Song of a Dark Angel

of Hunstanton and Mortlake. I thought he had similar antiquarian tastes to my own, but as soon as I had passed on everything I had learned, he lost interest.'
    'Oh, I have stronger proof than that,' Corbett said. 'Amelia was a secretive, devious woman. Only once did she let her guard slip. She made for herself, on a heart-shaped scrap of parchment, one of those keepsakes so popular with lovers – you know the kind, where the lovers' initials are combined. But, to preserve her secret, Amelia made of her keepsake a kind of puzzle. Her own initials, A.C., for Amelia Culpeper, she concealed as the first letters of the words Amor Currit. Those of her lover, A.H., were hidden in the words Amor Haesitat. They stand for Augustine Holcombe. Although, Father, your real name was Augustine Norringham, you are prouder of the Holcombe side of the family tree. The Holcombes have a more interesting history – perhaps a grander one. You undoubtedly told Amelia all about it.' He looked again at the priest. 'And perhaps she thought that amor haesitat aptly described your behaviour towards her.' Father Augustine bowed his head.
    'Now time went on,' Corbett continued. 'You became parish priest at Swaffham, near enough to Hunstanton and Mortlake to do something about the dreams and stories you had grown up on. You visited the convent of the Holy Cross, serving there as a chaplain during the summer months. The sisters were pleased and old Father Ethelred was only too glad to have someone to help out. You saw and used their chalice and remembered all the stories you had been told. You realized that the cup was very old and very precious.'
    The priest raised his head then, malice blazing in his eyes.
    'You are very clever, Sir Hugh,' he murmured. 'But you tell a preposterous story. Are you going to say that I murdered Amelia Fourbour? Have you forgotten that no signs or marks were found around the scaffold?'
    'I have not forgotten,' Corbett replied. 'But let me carry on with the story. You were a priest in Swaffham – a royal town, a busy place, where the income was good, the benefices rich. So why come to Hunstanton, to a poor fishing village? Had you done something disgraceful? I doubt it. I think that you petitioned the Bishop of Norwich for Hunstanton and that he was only too willing to give such a lonely little parish to someone so keen to take it on. So you come to Hunstanton. You make enquiries of Master Selditch. You make friends with Dame Cecily and learn all you can from her. You go through the parish records, looking for references to Holcombe and his accomplice, Alan of the Marsh. You had your own pool of knowledge, from what your mother had told you. You leave flowers at the scaffold on which your ancestor was hanged – a small gesture of respect to someone who was going to make you very rich.'
    'I've seen those flowers sometimes,' Catchpole interjected. 'Bunches of wild flowers, placed at the foot of the gibbet and replaced when they rotted.' He jabbed a finger at the priest. 'Yes, Sir Hugh is right. It started when you came and ceased when Master Monck arrived.'
    'You knew your ancestor had been hanged,' Corbett continued. 'But where was he buried? What had happened to him? And to his accomplice, Alan of the Marsh? And, above all, where could the treasure be? You began investigating your own churchyard, violating old graves, thinking that perhaps the treasure was in a coffin or that at least you might find some sort of clue in one of those derelict tombs. You could do that without any recrimination or accusation. Who would dream that the parish priest was the person pillaging the graves? And any strange happenings or occurrences could always be blamed on the Pastoureaux.'
    'Of course,' Selditch said. He stared, appalled, at the priest. 'It was you who advised Sir Simon to give the Pastoureaux the Hermitage. You told your parishioners to treat them well.'
    'Of course he did!'
    Corbett watched Father Augustine intently. The priest's hands had disappeared beneath the table. He had also pushed his chair back and was now staring into the darkness as if only half-listening to what Corbett was saying.
    'Priest!'
    Father Augustine's eyes flickered.
    'You were patient, weren't you?' Corbett continued. 'You knew it might take years but, there again, you had no distractions – until Amelia Culpeper came to the village.' Corbett looked down the table at Fourbour the baker, who sat, wide-eyed like the rest, listening to his