Angel of Death

collapsed, what happened?'
    'We stood around. I did not know what had happened, nor did my brethren.' De Eveden passed a hand over his eyes. 'All was confusion, chaos, I cannot remember. People rushing here and there.'
    'Did you see anyone go to the altar?'
    'No, I did not.'
    'Nothing strange?'
    'No, I did not,' de Eveden said firmly.
    'The gossips amongst your brethren. Did they see anything strange?'
    De Eveden looked sharply at Corbett. 'No, they did not. I swear that I have heard nothing, nothing extraordinary, nothing strange.'
    'Tell me,' Corbett said, 'how were you dressed for mass? What did each of the celebrants wear?'
    De Eveden spread his hands. 'The usual garments. We wore our robes and over them the long, white alb fastened by a gold cord, the amice, a strip of silk on our wrists, the stole about our necks. Over that the chasuble. Why?'
    'Nothing,' Corbett replied. 'The chasubles? They are kept here?'
    'Yes, they are.'
    'And the albs, the white tunics worn under them?'
    The librarian shrugged. 'As usual, they are passed to the laundress. She washes and presses them and that is the end of the matter. Why?'
    'Nothing,' Corbett replied. 'You have told me all.'
    Corbett left the librarian and strode out across the sanctuary and empty choir into the nave of the church. The business for the day was finishing; lawyers and parchment sellers were drifting off, and the twelve scribes, who sold their services to anyone who wished a letter written, were packing away their writing trays in small leather cases.
    As Corbett was going out of the main west door, a hand caught his shoulder. He whirled, his hand going beneath his cloak for his dagger but, in the fading light, he recognized the fleshy, still beautiful face of the courtesan.
    'What do you want, woman?' he demanded.
    'You should not be so aggressive, Clerk,' she replied. 'I know you are probably asking questions about me so I thought I should come and introduce myself.'
    'And your name?'
    'Abigail. What do you want with me?' 'What did the Dean of St Paul's, Walter de Montfort, want with you?' The woman smiled. 'What any man does.' 'And what is that?'
    'You are still too aggressive, Master Clerk. What is your name?'
    'Hugh Corbett, senior clerk in the Chancery.' The woman mimicked his words. It was so accurate that, in spite of himself, Corbett smiled.
    'I am sorry,' he said. 'I am cold. I don't like the task in which I am involved and I am tired. If you wish to play games then perhaps another time, but not now.'
    'Tush, man.' The woman put an ermine-gloved hand on
    Corbett's wrist. 'I only thought it was a matter of time before you came to see me so I thought I would do the courtesy of saving you a visit.'
    'Fine,' Corbett said. 'But the question still stands. What was your relationship with Walter de Montfort?'
    'Simple,' the woman said. 'I hold his house in Candlewick Street.'
    'What do you mean, you hold it?'
    'He rents it to me.'
    'What is so special about that?'
    'Oh, you have never been to my house, Master Clerk, but if you did, you would notice that there are many bedrooms, all of them luxuriously furnished.'
    'You mean it's a brothel,' Corbett said, immediately regretting his brusqueness as the woman's eyes flinched with pain. Corbett looked steadily at her. Undoubtedly she had once been a most beautiful woman; her face was still heart-shaped, her eyes grey and well spaced; she had a perfectly formed nose and a mouth surely created for kissing. She was quick and intelligent, in a way reminding him of Maeve, with her tart replies and her ability to hold her own in any debate.
    'And de Montfort,' Corbett said slowly, 'he knew you ran his house as a brothel?'
    'Of course. He took half the profits.'
    Corbett threw his head back and laughed. People leaving the cathedral stared at him, laughing so loudly in his dark-coloured clothes; it rang like a bell through the twilight. The woman smiled too.
    'What is so amusing?' she asked.
    Corbett wiped his mouth with his hand. 'In this world,' he said, 'nothing is ever what it seems to be. Look,' he said, 'tell me about de Montfort.'
    She shrugged. 'As any man, he sunned himself like a barnyard cock strutting on his dunghill. He played his roles, acted out his parts. You see it all the time, Master Corbett. De Montfort in his robes up on the high altar – I have seen him in less, how can we say, celebrated positions. And yet,' she continued, 'he is no different from others. No different from the king, who pursues