Angel of Death

You may have noticed it. After we had brought the body in, I went in. The wineskin was lying there, the stopper on, the cup beside it. I uncorked it. It smelt strange. After you had examined de Montfort's corpse, so did I. I smelt the poison from de Montfort's rotten dead mouth, the same odour from the wine pannikin. I therefore concluded that someone had sent poisoned wine to de Montfort before the service began.'
    'Did you put the wineskin there?'
    'No, I did not.'
    'What made you think that a priest who knew Canon Law would break his fast by drinking such wine?'
    Plumpton shrugged. 'De Montfort broke many rules.'
    'I have asked you that before. Which ones?'
    'I don't know,' Plumpton cried. 'He was a very secretive man, very, very secretive. I am only the sacristan. Perhaps others can help you.'
    'What made you think,' Corbett persisted, 'that it was de Montfort who drank from that bottle?'
    'I didn't,' Plumpton retorted. 'I simply saw the wine pannikin, a cup beside it. I watched you examine de Montfort's body and sniff at his mouth. I followed suit, then went back and examined the pannikin. That was when I knew it was poison.'
    'But you did not put it there?'
    'No, I did not.'
    'Then who did?'
    'I don't know.'
    'Thank you, Sir Priest.'
    Once Plumpton had gone, Corbett turned to his two companions. Hervey, crouched over the parchment, was busy filling the white sheet with neat, blue-green letters. Ranulf just sat there, an astonished look on his face; for him the interrogation of such powerful priests was better than any miracle play or pageant seen in a London street. Corbett leaned over and with his fingers gently closed his servant's gaping mouth.
    'Ranulf, I have never seen you so quiet.'
    'Master,' Ranulf replied quickly, asserting himself, 'in the city, in the streets, we hear of these plump, rich priests. We see them walk like lords wherever they wish. They have their own courts, their own treasures. They live their own lives, have special rights and privileges.' He beamed at Corbett. 'I have never seen anyone interrogate them the way you have.'
    Corbett smiled. 'Well, I am glad I have given someone pleasure.' He looked at Hervey but Hervey was lost to the world, fully immersed in what he was writing.
    'Master William,' Corbett called. The little clerk looked up. 'You are making a faithful copy?' The man nodded vigorously. 'Good. Ranulf, tell Master Ettrick we await him.'
    Ranulf scrambled to his feet and disappeared out of the door. He returned immediately, the Scottish canon behind him, an aggressive look on his face. Even the way he walked seemed more suited to an army camp than to the precincts of a cathedral.
    'Sit down, Master Ettrick.'
    'Thank you.'
    'You are Scots?'
    'So I have said.'
    'You have always been a priest?'
    'No, I have not. I have often served the king in campaigns.'
    'In whose retinue?' 'The Earl of Surrey's.' 'You are related to him?'
    'No, I am not related to him!' Ettrick snapped back. 'But in King Edward's early wars in Scotland, I made myself useful to the king and, more particularly, to the earl.'
    Corbett nodded. He knew what 'useful' meant; he had met such priests before in Scotland and Wales, men who had gone over to the side of the invader, supplying them with information, secret missives and rumours. A treacherous man? Corbett wondered. He would find out.
    'And you received the prebend here?'
    'I owe a great deal to the Earl of Surrey.'
    'I am sure the earl trusts you as a faithful retainer?'
    'He does.'
    'But for the earl to obtain such a wealthy prebend,' Corbett continued, 'would also need the backing and support of the Bishop of London.'
    'Not in this case,' the Scotsman replied. Corbett noticed how his accent became more pronounced as he fought to keep control of his temper.
    Then who?'
    'I have only been a canon here for two years. I owe a debt of gratitude to his Lordship, Robert Winchelsea, the Archbishop of Canterbury.'
    'Ah!' Corbett let out a sigh and stared up at the rafters.
    'Is there anything wrong?' Ettrick asked bitingly. 'Is there anything wrong with my Lord Archbishop's recommendation?'
    'No, Sir Priest, there is nothing wrong. Did you like de Montfort?'
    Ettrick shrugged. 'As I have said, I have not been here very long, two years.'
    'You have risen fast to the post of almoner. You are responsible for dispensing the cathedral's charity?'
    "That is correct.'
    'Therefore you must have had many dealings with the dean?'
    'No, mainly with de Luce. I mean, Sir