Assassin in the Greenwood

face.'
    'What did he want?'
    'He asked for my help. If I would give him information about what I saw in the town and the village. Who was moving where? What monies were being transported? Would I tend to the spiritual comfort of his men?'
    'And what was your reply?'
    'I told him I'd dance with the devil first under a midsummer moon.'
    'Yet you said you understood him?'
    'No, Sir Hugh, I understand the poverty of my people.' The priest wriggled his fat shoulders. 'This was before the murders in the castle or the killing of the tax-collectors. But I don't know… I just did not like the man. His arrogance, his coldness, the way he stood leaning on his long bow. I felt a malevolence, an evil.'
    'And what was his reply?'
    'He just walked away, slipping out into the night, laughing over his shoulder.' 'Did you tell the sheriff?' 'Sir Eustace or Sir Peter? Never!'
    Corbett dipped his fingers in the stoup of holy water just inside the vestry door. He blessed himself. 'I thank you, Father. You'll return to the castle?'
    'In a while,' replied the friar. 'You go ahead.'
    Corbett walked back into the church, stopping to light a taper before the rough hewn wooden statue of the Virgin Mary. He closed his eyes, praying for Maeve and baby Eleanor, unaware of the figure in the shadows at the back of the church, glaring malevolently towards him.

Chapter 6
    Corbett, lost in his own thoughts, let his horse amble back to Nottingham. He was tired, a stranger unused to hunting the evil which hid in the blackness of the forest. He was also distracted by thoughts of pressing business in London where the King would be seething, expecting an immediate solution to the cipher's secret.
    Corbett grasped the reins of his horse and half-closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the bees buzzing in the grassy verge on either side of the track, the angry chatter of birds offset by the haunting, bitter-sweet song of the thrush. Concentrate! he thought. Sir Eustace Vechey's death is the key to the matter. He recalled the words of Physician Maigret about the deadly potions used.
    'I wonder!' he exclaimed aloud, opening his eyes and watching the white butterflies float on the morning breeze like miniature angels, their wings reflecting the light. Corbett, now intent on the conclusion he had reached, kicked his horse into a gallop and rode into Nottingham.
    When he arrived back in the castle bailey, the corpses of the dead soldiers were being laid out on trestle tables to be washed for burial. Beside them women crouched and mourned over their dead. Meanwhile Naylor, assisted by cursing, sweating men-at-arms, brought out two pinewood coffins containing the remains of Sir Eustace and his servant Lecroix. Corbett stared round the bailey. There was no sign of Branwood and he wondered where Ranulf could be. He caught sight of Maigret sitting on a bench at the base of the castle keep, his long face turned to catch the morning sun, a wine cup in his hand, a plate of bread soaked in milk resting in his lap.
    'You seem little perturbed,' Corbett remarked, sauntering over.
    Maigret opened his eyes and glanced at the corpses being washed and loaded into the coffins.
    'In the midst of life we are in death, Sir Hugh. Moreover, what can a physician do about the dead? Will you be on the battlements tonight?' he suddenly asked.
    'Why?' Corbett asked, sitting down beside him.
    'Well, today's the thirteenth. For the last few months on this date at midnight, the witching hour, three fire arrows are shot over the castle.'
    'What?' Corbett exclaimed.
    'I thought Branwood would have told you? On the thirteenth of each month, at midnight, three fire arrows light up the night sky.' Maigret shrugged. 'No one knows who does it or why.'
    'How long has this been happening?'
    'Oh, for six months at least.' Maigret's eyes hardened. He stared at the dark, closed face of the clerk, noting the beads of perspiration on his forehead. 'What do you really want, Corbett? You are a man of few words and yet you sought me out.'
    Corbett smiled. I must be careful, he thought. Maigret had first struck him as a typical physician, self-absorbed and overweening, but the man possessed a subtle wit and a sharp intelligence. A possible murderer? he wondered.
    'Before you ask, Sir Hugh,' Maigret murmured, 'I have nothing to do with this business. I am a widower who practises physic here in the castle and in the town. I go to church on Sundays and give three pounds of wax a month to my parish church so