Free Hugh Corbett 15 - The Waxman Murders by Paul Doherty

Ranulf standing by the wall and gestured him over.
    ‘Let’s walk this house,’ he murmured. ‘There must be something.’
    They left the rest and went up the stairs to the bedchambers ranged along the murky, freezing gallery. Corbett inspected each chamber carefully, both windows and doors, but soon recognised it was a fruitless search. He could find nothing out of place. He went back down, out into the courtyard, and stared at the guards milling around a fire, warming themselves. Why had Paulents been killed? Revenge? Certainly not for the manuscript. If Hubert was the killer, perhaps he did not need it. Corbett walked back into the hall, where Castledene and Desroches were in deep conversation.
    ‘Sir Walter?’
    The merchant prince came over.
    ‘If Hubert has deciphered the manuscript,’ Corbett enquired, ‘why hasn’t he dug up the treasure? If he had, Hubert would be long gone.’
    ‘We don’t know if he even has the map,’ Castledene replied. ‘All we do know is that the original was somehow taken from The Waxman .’
    ‘Do you think these murders could be his revenge?’
    ‘I certainly do.’
    ‘Which means,’ Corbett laid his hand gently on Castledene’s shoulder, ‘that he also intends to take vengeance on you. Remember that, Sir Walter.’
    Corbett made his farewells, promising Castledene he would join him at the Guildhall later that day to investigate the matter of Lady Adelicia Decontet. Physician Desroches also declared himself finished and offered to accompany Corbett as far as St Augustine’s before journeying on into the city. Corbett thanked him and pointed out that he would like Desroches to attend to Chanson, who had developed an ulcer on the inside of his leg. Desroches declared that Maubisson was, perhaps, not the best place for medical inspection or treatment. He could do that at the guesthouse in St Augustine’s. Corbett agreed and offered to pay, but Desroches shook his head.
    ‘Just give my good wishes to His Grace the King.’ The physician smiled. ‘Flatter my reputation and who knows what patronage I may gain? No, don’t mistake me, Sir Hugh,’ he laughed, ‘I am not one of these physicians who loves gold more than physic, but I never refuse a kind offer or an open door.’
    Corbett glanced once more at the corpses and crossed himself. ‘Sir Walter,’ he called out, ‘I would like to carry out my own searches, just once more!’
    Castledene shrugged. ‘Do so, Sir Hugh.’
    Accompanied by Ranulf, Chanson and the city physician, Corbett revisited the cellar, the various chambers and galleries above the hall as well as the other wings of the house. He still could find nothing amiss. Assisted by his companions he especially checked windows, doors and shutters, ever vigilant for any sign of violence, yet there was none. Paulents’ baggage and that of his family was in their chambers. Beds had been prepared, water poured into lavarium bowls, goblets and cups left on tables. Paulents’ wife had already begun to unpack, laying out a triptych celebrating the life of St Anne as well as a tray of unguents, creams, oils and perfumes. Corbett felt he was in that twilight gallery between life and death. Silent chambers full of relics belonging to men and women snatched so violently from life. The preacher’s phrase: in media vitae sumus in morte – in the midst of life we are in death – echoed like a funeral bell through his mind. What horror had walked these galleries? What hideous plot had been devised and brought to fruition here?
    Corbett and his two companions, together with Desroches, put on their cloaks and went outside, crossing the inner courtyard where the city guard had built their fire. The cobbles were still strewn with ash and scraps of food. They walked round the outside of the manor; the sky, still threatening more snow, hung grey and lowering. The wind was biting cold, even the ravens and crows had ceased their marauding to shelter in the nearby trees. In some