Satan in St Mary

of the records. After reading Corbett's note, Couville listened to him attentively. Ranulf could see that he was concerned about Corbett and knew that he had done nothing to resolve the old man's anxieties by describing his master's strange and wild appearance. "Just like he was after his wife and child died, " Couville murmured. "Nevertheless, " he continued briskly. "Maybe this information will be of use. " Ranulf had to stay with Couville for a number of days, fretting and biding his time while the old man searched amongst records and sent his clerks here and there over the city with enquiries or petitions for information. Eventually, after a few days, Couville gave Ranulf a small scroll and ordered him to take it back to Corbett at the Tower. Ranulf immediately complied, glad to be free of Couville's cramped office and the even more restricted quarters the old man had given him.
    Ranulf found his master still pale and rather dejected on the parapet above the Tower moat, leaning against the crenellated battlements and staring emptily into the dark waters below. Corbett hardly bothered to greet Ranulf but snatched the document he had brought from Couville and read it greedily, muttering and groaning, almost as if he had expected to find what he read there. He then ordered Ranulf to rest and eat before entrusting him with another short letter to take to Mistress Alice atte Bowe at The Mitre Tavern. Corbett instructed Ranulf, once he delivered the message, to occupy himself in the city and, he added abruptly, if possible, to stay out of trouble. Ranulf immediately departed for the Tower kitchens. Corbett waited until his footsteps faded into the distance and, covering his face with his hands, wept bitterly in a mixture of rage, self-pity and a deep sense of loss.
    Seventeen
    Three days later Corbett had the Tower cooks put some pastries, sweetmeats and wine into his saddlebag and, after a few words with Swynnerton and Neville, made his way out of the postern gate of the Tower to his meeting with Alice. He had asked to meet her in the fields just outside the north-east corner of the Tower amongst the Roman ruins which criss-crossed the fields with their whitened skeletal walls, the relics of faded ancient glory. Alice was already there, standing by one of the walls, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak which covered the green taffeta dress beneath, her long black hair falling to her shoulders and a red headband decorated with gold stars circling her forehead. Corbett could only secretly marvel at her beauty. He kissed her warmly on the brow and felt her arms melt round his body. He stood there, her dark head on his chest and stared across the ruins. Then he held her at arm's length and teased her about arriving on time. She laughed and flirted back though he noticed her eyes were guarded, wary as if conscious of something wrong. Corbett spread the cleanest blanket he had managed to find and they sat, their backs to one of the ruined walls, while they enjoyed the warmth of a strong spring sun.
    They ate and drank, laughed and talked until Alice, almost as if she was a player in some mystery drama, turned and asked how his investigation was proceeding. Corbett sipped the wine from his cup while his other hand rested in Alice's lap. "Duket, " he began slowly, "was murdered. " He felt no reaction from Alice, so he dug into his purse and pulled out the long silken threads. "Oh, I forgot, " he added smilingly, "when you undid the clasp of my cloak these strands got caught in the hook. I think they're from your gloves. I am sorry, I must have ruined them. " He dropped the threads into the small black silk-clad palm of her hand.
    Alice looked at them and stared at Corbett before bursting into peals of laughter. "You have not brought me here surely, " she teased, "to apologize for ruining a glove? I have many others. " She leaned across and kissed him gently on the cheek, her lips were like the finest gauze or silk.
    Corbett gripped his cup tighter and turned to look into her eyes full of dark laughter. "No, " he murmured. "I did not bring you here to talk about silk gloves. " He stretched his legs out, relaxed and sighed.
    "Duket, " Corbett began again, "was a goldsmith and a homosexual, but also a loyal Londoner and a faithful subject of the King. However, his secret longings and dark fantasies led him to Crepyn, a moneylender, a secret admirer of the dead de Montfort and a leader of the banned Populares party here in the city.