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

by the freshly plastered and painted great inns belonging to certain nobles; the road was busy with judges, lawyers and clerks, dressed in their rayed gowns and white coifs, making their way to and from the courts.
    Outside the hospital of Our Lady of Roncesvalles, near the village of Charing, Corbett stopped to admire the new beautifully carved cross erected by his royal master in memory of his beloved wife Eleanor. Moving on, they rounded a bend in the road and saw before them the gables, towers and ornately carved stonework of Westminster Abbey and Palace. Entering the royal precincts by a small postern gate in the northern wall, they saw, to the right, the great mass of the abbey and, nearer to them, wedged neatly between the abbey and the palace grounds, the beautiful church of St Margaret. Yet the splendour of both the abbey and the church was tarnished by rusting scaffold stacked haphazardly against the walls by the masons who had ceased work when the treasury had run out of money to pay them.
    Cade pointed north, around the other side of the abbey. ‘Over there,’ he remarked, ‘in the middle of a small orchard you will find the ruins of Father Benedict’s house and,’ he moved his arm, ‘behind the abbey church is the Chapter House where the Sisters of St Martha meet. Shall we go there first?’
    Corbett shook his head. ‘No, first we will visit the palace and see the steward, he may be able to give us more information.’
    Cade pulled a face. ‘The steward is William Senche. He’s usually half-drunk and can’t tell you what hour of the day it is. You know how it is, Sir Hugh, when the cat’s away the rats will play.’
    They led their horses into the palace yard. The King had been absent from his palace for several years and the signs of neglect were apparent; weeds sprouted in the palace yard, the windows were shuttered, the doors locked and barred, the stables empty and the flower-beds overgrown. A mongrel dog ran out and, hackles raised, stood yapping at them until Ranulf drove it off. Near the Exchequer House, overlooking the overgrown riverside gardens, they found a glum-eyed servant and despatched him to search out William Senche. The latter appeared at the top of the steps leading from St Stephen’s Chapel and Corbett muttered a curse. William Senche looked what he was: a toper born and bred. He had bulbous, fish-like eyes, a slobbering mouth and a nose as fiery as a beacon. With his scrawny red hair and beetling brow, he was a very ugly man. He had already sampled the grape but when he realised who Corbett was, he tried to put a brave face on it; his answers were sharp and abrupt but he kept looking away as if he wished to hide something.
    ‘No, no,’ he remarked in a tetchy voice. ‘I know nothing about the Sisters of St Martha. They meet in the abbey and things there,’ he added darkly,’ are under the authority of Abbot Wenlock and he’s very ill.’
    ‘So, who’s in charge?’
    ‘Well, there are only fifty monks, most of whom are old. Prior Roger is dead, so the sacristan Adam Warfield is in charge.’
    The man danced from foot to foot as if he wished to relieve himself. His nervousness increased as Cade moved to one side of him and Ranulf to the other.
    ‘Come, come, Master William,’ Corbett mildly taunted. ‘You are an important official, not some court butterfly. There are other matters we wish to talk to you about.’
    ‘Such as?’
    ‘Well, one in particular, Father Benedict’s death.’
    ‘I know nothing,’ the fellow blurted out.
    Corbett plucked him gently by the front of his food-stained jerkin. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is the last lie you will tell me. On the evening of Tuesday, May twelfth, you discovered Father Benedict’s house on fire.’
    ‘Yes, yes,’ the fellow’s eyes snapped open.
    ‘And how did you do that? The house can’t be seen from the palace yard.’
    ‘I couldn’t sleep. I went for a walk. I saw the smoke and flames and rang the tocsin