Angel of Death

chalice was full when it should have been empty, and, secondly, that there was no wine left in the cruet. Of course there wasn't – you had poured what was left into de Montfort's chalice!'
    De Luce sniggered. 'Very clever. But surely there would have been a trace of poison in the chalice?'
    'Oh, yes, but you made sure it was gone. Beneath your chasuble, in the confusion following de Montfort's death, you wiped the chalice completely clean. Only it left a stain on both the chasuble and alb. I saw them when I met you and the other canons in the sacristy. After Sir Philip's death it was simply a matter of interrogating the two laundresses who work here. They told me that in the afternoon of the same day de Montfort died, you gave them an alb to clean, giving them strict instructions to remove all stains. The chasuble you ignored: it is too heavy to clean, such stains were commonplace and no one could really prove they had been acquired when you wore it at that fatal mass. The alb was different. Isn't it strange, priest, that in your arrogance, you never thought of washing it yourself? Mind you,' Corbett continued, 'there were other signs. The drops of poisoned wine on the altar frontal. They were still there after you dashed the wine under your chasuble. Finally, the wine on the carpet, to the left of where de Montfort had stood. In your haste to refill the chalice after de Montfort's death, some wine had fallen on the ground. It must have been spilt then. You know Canon Law, and de Montfort was a rigid disciplinarian. If consecrated wine had been spilt during mass there would have been an elaborate ritual to clean it up afterwards.'
    'Is that all, Clerk?' de Luce hissed.
    'Oh, no,' Corbett replied. 'You hoped that once de
    Montfort was dead, the dean's scandalous private life would cloud the identity of his murderer. You even tried to pass the blame on to other people. De Montfort, ever the boastful man, had declared that the king had sent him a pannikin of wine. Once you had refilled the chalice, and while de Montfort's body was being taken to the sacristy for anointment by Blaskett, it was simply a matter of slipping up to de Montfort's room, poisoning the wine and, under your heavy ceremonial cope, bringing it down to the small vestry in the sacristy. I am right, am I not, Sir Priest?'
    'Oh, you are, Clerk,' de Luce replied, his eyes glittering with malice behind the screen.
    'Only one problem remains, de Luce,' Corbett snapped – 'why?'
    De Luce cocked his head to one side as if this was a real problem. 'Oh, it is quite easy,' he said in a sing-song whisper. 'You see, I did not intend de Montfort to die, though I did not mourn his death, but our beloved king was a different matter. You see, Corbett, have you ever lost someone you loved? I did. I had a brother. I loved him more than any other person in the world. I do not know if you have studied my background, Corbett. Perhaps you will and will find I was born in Flanders. I came here and was promoted in the English king's service. Edward himself offered me the benefice here and, in doing so, I extended the royal favour to my own brother. A merchant, he came over to England, expanded his business and, because of Edward's involvement in Scodand, went to Berwick. He was there, in the Red House, when Edward put it to the sack as if he was some new Attila or Genghis Khan. My brother died, so did his pleasant-faced, innocent wife,' de Luce's voice cracked under the strain, '… their lovely children. You see, Corbett, the king had to pay for these murders. No one gave him the right to sack cities. No one gave him the right to slay an innocent man, a beloved brother, his wife and young children just because the burgesses of Berwick were stupid enough to hold out longer than they should have done. When I heard the news I resolved that Edward should die. Not quietly. But in the open. In the sight of the Church, of Edward's parliament, and in the eyes of God, if there is one. Edward would fall dead and my brother's death would be avenged.' De Luce picked at the screen absent-mindedly with his finger, a half smile on his lips, a faraway look in his eyes. Corbett felt afraid. The man was completely mad but hid it under a mask of cold reasonableness.
    'You see, Corbett, I had forgotten that de Montfort would drink from the chalice again. If that fool Ettrick had not reminded him, my plan would have worked and de Montfort would have been blamed. Men would have seen it as