Song of a Dark Angel

Hugh.'
    Corbett nodded, sat on the stool and waited for the physician to close the door behind him. 'Gilbert!' he ordered. 'Look at me!'
    The young man lifted his podgy, slack face and rubbed his wavering, watery eyes. Could this man, Corbett wondered, clumsy, slightly dim-witted, catch and murder the young fawn-like Marina? He closed his eyes – an idea had occurred to him but it flickered like a weak flame and he lost the thread. Something about Marina being out on the moors? Corbett stared down at his hands. Yes, that was it! Marina was a local girl. She knew the area well. If she was threatened, why not try and return to the Hermitage? Or had she gone to meet, not her father in the village, but someone from the manor? The visitors – the Prioress and Father Augustine – had, obviously, been abroad that night. Selditch had arrived late at table. But anyone could have left the manor – Catchpole had mentioned underground passages. Had someone used one of them to slip out of the manor?
    'I didn't murder the girl,' Gilbert mumbled.
    Corbett pointed to the scratches on the man's hands and wrists as well as the few on his face.
    'Where did you get these?'
    'When I was running away, the brambles tore at me.' 'And what about the amber necklace found in your house?'
    Gilbert shook his head blankly. He stared unblinkingly at Corbett.
    'I wouldn't hurt Marina. Gilbert loves Marina. All Gilbert wanted to do was stroke her soft hair.'
    Corbett studied the young man. You are no murderer, he reflected, but you are someone's catspaw.
    'Gilbert, the necklace was found in your hut.'
    'Somebody put it there.'
    'And Marina refused to meet you.'
    'No, she didn't.'
    Corbett's head snapped up. 'What?'
    The young man smiled so slyly that Corbett had to pinch himself. Perhaps Gilbert was more intelligent, more cunning than he had thought.
    'You met Marina?'
    'Yes, at our usual place, the old oak on the moors. Marina met me twice. I put something there. When we were young we used to play there. Marina, me and Blanche.'
    'The reeve's daughter?'
    'Yes, the reeve's daughter.' Gilbert suddenly grasped Corbett's knee. 'Why did they kill Mother? Is she really dead? Will she go to heaven?'
    Corbett gently removed the man's hand; it felt weak, slack.
    'Are you in good health, Gilbert?' he asked.
    'Will Mother be in heaven?'
    'Yes, of course, she died with her face towards God. But, Gilbert, are you injured? Your hands are weak.'
    'They have always been,' the young man replied. 'Mother said it was because of my birth. I am not as strong as I look. That's why Marina always trusted me.' Gilbert drew himself up and smiled. 'That's why I took the package to the old oak.'
    'The package?' Corbett asked.
    'Well, yes, a small letter, a scroll. A pedlar brought it from Bishop's Lynn. It had Marina's name on it because I read the markings. Every day I took it to the oak tree. Marina didn't come.' He smiled. 'But I did talk to her when I went to the Hermitage, even though they refused to let me. I told her I had a present for her.'
    Gilbert's jaw fell slack. Corbett looked around the room. A jug of wine stood in the corner. He filled a battered cup and thrust it into Gilbert's hand.
    Gilbert gulped some wine and went on, 'Marina came to the oak and I gave it to her.'
    'The package?'
    'Well, as I said, it was really a small scroll.' 'Did you know what was in it?'
    'No, Marina put the scroll beneath her robe, kissed me on the cheek and left.'
    'And you don't know what was in it?' 'No, Master, I don't. Will I hang?'
    Corbett got to his feet and patted the prisoner on the shoulder.
    'Don't worry, Gilbert, you won't hang. Someone will, but you won't. However, it's best if you stay here for your own protection.'
    Corbett hammered on the door. Catchpole and Selditch were waiting for him. They went back along the passage, up the steps and back into the hall. Corbett tried to draw Selditch into conversation about the history of the house but the physician became strangely evasive. He shrugged, fluttered ink-stained fingers and refused to meet Corbett's eye. Corbett strode impatiently away to look for Gurney. He found him in his writing chamber. Gurney looked up as he strode in.
    'I want the baker brought here,' Corbett said without preamble. 'Fourbour?'
    Corbett drummed his fingers on the desk. 'Yes, and Robert the reeve also. I want to question them.' 'Why?'
    'Because, Sir Simon, none of these mysteries will be solved until honest answers are given to honest