Prince of Darkness

Agatha's angelic face.
    He got up and went back down the stairs, going out into the gathering darkness, across the priory grounds behind the chapel from where he could hear the sweet, melodious chant of the nuns as they sang the first psalm of Compline.
    The old ruined oak tree beckoned him like some great finger thrust up from the green grass. He went and in- spected the cavernous interior carefully. There was nothing except a handful of dried leaves and mildewed wood.
    'Whoever brought the message must have come across the wall,' Corbett murmured to himself.
    He measured out thirty paces and stared up at the crenel- lated boundary wall which was about twenty feet high. The mysterious messenger, Corbett surmised, must have been a very nimble young man to scale that, leave a message and depart There was no other way in except to walk through the priory, but a stranger would be stopped by the porter and seen by any of the community, be it nun or one of the lay workers. Corbett rubbed his face. There was something wrong but he was too tired to reach any conclusion so he went back to his chamber where Ranulf, a fresh cup of wine in his hand, was waiting for him.
    'The horses are stabled, and Dame Agatha safely returned to the bosom of her community?'
    Ranulf grinned.
    'And what did you learn in the village?'
    'Well,' Ranulf answered, scratching his head, 'as I have said, nothing is what it appears to be. Father Reynard may be a fierce preacher but he is a source of spiritual and material comforts to his parishioners.'
    'What do you mean?'
    'Well, he not only refuses his tithes but seems to have a source of wealth which enables him to distribute alms, to mend the church as well as have it painted and refurbished.'
    'And no obvious benefactor?'
    Ranulf shook his head.
    'What else?'
    'The tavern wench says she saw the young man and woman who were later found murdered in the forest She glimpsed them as they passed the tavern. They were taking the road to Godstowe.'
    'And were never seen alive again?' Corbett asked
    'The tavern wench also believes the landlord of The Bull is a poacher.'
    'So?'
    Ranulf grinned.
    'She says he met someone from the convent on the night that Lady Eleanor died, and that Father Reynard did go to Godstowe but then disappeared until the next morning.'
    Corbett leaned back against the bolster and stared up at the ceiling.
    'One person we haven't questioned,' he said, 'is our drunken porter. Perhaps he could shed further light on our mystery?' He looked across at Ranulf. 'Do you wish to carouse late tonight?'
    Ranulf nodded, put the wine cup down, took his cloak and went downstairs. He breathed a sigh of relief as he heard Corbett begin to play gently on the lute he always carried, a sign his master was content, reflecting on his own secret thoughts and not keeping a wary eye on him. Ranulf, too, was content. The tavern wench seemed a promising young lady and he was making a tidy pile of silver out of selling his exotic cures to the villagers and visitors to The Bull.
    Outside it had turned dark and rather cold as Ranulf trotted along, following the curtain wall to the porter's lodge near the gate. He tapped gently on the door which was pulled open by Red Nose. Ranulf peeped over his shoulder. Inside the two guards of the Prince's retinue sat at a table, much the worse for drink. Ranulf saw the dice and smiled.
    'Good evening, sirs!' he cried. 'I am bored and cannot sleep.' He jingled the coins in his purse. 'I'd pay for a cup of wine and I have dice, though I would love to know the finer points of the game!'
    Both the porter and the guards welcomed him like a long-lost brother. Ranulf slumped on to the bench and pushed across a silver piece.
    'My donation for the wine.' He smiled. 'And here are my dice. I bought them in London but my master…'
    His voice trailed off as his hosts rushed to reassure him. So Ranulf's 'education' began. He acted the fool, losing at first to whet their appetites, but in an hour emptied his three victims' purses. The guards were so drunk they hardly realised they had been outcheated and slunk off to their pallet beds. The porter, however, had a harder head and Ranulf did not like the suspicious look in his bleary eyes.
    'Look, man,' he said, 'I'll divide with you on this. It's only fair. I had beginner's luck!'
    The porter stretched out his hand.
    'Not now! A little information about the Lady Eleanor's death first.'
    The porter drew back his hand and rubbed his mouth with