Song of a Dark Angel

linen or velvet soaked in the fragrance. For Heaven's sake, Hugh!'
    'Have you ever given any of it away?' Corbett insisted.
    Alice's fingers flew to her lips as the memory came back to her. 'Why yes, I did! Some time ago. Do you remember, Master Fourbour, I went to your shop? Your wife looked so pale and cheerless that I felt sorry for her. Poor thing! God rest her! I was talking to her and she remarked how fragrant my perfume was. I gave her some sachets. She put them in her purse.'
    Fourbour's face, usually pasty-coloured, had now gone deathly white.
    'I remember that, Lady Alice,' he stammered. 'But, for God's sake, sir,' – he glared at Corbett – 'what are you implying?'
    'I am implying nothing,' Corbett replied. 'I was just clearing up a small puzzle. You see, the perfume was carried by Mistress Fourbour's murderer. Wasn't it, Father?'
    The priest's hands gripped the table. He looked suddenly more gaunt. His eyes never left those of Corbett. 'What are you saying?'
    'Let me tell you a story,' Corbett said, 'which began before any of us were born. A king tries to take his treasure trove across the Wash. A traitor called Holcombe steals some of the treasure. He rides away to share the ill-gotten gains with his brother-in-law, Alan of the Marsh, who is the steward of the then lord of the manor here, Sir Richard Gurney. Alan knows the wastes of Norfolk – he knows where men, horses, even treasure, can be hidden. He is also a smuggler, so he knows the secret ways out of the kingdom. But something goes wrong – Holcombe is tracked down, executed and ignominiously buried.' Corbett gave Gurney a half smile – a sign that he would not betray his secrets.
    'Alan of the Marsh, too, dies, but not before bequeathing a precious object to the sisters of the Holy Cross.' It was, he told himself, at least the partial truth. 'King John,' he went on, 'dies a short while later in Newark. The treasure is lost and the two perpetrators had met their just fate. The years passed and both the treasure and its thieves become the subject of legend.' He stopped and looked across the table at Father Augustine. 'Now, Alan of the Marsh was a local man, but Holcombe hailed from Bishop's Lynn. Before his capture, but after he had stolen the treasure, he returned to his family home. He must have chattered. His family became aware that he was a robber, being hunted by the Gurneys who later captured and killed him. The stories about his daring robbery entered into family legend and were passed on from one generation to another. Now, about forty years ago, the Holcombe family in Bishop's Lynn died out in the male line. But there was a daughter. She married.' Corbett caught his lower lip between his teeth. 'Father Augustine, what is your surname?'
    'Norringham!' the priest spat back.
    Corbett sipped from his wine cup. 'Norringham,' he repeated. 'So it was a man called Norringham whom the Holcombe daughter married. Now, I conjecture that this Norringham died young, leaving a baby, who grew into an intelligent young boy whose mind became full of stories about his mother's ancestor, John Holcombe, and King John's treasure. This boy, called Augustine, became a priest. He served, I suggest, as a curate in Bishop's Lynn, probably at St Margaret's, before being moved to Swaffham.'
    Corbett had very little evidence, and no proof, for any of this. The priest's silence, his failure to deny any of these allegations, seemed, though, to confirm them and Corbett was encouraged.
    'Now,' he continued, 'whilst this priest was a curate in Bishop's Lynn he fell in love with a young, headstrong girl called Amelia Culpeper-' He turned to the baker. 'Yes, Master Fourbour, your future wife. The girl became pregnant, but the child later died. Now Amelia Fourbour never told anyone about her lover. Why should she? Perhaps she knew it was impossible from the start? How could a priest break his vows to marry her? Moreover, she could make no accusation without publicizing her own shame. Who knows, perhaps she loved this man to distraction and could not bear to do anything that might hurt him.' He stared at Father Augustine and this time the priest's eyes did falter.
    'Hugh,' Gurney interrupted. 'Are you sure of what you are saying? What proof do you have of this?'
    'I have proof,' Selditch intervened, his fat, normally cheery face now solemn. 'Proof of a sort. When Father Augustine came here, he discovered my love of antiquities. He questioned me closely about the history