Angel of Death

bankers. Corbett idly wondered how many of these would admit to holding monies on behalf of the priest. The income fascinated him, coming as it did from several sources. One was minor: stipends, benefices, gifts from people and close relatives, nothing much, but a sharp contrast to the rest. Every quarter there were huge amounts, literally hundreds of pounds sterling in bags of silver from two places: Cathall Manor in Essex and from his property in London.
    Corbett knew the secret of de Montfort's London houses but he wondered what was so special about Cathall. Corbett considered travelling there to find out but, after many journeys downstairs to inspect the weather, realized it could change again and he did not wish to be cut off in some village in Essex. Moreover, if the thaw continued, his letters would soon reach the sheriff and other officials in Essex and they would collect the necessary information on his behalf. He wondered about Ranulf's recent, fitful appearances; on one occasion to change his clothes, another to beg Corbett for some money which the clerk absentmindedly gave. He never enquired too much into Ranulf s whereabouts; he had told him blundy not to break the law and, apart from that, left him to his own conscience and confessor. Corbett had a shrewd idea, however, that Ranulf was a man totally dedicated to the pleasures of the flesh, having seen him flirt dangerously with other men's wives and daughters.
    In this the clerk was correct, for Ranulf was busy pursuing the plump-haunched, arrogant young wife of a London mercer. He had wooed and pursued her for days and felt sure his quarry would be brought down. On that particular Sunday evening, however, Ranulf returned, minus one boot, to his lodgings in Bread Street. Corbett was too immersed in his own thoughts to pay much attention and Ranulf was not humble enough to admit that he had been in the lady's chamber preparing for a night of pleasure when her husband, reportedly away on business, had returned unexpectedly because of bad weather. Ranulf had had to flee, the anguished screams and the angry roars of the couple behind still ringing in his ears.
    Ranulf slunk back to his lodgings, anxious lest his master interrogate him, but Corbett was still trying to reconstruct what had happened at the high altar of St Paul's.
    First, he listed what each priest had worn: a white alb bound by a cord over which there was a chasuble; the thick gold jewel-encrusted cope displaying the colour of the day's feast; a matching stole round the neck and an amice. Corbett remembered the copes and chasubles he had seen in the cupboard in the sacristy of St Paul's, thick, heavy, encrusted with jewels.
    Secondly, he looked at the plan of the celebrants that day. On the far right of de Montfort had been de Eveden and the Scotsman, Ettrick. On the far left the young man, Blaskett, de Luce and Plumpton. Once again Corbett traced the way the chalice would have been passed. First, up to Ettrick, and then back along to Plumpton, de Luce and Blaskett before it was returned by de Luce and Plumpton to de Montfort who had taken the fatal sip. According to de Eveden he had not drunk from the chalice. Corbett wondered whether to believe him. He was sure, during the feast after the mass at which de Montfort had died, he had seen de Eveden drinking. So was the librarian lying? If he was not, the logical explanation would be that the chalice had been poisoned by Blaskett or de Luce. But there again, Plumpton on de Montfort's left, could be the secret assassin. Moreover, de Eveden may not have drunk from the chalice, but that did not stop him from poisoning it.
    Corbett looked again at the diagram. He tried to reconstruct the altar as he had seen it when the king had sent him back to assess everything. He had seen something odd which was now mysteriously plaguing him, something very wrong. He remembered the stains on the altar frontal and the wine on the carpet. His mind chased the problem. He felt like a dog, loose in a forest chasing shadows, nothing substantial, except there was something evil about St Paul's. Perhaps, as a good servant of the king, he should insist that the whole college of canons be investigated by the Bishop of London and have the evil rooted out, for there was something malevolent beyond the normal animosities, jealousies and rivalries one would find in any small, enclosed community.
    Corbett spent most of Sunday evening attempting to solve the puzzle, but he