Prince of Darkness

heard him out, quiedy holding his hand.
    'This Dame Agatha,' she asked pointedly, 'is she beautiful?'
    'Yes, almost as beautiful as you.'
    'Is she fair of face?'
    'Yes.'
    'Did you like her?'
    Corbett knew Maeve would sense any lie and, when angry, his wife could be frightening.
    'Yes, I did,' he replied slowly. 'But that does not matter. Everything I have seen, Maeve, is what I am supposed to see. It may be real but it is not the truth.'
    'Do you have any suspicions?'
    Corbett haltingly told her what he had discovered. Maeve agreed that the old nun had probably been referring to Lady Eleanor's hands.
    'That's the key, Hugh,' she observed.
    'What is?'
    'The old nun's death. Tell me about it.' Corbett shrugged.
    'Dame Elizabeth came up and found the door unlocked. She went in behind the screen and discovered the old lady's body half immersed in a tub of water. There were no marks on the corpse. It could have been a seizure or the falling sickness.' He paused. 'There was also a trail of water on the floor, but would an assassin be so clumsy as to leave that?'
    Maeve sat silent for a while. 'I don't know. Will you let the matter rest?' 'No.' Corbett patted her on the hand. 'Let me think for a while.'
    He crossed the room, pulled back the arras on the far wall and went into his own secret chamber. He took a tinder, lit the candles on his desk and stared at the bundles of letters awaiting him. They had arrived during his absence and he had scanned them quickly. News from foreign courts, spies, envoys, merchants and other clerks. Only one of them concerned the business at Godstowe. A short note from a spy in Paris: Eudo Tailler's head had been fished from the Seine where it had been thrown in a sack.
    'Christ have mercy on his soul,' Corbett whispered.
    Tailler had sent his master the news about the mysterious de Montfort assassin. Had that cost him his life? If so, the price seemed too steep. Corbett had discovered no trace of any assassin active in England. He put the letter aside and took a fresh piece of parchment, smoothing it out and rubbing it clear with a pumice stone. He then began to itemise the problems and questions which confronted him. He worked for hours, taking each name and trying to draw up evidence to prove that person the murderer. Outside the dark woods and fields were silent as if waiting patiently for the approach of winter. Corbett dozed for a while and was suddenly awakened by a knocking on the chamber door. It swung open to reveal Maeve.
    'The old nun, Hugh… isn't it strange?' She smiled. 'Remember I talk as a woman. Dame Martha wanted a bath and put a screen round the tub?'
    Corbett rubbed his eyes and nodded.
    'But if you go to the trouble of putting a screen round the tub, what else do you do?'
    Corbett shook his head wearily.
    'For God's sake, Hugh, any lady would do it! Your famous logic. She would lock the door!'
    'So?'
    'Oh, Hugh, think! You said the door was open.'
    Corbett fed back in his chair and smiled.
    'So, the old nun must have let her murderer in. She must have been in the bath, heard the knock and got out; the trail of water was not left by the murderer but the nun herself when she crossed to open the door.'
    Corbett stared down at his piece of parchment.
    'Thank you, Maeve,' he mumbled. But when he looked up, the door was closed and his wife had gone.
    Corbett bathed his hands and face in the bowl of water standing on the lavarium. He reviewed his notes in the tight of what Maeve had said, and began to follow it through. He forced his arguments on, jumping gaps, circumventing difficulties or problems. The cold hand of fear pinched his stomach. He knew the murderer! Was it possible? He scratched his tousled hair and went back again, taking in all the facts and like the lawyer he was, drawing up a summary bill of prosecution. He shook his head. A jury might not accept that he had proved his case, but they would agree there was a case to answer.
    Corbett suddenly remembered his last meeting with the nuns at Godstowe and his heart began to pound. They were all in danger, every one of them! He got to his feet, threw his cloak round him and went down to rouse Ranulf and Maltote, dragging both of them, sleepy-eyed, into the dark kitchen. He gave them instructions: they were to break fast, saddle the swiftest horses from the stables and leave with him.
    'We go to London first,' he declared. 'Then,' he grinned, 'visit every tavern along the Oxford road.'
    Of course they protested, but