Assassin in the Greenwood

soldier shrugged helplessly. 'The cart's still there but the outlaws have fled.'
    The soldier left. Sir Peter sat with his face in his hands.
    'So,' Corbett exclaimed, 'Hobwell was betrayed, the outlaws decapitated him and pitched his head back into the castle, along with a volley of arrows, two of which nearly struck us.'
    Sir Peter lifted his face. 'Welcome to Nottingham and Robin Hood's greetings to the King's Commissioners!' He stared round the hall. 'Look,' he whispered despairingly. 'Look how dark it is becoming.'
    Corbett followed his glance and noticed the dying rays of the sun piercing the arrow slits high in the wall.
    'I hate this place,' Branwood continued. 'It's accursed and haunted. It never brought luck to anyone. A hundred years ago, the present King's grandfather hanged twenty-eight Welsh boys, hostages because of a rebellion in Wales. They were left to dangle from the walls and people say their ghosts still walk here, bringing ill luck. Guy of Gisborne will confirm that. Sir Eustace suffered because of it and now it's my turn.'
    Branwood's sombre words were interrupted by Naylor bursting into the hall.
    'For God's sake, come!'
    'What is it, man?'
    He leaned against the wall, panting for breath.
    'In the cellars – Lecroix has hanged himself!'
    They followed Naylor down the stairs and into the darkened cellar.
    'I came down to broach a beer cask,' Naylor explained, pointing to the candle placed in a recess.
    The flickering flame made Lecroix's body appear even more ghastly as it hung from the rafters, twirling in a macabre jig. Corbett and Ranulf stared, horrified by the poor servant's grotesque appearance; eyes popping, tongue caught between his teeth, his neck and head twisted awry and his breeches urine-stained.
    'Get Physician Maigret and Friar Thomas!' Branwood ordered.
    'Oh, for God's sake!' Ranulf snarled. 'Master, hold the body.'
    Corbett closed his eyes and gripped the corpse round the waist whilst Ranulf sawed through the rope with his sword. They laid the cadaver gently on the damp earth floor just as Brother Thomas and Maigret arrived. The physician took one look at the body and turned away, hand over his mouth.
    'Dead as a nail!' he exclaimed. 'How long?' Corbett asked.
    Maigret knelt, put the back of his hand against the dead man's cheek and neck. 'Oh, about an hour.'
    'So he must have died during the attack?' Corbett asked.
    'I would think so,' Maigret snapped, wrinkling his nose disdainfully.
    Corbett crouched on one side of the corpse, Friar Thomas on the other. The cleric whispered words of contrition in the dead man's ear and sketched a blessing in the air as Corbett carefully examined the corpse. He satisfied himself that the hands and ankles were free from any rope marks then undid the dead man's belt. He lowered his head and sniffed at Lecroix's mouth, trying to ignore the streaks of saliva drying on the dead man's beard. Corbett pinched his nose and looked up at Branwood.
    'He was drunk when he killed himself. His breath stinks of stale wine!'
    Naylor, who had been busy lighting the sconce torches, trudged deeper down into the cellar.
    'There's been a wine cask broached.'
    Corbett stared into the darkness. He saw a wooden box lying lop-sided, beside it a pewter cup.
    'He was a toper,' Maigret commented.
    Corbett nodded and stared up at the piece of rope still wrapped round the rafters and once again at the box and fallen cup.
    'Did any of you see him this evening?' he asked.
    'I did,' Friar Thomas replied, his fat face now drained of any trace of humour. 'Just before the attack I met him on the stairs. He was deeply in his cups.'
    Corbett once more examined the corpse, paying particular attention to the fingers, noticing how call used those of the left hand were.
    'He was left-handed?' he asked.
    'Yes, yes,' Branwood murmured. 'Sir Eustace was always cursing Lecroix because he served from the wrong side.'
    Corbett got to his feet, wiping his hands on his robe.
    'God knows why,' he announced, 'but perhaps the attack tipped the balance of his mind. I suggest Lecroix came down here to hide. He broached the cask of wine and, in his cups, decided to take his own life. He stood on that box, slipped the rope over the beam and the noose round his neck, kicked the box away and his life went out like a candle flame.'
    Corbett stared down. Something was wrong but he couldn't place it. He closed his eyes. He had seen enough for one day. He was exhausted after the hot, dusty journey up the