Satan in St Mary

pulled his cloak around him and walked further down the nave, noting even how his leather-soled boots echoed like drumbeats round the church. He could hear the priest slithering behind him like some rat creeping along a pipe. Corbett walked into the sanctuary. The Blessed Chair, thick heavy and wooden, sat like a throne at the bottom of the white stone altar. There was nothing to see, though Corbett realized that he had never been in such a stark, lonely sanctuary. The high altar rose above him, lonely and impassive, its marble ledge unadorned by flowers or linen cloths. Behind it was a reredos, a blank screen with a faded fresco and above it a lonely red sanctuary lamp gleamed and winked in the gloom. There were benches at either side. Corbett turned and looked up, there was a trefoil window meshed with wire and horn above the high altar, which provided most of the light, flanked by a row of shuttered windows as in the rest of the church.
    He walked over to the right of the sanctuary and looked up at the iron bar jutting out beside the large, wooden shuttered window. "Is that the bar?"
    The priest, standing behind him, one hand on the arm of the Blessed Chair, nodded. "Yes, " he replied slowly. "The chair had been moved by Duket. He must have used it to fasten the rope round the bar. "
    Corbett turned, looked directly at Bellet and shook his head. "I would not be too sure about that, " he replied and, not waiting for a reply, walked back down the nave of the church.
    Corbett left the church and turned into the area below
    Friday Street occupied by foreign tanners. The place was now a scene of frenetic building activity as workmen were engaged in constructing a huge cistern or conduit which would hold water run through elm. pipes from the Tyburn Stream. It was also the gallows ground and two bodies, fresh carrion by the look of them, hung twirling by their necks from the crude crossbeam of the scaffold. At any other time Corbett would have quickly passed such a scene but now, with the image of Lawrence Duket hanging by his neck at Saint Mary Le Bow fresh in his mind, Corbett went up and closely studied the bodies. Impervious to the smell and the horror of the grisly corpses, Corbett stayed till he was satisfied and then moved away to ask the whereabouts of Duket's house. His enquiries usually drew dark looks or blank stares but at last he was directed to a house on the corner of Bread Street.
    A modest, two-storeyed building, Corbett thought it was deserted for the front door was secured tightly as were all the shutters. Corbett, however, pounded on the door, shouting for it to be opened "on the King's business". He heard footsteps, the bolts drawn and the door was opened by a small slim woman of medium height with auburn hair caught up in a wimple, the air of sobriety and mourning completed by a long, black dress. The only concession to fashion was a filigree gold chain round her waist and fresh white lace round the cuffs and long slim neck. Her face was severe with petulant lips and arrogant grey eyes. Corbett offered his warrant, the woman took it and read it quietly, her lips moving slowly over the words, she returned it and beckoned Corbett into the lower room, opening the shutters to allow in some air and light. The place was bereft of furniture except for leather trunks and heaps of clothing.
    The woman watched Corbett for a while. "I am Jean Duket, " she said softly. "What do you want with me?" The words had a faint suggestive tone which Corbett ignored as he described his interest in Lawrence Duket's death. Although the woman was in mourning weeds, she seemed little disturbed by her brother's death. Only when Corbett mentioned Crepyn's name did Jean's eyes narrow, the colour rising in her cheeks.
    "I did not like Crepyn, Master Clerk, " she snapped. "He was, " she searched for words.
    "A blackmailer?" Corbett prompted her.
    "Yes, Master Corbett, a blackmailer, a nothing, a fornicator and despoiler of women!"
    "So, the story is true?" Corbett queried. Jean did not answer but turned and nodded her head vigorously.
    "Is that why Lawrence killed him?" Corbett persisted.
    Jean turned and laughed, almost hysterical. "Master Clerk, my brother and I, though we shared the same womb and later the same house, did not love each other. " She laughed nervously. "My brother did not kill for me. There were other things!" She looked quickly at Corbett. "I do not know, but the Bitch will know!"
    "Who is this Bitch,