Angel of Death

Passion. The actor playing Christ, costumed in a white robe and a silver-braided wig, drew the sympathetic murmurs of the surrounding crowd; while Pilate, in his purple cloak and false red hair, drew jeers, boos, catcalls and the occasional piece of dirt. Ranulf would have stayed there longer but Corbett, tiring of the scene and fearful of the pickpockets he had recognized entering the crowd (one of them from a court case he'd attended a few months previously), pulled his protesting servant up into the doorway of the cathedral. The nave was crowded and noisy with business: parchment-sellers, professional scribes, lawyers talking loudly, servants waiting to be hired. They pushed through these and made their way up into the choir; by the smell of candle-grease and incense, Corbett knew that nones had just finished.
    They found Plumpton in the sacristy. The priest looked surly and exclaimed in anger at Corbett's request,
    'What do you mean, man? That I lay out the entire altar as it was.' The priest looked as if he was about to refuse. 'Again,' Corbett wearily added, 'I must remind you that I do not do this out of any sense of power or pleasure. I am simply following His Grace's request. I would be grateful, Sir Philip, if you would see it done, now.'
    Corbett went out and sat in the sanctuary chair whilst Plumpton, aided by a number of servants, pulled back the green gold-embroidered covering cloth and laid the altar as it was after mass.
    'Sir Philip,' Corbett called out, 'I would not like it arranged as if mass was beginning, but as you remember it when you cleared the altar after it was finished.'
    Sir Philip glared at him and nodded. It took some time, but Plumpton, now warming to his task, brought on the cruet dish which held the water and wine, two long, glass-stemmed jugs with a cluster of golden grapes on the caps, each set in a pure silver dish. He laid out the white linen cloths the priests used to clean the chalice and their fingers; even a few unconsecrated hosts were scattered about.
    Once he pronounced himself satisfied, Corbett went up and inspected the altar. He ordered the candles to be lit to give the right reflection, positioning himself where de Montfort would have stood and where he himself had been when examining the altar on behalf of the king. De Montfort's chalice was there, the wine winking in the light, the cruets to the far side, one containing the water three-quarters filled, the wine cruet completely empty.
    'You have forgotten to put wine in this?' Corbett asked.
    Plumpton shook his head. 'No, it was empty after the mass. I remember, because there was no wine to throw away.'
    Corbett nodded. There was something missing, something he had not grasped. He could feel his stomach churning with excitement. He looked again, putting the altar scene firmly in his mind. He imagined he was staring at a picture, some stained-glass window he found impressive or beautiful and always wanted to remember.
    'Sir Philip,' he said eventually, 'I thank you. I cannot find the solution. Perhaps you may.' He then turned on his heel and walked out of St Paul's.
    It was early afternoon, the mist had not lifted during the day and was now thickening as evening drew in. The play in the cathedral courtyard had finished and in Cheapside the markets were closing early, the merchants setting the obligatory lantern-horns outside their houses. Only the beggars and scavengers, those looking to cull what they could from a day's trading, were there. A group of horsemen rode by, the hooves of their mounts breaking and scattering the ice. Corbett nearly slipped and suddenly realized Ranulf was missing. He had been with him when he went into the cathedral but, as was customary, he had once again slipped away to his own private pleasures. Corbett shrugged. He felt hungry and bought a pie from a baker but, after two bites, tossed it away, for he could taste the rancid meat beneath the spices. He went into the tavern on the corner of Bread Street and sat near the fire warming himself with a bowl of soup. He tried to ignore the globules of fat bobbing about amongst the pieces of meat and vegetable by drinking three tankards of London ale, specially spiced and warmed to keep off the chill. Afterwards, he went outside, relieved himself in the gutter and, turning the corner, made his way down to his lodgings.
    Corbett was used to violence; he had fought in Scodand and Wales and been the victim of ambush but the attack that evening was