Song of a Dark Angel

his lips and stared at the flames. 'That's one puzzle. The other puzzle is where did Father Augustine get his information from? Monck found out about that from the royal records and I from your ancestor's confession. But how was Father Augustine so knowledgeable?'
    Corbett sat back in the chair. He absent-mindedly heard Ranulf and Maltote say they were returning to their chamber.
    'Sir Simon,' Corbett asked. 'How long has the village of Hunstanton been here?'
    'Since time immemorial.'
    'And so's murder,' Corbett replied. 'And, I suspect, there's still one more to resolve!'

Chapter 14
    They gathered in the cold hall just after dawn, tired and haggard from lack of sleep. Gurney said that Alice was now resting. They broke their fast and listened as Catchpole described his visit to the priest's house.
    'There's nothing much there,' he said. 'Clothes, a few possessions, nothing remarkable at all.' He dug into a sack and brought out a sheet of parchment and looked sheepishly at Corbett. 'I can read a little. Most of the manuscripts were parish accounts but there was this.'
    Corbett took the parchment and smoothed it out. It bore a marked resemblance to what he had seen amongst Monck's possessions – maps of the area, some crude and rough, others finely drawn. Then a cipher, words abbreviated, question marks beside them. Nothing startling except a name, Jacobus, written time and again. In one place it was Pater Jacobus.
    'Ah,' Corbett murmured. 'Father James.' He glanced at Ranulf. 'We learnt about him at the convent.' 'I think-!' Selditch exclaimed. 'What?' Corbett asked softly.
    'I have heard of him too!' Selditch confessed, and waddled off, shaking his head.
    Selditch returned, breathless, carrying a small roll of vellum tied with a piece of faded silk. He unrolled it and handed it to Corbett.
    'Study it carefully,' he said. 'It's an index of letters written by Sir Simon's ancestor in January 1218.
    Corbett studied the faded contents, the headings of letters the Gurneys had written in January 1218. However, one fairly long entry was a complaint to the Bishop of Norwich alleging that, 'since the disappearance of Father James', the diocese had offered no priest to the parish church of Hunstanton.
    Corbett looked up. 'Disappearance?' He rubbed his chin with his fingers. 'I doubt it. This is our final murder.' He put the parchment down. 'You see, if Alan of the Marsh hid his portion of the treasure where I think he did, he would have needed an accomplice. Somebody who helped him carry and hide it. Someone above suspicion.' Corbett smiled weakly at Sir Simon. 'In this case, once again, the parish priest – Father James.' Corbett tapped the document. 'This is another reason why Father Augustine came to Hunstanton. He probably knew about Father James. He saw the chalice at the convent and wondered if there were similar treasures hidden away in the village church. I wager he searched that priest's house from top to bottom and, of course, it was another reason for ransacking the graves. He may have been looking for hiding-places or even some document written by Father James.'
    'Subtle and devious,' Sir Simon said. 'Secrets hidden in a graveyard are fairly safe.'
    'I agree,' Corbett replied. 'Father Augustine must have pondered all the possibilities. He did his own investigation and found out that Father James disappeared at about the same time as Alan absconded and Holcombe was executed. He realized that this was more than mere coincidence. And the devil once again came to Hunstanton. Father Augustine must have prayed that that little parish church or its churchyard held the key to the great mystery.' He stared at his companions. 'You can imagine his fury when he was unable to discover the treasure? This turned to madness when Amelia Fourbour arrived, followed by Monck and, finally, myself. The whole world was turning its hand against him. Ah well, let's finish this story.'
    They collected their cloaks and went out into the yard, where Maltote and others had their horses ready. A few minutes later they left the manor and took the path towards the convent. The morning was cold and blustery and rain clouds were sweeping in above a sullen sea. On the cliff top they dismounted and left their horses with the retainers. They slipped and slid down the path to the beach. Corbett stared across it and shivered.
    It looked so peaceful, with the desolate sand and shingle soaked by the receding tide. Gulls, their cries wafted by the wind,