene sat facing him across the long, narrow table. Beside either chair was a warming brazier full of sparkling charcoal. A six-branched candelabra, each spigot holding a pure beeswax taper, glowed lucidly, the flames dancing like angels in the cold air of the chamber. On the wall behind Sir Walter was a triptych depicting Simeon and Anna greeting the Divine Child in the Temple of Jerusalem. Corbett studied this as he deliberately allowed the silence to continue. Then he glanced round, taking in the heavily draped cotbed in the corner, the bedside table with its chequered top, the mullioned glass door-window high in the wall, the turkey rugs on the floor, the coffers, and caskets grouped around the iron-bound
‘You, sir.’ Corbett called him over. ‘Why were Paulents and his family so closely guarded?’
‘They had fallen sick, my lord.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They had some sickness. That is why Sir Walter had them housed safely here.’
‘But they were supposed to lodge here anyway.’
‘Yes.’ Wendover shrugged. ‘Sir Hugh, you must ask Sir Walter that yourself.’
Corbett stared at the captain as if seeing him for the first time. Wendover shuffled his booted feet, plucked at a loose thread on his woollen legging, then adjusted the battered war belt round his waist. Corbett crouched down by one of the corpses and continued his close scrutiny. Wendover, he believed, was highly nervous. He was youngish-looking, with curly brown hair, fair-faced and bright-eyed, but a man who probably hid behind his livery. The weapons, the leather hauberk, even Wendover’s neatly clipped dark brown moustache and beard, indicated a man in love with the pretence of himself. Corbett glanced sideways. He noticed the cheap rings on the stubby fingers, the leather brace around Wendover’s left wrist, the gleam of oil on his hair and beard. A lady’s man, he concluded, a boaster who revelled in his own calling and status.
‘My lord, what do you think?’ Wendover asked, eager to break the silence.
‘Murder,’ Corbett replied. ‘Heinous murder. And as the old proverb has it, murder will out. There’s also another saying, Master Wendover.’ He watched the captain gulp nervously. ‘Evil shall have what evil deserves.’ Corbett rose to his feet.
Wendover tried to control his fear. As first he’d regarded this royal clerk as a May-day boy, but now, standing there cloaked like a raven, black hair swept back, those sharp eyes staring at him from that sombre, watchful face, Corbett frightened him, as did that other one, similarly dressed, with his red hair and keen green eyes. Wendover heard a sound and glanced over his shoulder. Ranulf was standing close behind him.
‘So, sir,’ Corbett took a step closer, plucking at the cords on Wendover’s leather jerkin, ‘did you see anything untoward here? Anything, sir, on your allegiance to the King. After all,’ Corbett added coldly, ‘you were on guard.’
‘I saw nothing!’ Wendover spluttered, stepping back, but Ranulf pushed him forward again.
‘Sir Hugh?’ Castledene was standing in the doorway to the kitchen. ‘No need for your games here, Sir Hugh, or yours, Master Ranulf.’
‘No games.’ Corbett went over to the merchant prince. ‘Oh no.’ He shook his head. ‘No games, Sir Walter, I assure you. Someone will hang for this!’
A short while later Corbett made himself comfortable in the high-backed chair in one of the upper chambers. Castledene sat facing him across the long, narrow table. Beside either chair was a warming brazier full of sparkling charcoal. A six-branched candelabra, each spigot holding a pure beeswax taper, glowed lucidly, the flames dancing like angels in the cold air of the chamber. On the wall behind Sir Walter was a triptych depicting Simeon and Anna greeting the Divine Child in the Temple of Jerusalem. Corbett studied this as he deliberately allowed the silence to continue. Then he glanced round, taking in the heavily draped cotbed in the corner, the bedside table with its chequered top, the mullioned glass door-window high in the wall, the turkey rugs on the floor, the coffers, and caskets grouped around the iron-bound
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