Free Hugh Corbett 06 - Murder Wears a Cowl by Paul Doherty

Monday the eleventh of May; the priest the following evening; a prostitute, Isabeau, on Wednesday the thirteenth of May and then, soon afterwards, the girl in Greyfriars. What crisis has forced the murderer to change his pattern?’
    ‘Unless. . .’ Cade interrupted.
    ‘Unless what?’
    ‘Unless there is more than one murderer.’

Chapter 4
    Corbett and Ranulf waited for Cade to collect his belongings. They left the Guildhall and went down to Catte Street, the area round Old Jewry and the dark, looming mass of St Lawrence’s Church. A crowd had gathered near the stocks placed outside the wicket gate of the cemetery. Most of the onlookers were city riff-raff who were baiting a man locked in the stocks for selling faulty bow-strings, whilst his shoddy merchandise was piled in a heap and burnt under his nose. The poor unfortunate, his head trapped in the wooden slats, was forced to breath in the acrid smoke which irritated his mouth, nose and eyes. Now and again he would yell abuse at his tormentors before falling into a fit of coughing which jarred his head against the slats.
    Corbett and his companions pushed through the crowd into the derelict cemetery. Cade went across to the priest’s house, he knocked at the door and talked to someone inside. A few minutes later a small, portly figure emerged, a huge bunch of keys in his hand. Corbett threw a warning glance at Ranulf to behave himself for the priest’s broad girth, rosy face and womanish waddle indicated he was a man of the cloth more interested in the fruits of the earth than the salvation of souls. He wore a cloak of Lincoln green, edged with bright squirrel fur, whilst cheap jewellery glinted on wrists and fingers. His beady little eyes glared at Corbett. There were no introductions. Instead the priest opened a small leather bag he was carrying and drew out three sponges soaked in vinegar and herbs.
    ‘You’ll need these,’ he rasped, handing one to each of them. ‘Now, follow me.’
    He led them round to the back of the church to a long windowless shed. He opened the padlock on the door and waved them in.
    ‘Feast your eyes!’ he jibed. ‘I bury the poor bitch in an hour. You’ll find a candle on the ledge to the right of the door.’
    Corbett went first into the darkness and immediately caught the stench of putrefaction. He was glad he had the sponge and that his stomach was strong. Ranulf, however, went a dull grey colour so, after he had used a tinder to light the candle, Corbett told him to wait outside.
    ‘Ignore the rats!’ the priest called out. ‘The coffin is on trestles in the centre.’
    Corbett held the candle high and, despite the discomfort, felt a tinge of compassion for the lonely, oblong box. Cade, muttering curses, lifted the loose lid and revealed the ghastly sight of the woman lying there. Apparently, she was to be buried as she had been found, no attempt being made to dress the body. Her face, white as chalk, looked even more garish in the flickering candle flame, her skin was already turning puffy, her body bloated with corruption. Corbett examined the long purple gash which had severed the windpipe. Cade, one hand cramming nose and mouth, lifted the poor girl’s dress. Corbett took one look at the mutilation, turned away and vomited the wine he had just drunk. He staggered to the door, a white-faced Cade following him into the sunlight. Corbett threw both sponge and candle at the feet of the priest.
    ‘God have mercy on her!’ he muttered between bouts of retching. ‘She was someone’s daughter, someone’s sister.’ He suddenly thought of his young daughter, Eleanor. Once, the mass of mutilated flesh he had just glimpsed, must have been a young child cooing in a cradle.
    ‘God help her,’ Corbett repeated.
    He sat in a half-crouch and cleaned his mouth with the back of his hand. Ranulf brought an ewer of water from the priest’s house and, without a by your leave, he held it up for Corbett to wash his hands and face.