Song of a Dark Angel

something.'
    Ranulf pulled a face. Secretly, though, he was delighted at the prospect of working independently, for once not under the eye of old Master Long Face.
    'Anything else, Master?' he asked innocently.
    'No, just use your native wit and discretion,' Corbett said. 'Help me to clear up this mystery because, I assure you, the devil stalks the moors of Hunstanton!'
    'And you're going to Bishop's Lynn, Master?'
    Corbett shook his head. 'No, not yet. I'm off to Walsingham. If Monck won't tell me the truth then I'll ask the king himself. He'll either tell me or we'll leave and let Monck find out what is happening here.' Corbett rose. 'And you still can't remember where you have seen Master Joseph before?'
    Ranulf shook his head.
    'Oh well. Let Maltote know what's happening.'
    Corbett walked out of the hall and back to his own chamber. He filled his saddlebags, collected his boots, cloak and sword belt and stared through the window. It was a fine day, but still misty. He would visit the village and speak to Father Augustine about the desecrated graves, then ride on to Holy Cross convent and, from there, to Walsingham.
    Corbett found the priest busy in his church preparing the altar for the funeral masses of Gilbert's mother and of Marina. The two coffins stood on wooden trestles before the rood screen; Father Augustine was trimming the purple funeral candles that flanked the two coffins. He put the knife down as Corbett walked up the nave.
    'Sir Hugh, not more tragic news?'
    Corbett shook his head.
    'Where is everyone?' he asked. 'I found the village empty.' Father Augustine waved him over to one of the benches in the transept.
    'My parishioners are making up for lost time. Whatever happens the fields still need ploughing, the soil always remains.'
    'You said you were born in Bishop's Lynn, so you're not a countryman yourself?' Corbett said.
    'No, my father was a trader. But come, you are a busy man, you are not here to ask me about my past.'
    'No, Father, I came about the disturbed graves. Perhaps you could show me?'
    Father Augustine led him out into the overgrown churchyard.
    'My predecessor,' he explained, 'Father Ethelred, was very old and infirm. That's why the bishop sent me here. When spring comes, I'll tidy this place up.'
    Corbett looked around at the crumbling headstones and at the weather-beaten wooden crosses – all of which had been freshly coated with black pitch.
    'I did that,' Father Augustine said. 'The parish council were concerned at how quickly the wood rots. But let me show you the graves that have been disturbed.'
    He took Corbett across the churchyard and pointed to where the wet earth had been freshly turned.
    'This is the most recent.'
    'Who is buried here?' Corbett asked.
    Father Augustine squatted down on the wet grass and peered at the weathered headstone.
    'Yes, I remember this,' he said. 'When I checked the burial book I found that this is the grave of some unknown person. Church law is strict about this,' he explained. 'If a stranger dies, he has to be buried in the nearest parish with the word Incognitus – "Unknown" – and the date of his death on the tombstone.'
    'And the other graves?' Corbett asked.
    The priest took Corbett round, pointing out the disturbed graves. Corbett quietly realized there was a pattern to the desecration. All but two of the pillaged graves were of persons unknown – the exceptions were both old ladies. And they were all of old people who had died between the years 1216 and 1256.
    'And you have no idea who is the perpetrator?'
    'None whatsoever,' Father Augustine sighed. 'I have set guard, as did Robert the reeve and members of the parish council. It's always the same.'
    'When is it done,' Corbett asked. 'At night?'
    The priest nodded. 'Though on one occasion the desecration occurred late in the afternoon. Only the good Lord knows what they were after.'
    'Amelia Fourbour, the baker's wife,' Corbett asked abruptly, 'she visited you?'
    The priest shrugged. 'Yes, she did. A very unhappy woman. Amelia complained about the villagers, but there was little I could do.' Father Augustine looked up at the overcast sky. 'I cannot explain her death and was unable, God forgive me, to assist her when she was alive. You've met my parishioners, Sir Hugh, they are as hard as the earth they till!'
    Corbett agreed and thanked him. He went back to the lychgate, mounted his horse and rode through the dusk towards the Holy Cross convent. He followed the cliff path, now and