Assassin in the Greenwood

concluded. 'Sir Peter, what do you propose now?'
    'Tomorrow morning,' the under-sheriff replied, 'I intend to take a company into Sherwood Forest. I suggest, Sir Hugh, that you come with us.'
    'Is that safe?' Corbett asked.
    'No, Master Clerk, it isn't. But what can I do? Stay shut up in the castle like some widow in mourning? I am the King's officer in these parts. I cannot allow Robin Hood to ride roughshod over the King's authority here.'
    'Shouldn't we wait for Gisborne?'
    'Gisborne can do what he wants!' Branwood snapped. 'Now, you wished to see Vechey's chamber?'
    Corbett nodded and Branwood, dismissing the rest apart from Naylor, led them up a spiral stone staircase to the second floor. The dead sheriff's room was still sealed and locked. Branwood removed the wax, opened the door and waved Corbett in.
    The bed chamber was as tawdry as the rest of the castle. A great battered four-poster shrouded in thick serge curtains dominated the room. A long, iron-barred chest stood at the foot of the bed. There was a table, some stools, two other chests, and in a corner a stout oaken lavarium bearing a large pewter bowl. At the other side of the room was a trestle bed with a straw mattress and some woollen blankets.
    'Lecroix slept there?' Corbett asked.
    Branwood nodded. Corbett kicked aside the dirty rushes and stood in the centre of the room. It was a stark, almost monastic cell. The walls were plastered with lime and the only windows were three arrow slits in the far wall. Branwood lit a cheap oil lamp and handed it to Corbett, who went across to the bed and pulled back the curtains. The bed was dirty and stale, the bolster, sheets and blankets faded and grimed with dirt. Branwood was correct. Sir Eustace's neglect of himself was more than apparent. Corbett scrutinised the sheets, bolsters and blankets but smelt nothing except stale sweat and body odour. He then examined the goblet still containing a little wine but this, too, seemed harmless as did the few sweetmeats on a pewter plate in the middle of the table. The flies had been busy over them. Corbett summoned up his courage, closed his eyes and popped one into his mouth, chewing it carefully until its cloying sweetness became too much. He went over to one of the arrow-slit windows and spat it out, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
    'Ranulf! Maltote!' he ordered. 'Examine the rushes!'
    Whilst they did this Corbett tested the water, now stale and laced with dirt.
    'Master,' Ranulf called out, 'there's nothing amongst the rushes.'
    Corbett stared bleakly at Branwood.
    'You are right, Sir Peter. There s nothing here, so how was Vechey poisoned?'
    'I am no physician. Maigret said the potion must have been powerful. Henbane, arsenic or foxglove.'
    Corbett picked up the napkin from the lavarium, it bore finger marks and Corbett caught the odour of sugar and sweetmeats. He remembered the sores round Vechey's mouth.
    'What happens, Ranulf, if you have scabs and wipe your mouth with a napkin?'
    'The napkin often grazes them and the bleeding starts again.'
    'Well, that napkin was definitely used by Vechey. There are blood specks on it.' Corbett waved his hands in exasperation. 'There's nothing here,' he murmured. 'God knows how Vechey was murdered.'
    'Come,' Sir Peter called, almost jovially. 'Sir Hugh, you must be tired. Let me at least show you around the rest of the castle then perhaps you can rest.'
    Corbett was about to refuse but realised such information would be necessary and they all followed Branwood as he led them up the three floors of the keep and on to the battlements. Sir Peter stood by the crenellations with Corbett half-listening as he described the rest of the castle. The clerk relished the cool breezes and enjoyed the beginning of a glorious sunset. Then something in Sir Peter's words caught his attention. Corbett followed the direction of Branwood's outstretched hand and stared north, beyond the crowded houses and streets of Nottingham, where the green sea of forest stretched as far as the eye could see.
    'You see the problem, Sir Hugh? How can you hunt a man in such a vastness? Horsemen are useless, foot soldiers are terrified. There could be an army hidden there and you would not realise until you stumbled into a trap.'
    'Does the outlaw use horses?'
    Sir Peter smiled maliciously. 'Now that's the outlaw's weakness. A poor horseman, he much preferred to go on foot. Of course, amongst the trees a mounted soldier is useless.'
    He then led Corbett