Angel of Death

killed by his own brethren, here, in the cathedral of St Paul's. In this stewhouse, you will find men more evil than de Montfort, priests who have sold their souls to the Devil. I wish you luck!'
    Suddenly the ray of light was extinguished. Corbett realized the anchorite had blown out the candle and would speak no more to him. He heard a rattling in the wall as the anchorite placed a piece of wood or rock in the gap, sealing himself off from the world.
    Corbett walked away from the anchorage, back into the centre of the sanctuary and up the broad steps to the high altar. Once again he felt the dreadful stillness return. He placed his hands on the altar, bowed to the crucifix which hung above it and stared around. He tried to picture what de Montfort must have felt. He was standing here above the sanctuary stone; on either side of him stood those concelebrating the mass. The Agnus Dei was over and the host elevated. Other particles of sacred bread, which each of the officiating priests ate, passed along the altar on silver patens; then the chalice was passed around. Did this hold the poison? Corbett had seen Plumpton drink it himself. There had been nothing there. Others had drunk from it as well with no ill effects. But, if there was no poison in the chalice, how did de Montfort die? Was Plumpton correct? Was he looking in the wrong place?
    Corbett felt the wineskin beneath his cloak; he had fastened it to his belt where it swung lightly against his leg. Was de Montfort poisoned before the service began? Corbett bit his lip and looked down towards the sacristy door: heavy, wooden, padlocked. Behind that lay de Montfort's body, now rigid and stinking in death, soaked in the poison he had drunk. Corbett thought back. The service had ended just before midday, before the great bell of St Paul's pealed out for nones. It had begun two hours beforehand. If de Montfort had drunk the poisoned wine before mass, it would have been at what hour, nine, ten o'clock in the morning? But would it take so long?
    Perhaps Surrey was right; perhaps the matter should be left alone. Was he following some will-o'-the-wisp across a treacherous marsh? But surely there was an answer. Perhaps somebody, some rival had poisoned the wine the king had sent to de Montfort to get rid of this priest, the poison not acting immediately but later during the service?
    Corbett sat on the top sanctuary step and thought quickly. There were three things wrong with this. First, despite his many distractions during the service, never once had he seen de Montfort falter or stumble. Nothing strange had been noticed during the mass. Surely a man who was being slowly poisoned would complain of pains? But no such thing had happened. Secondly, if this poison was given before mass, it must have been a very slow-acting one. Yet Corbett, in all his experience, had never heard of this. Most poisons were deadly swift. As a clerk in the King's Bench, he had attended the trial of many accused of poisoning; such poisons acted within minutes. Indeed, that was how the culprit was often apprehended: he or she could never leave the place of the crime quickly enough. Thirdly, and here Corbett was glad he knew a little of Canon Law, any priest who was saying mass and receiving the sacrament, could not eat or drink after midnight. It would be ridiculous to think de Montfort had drunk the wine the evening before, the poison not acting until many hours later.
    Corbett frowned in concentration, baffled at the mystery. Whoever had planned de Montfort's murder had plotted it carefully. But why here? Why, if someone wanted to kill de Montfort, do it in the open before the eyes of the king, his court, the chief officers of the crown, and most of the leading dignitaries of London? Indeed, the same mystery surrounded any would-be assassin's attempt to kill the king. Why here in St Paul's at the sacrifice of the mass? Corbett rubbed his eyes; he was exhausted, weary of this matter. He got up and walked back down the nave. He heard a sound, a faint scuffling in the transept. Corbett stopped, feeling the panic and fear return. If he went out there, anyone, virtually a whole army, could hide in the darkness. Yet if someone had wanted to kill him they could have struck when he sat in the pool of light in the sanctuary. Was it just a trick of his imagination? Corbett strode quickly on, almost shouting with relief as he opened the door and stepped into the snowy whiteness outside the