By noon Fourbour and the reeve were at Mortlake Manor. Corbett saw the baker first. Brushing aside the man's protests at being taken from his work, Corbett waved him to a stool in the corner of the great hall arid sat opposite. He studied the man's silver hair and pasty skin, which made it look as though the baker had been tinted by the flour he used. Fourbour was small and thin, with darting eyes and a flickering tongue. A muscle high in his cheek twitched nervously.
'I want to talk to you about the death of your wife,' Corbett said brusquely.
Fourbour's nervousness increased.
'Her name was Amelia?'
'Yes,' Fourbour whispered.
'And how long had you been married?'
'Six years. She was ten years my junior.' The man's eyes filled with tears. 'She was very pretty, Sir Hugh.' His eyes flitted round the empty hall. 'But she was never at home in Hunstanton.'
'Where did she come from?'
'She was a miller's daughter from Bishop's Lynn. I used to go there to buy my flour. Her maiden name was Culpeper.'
Corbett glanced away. A miller in a place like Bishop's Lynn would be very prosperous. Why had he allowed his daughter to marry a village baker? Fourbour seemed to read Corbett's mind.
'Amelia had been involved in scandal. She became pregnant, but the child died.' The words came out in a rush.
'And you asked for her hand in marriage?'
'Yes, yes, I did. Her father was only too pleased. He bestowed a large dowry and Amelia did not object. At first our marriage was happy but, about eighteen months, ago-' Fourbour pushed his fingers through his thinning hair. 'Yes, I think it was then, Amelia became secretive and unhappy. She would go for long walks or ride out on the moors. I would object but she said the villagers didn't like her, she had to get away.'
'Do you know where she went?'
'Sometimes, I think, as far as Holy Cross convent.'
'Didn't she have any friends?'
'No, not really. On May Day and Holy Days she tried to join the rest of the women on the green, but they always ignored her. The same was true when she went to church.' Fourbour licked his dry lips. 'Amelia said she used to be jostled.'
'Did she see the priest?'
'Twice. But Amelia said she didn't like Father Augustine. She found him rather cold.'
Corbctt nodded understandingly. 'And the evening your wife was killed?'
Fourbour rubbed his face in his hands. 'Amelia had been agitated,' he replied slowly. 'Just before dusk she saddled our horse and said she would ride out on the moor.' The baker's voice broke. 'The horse came back by itself. I and my apprentices went out to search. We found her there, hanging from a rope that had been thickly coated with pitch. Lord knows, it was black as soot out here. If it hadn't been for the white of her face, we wouldn't have glimpsed her. One of my apprentices saw her first. He saw her hanging. I said not to approach her. I just couldn't believe it.'
'Didn't you want to cut your wife's body down?'
Fourbour looked away.
'I couldn't,' he stuttered. 'I just went cold. One of the apprentices ran to Mortlake Manor. Sir Simon, the physician and that strange man, Monck, came. Monck carried a torch. He and the physician went forward. Monck searched the ground beneath the scaffold then remounted his horse to cut Amelia free. Afterwards he said there was no sign of any other hoof marks or boot prints.'
Fourbour paused. He seemed to be thinking. 'The next morning,' he said at last, 'the headless body of his servant was found on the beach. At first, I thought the deaths were connected.'
'Did you?' Corbett asked. 'Why?'
'Oh, because they happened at the same time.'
Corbett touched the man gently on the back of his hand. It felt like a sliver of ice.
'They were murdered, Master Fourbour. Cerdic Lickspittle and your wife were murdered. Do you know why?'
The man shook his head.
'Can you tell me anything which would explain your wife's death?'
Again the shake of the head.
'Or who rode your wife's horse back to the outskirts of the village?'
'I don't know,' Fourbour whispered. 'The villagers who saw it thought it was Amelia, but the night was dark and the rider wore a cloak.'
Corbett chewed his lip. He heard Robert the reeve outside the door, complaining loudly about being kept waiting. Corbett ignored him.
'You saw your wife's body?' he said gently.
Fourbour nodded.
'And there was no other mark of violence on her?' 'No,' the baker whispered.
'And did you discover anything amongst her possessions – a letter, a note – that might explain her death?'
'No, I didn't.' Fourbour looked away. 'Amelia was a caring, loving young woman. She had been grievously hurt by the desertion of her lover and the death of her child. And, before you ask, never once did she mention him.' For ar moment he looked as though he were going to say more, but clearly he thought better of it.
'What were you going to say?' Corbett asked quietly. 'Please tell me.' He leaned forward and gripped the man's wrist. 'I apologize for my blunt questions. Your wife may have had a sad life but she had a tragic death. She met her murderer out on the moors. Are you going to allow him or her to walk away scot free?'
Fourbour opened his wallet and brought out an ivory necklace. It glinted and shone in the candlelight.
'It's beautiful,' Corbett murmured. 'And rather costly.'
'It was Amelia's,' Fourbour said. 'And, although she never said, I always believed it was given to her by her lover. No reason, it's just that she carried it everywhere.'
'Anything else?' Corbett asked.
'Once, just once, I went out after her on the moors. Amelia began complaining about the villagers. I told her they were poor people. Amelia looked at me and laughed. She said Hunstanton might be richer than I thought.' He shrugged. 'I didn't know what she meant. Do you, Sir Hugh?'
'No.' Corbett got to his feet and held out his hand. 'Master Fourbour, I thank you for seeing me. And, if necessary, I will come back to you again.'
Fourbour heaved a sigh of relief and left the hall as Gurney's steward ushered Robert the reeve into the room. Robert looked surlily at Corbett, who waved him to the empty stool. The reeve pulled his cloak about him, his fat face suffused with a malicious arrogance.
'I am a busy man, Sir Hugh. Ask your questions but, before you threaten me, may I remind you that Gilbert and his mother were found guilty of murder by the court. And we did not intend to kill her.'
Corbett leaned across. 'Master Reeve, you are an assassin and a bully. A man full of his own pride who acts to hide his own secrets.'
The reeve paled.
'What do you mean?' he stuttered.
Corbett smiled to himself. The reeve had forgotten the insults he had thrown at him in his alarm at being accused of harbouring a secret. The reeve's black button eyes watched Corbett anxiously.
'Secrets!' he exclaimed. 'What secrets?'
'Your newly found wealth.'
'It was a bequest. A legacy.'
'From whom?'
'A distant relative.'
'Where did this distant relative live?'
The reeve looked away.
'Master Robert,' Corbett murmured, 'I can order your arrest and send you south to be questioned before the King's Bench. Now, you do not wish that, do you? Your wife has recently given birth to a child and you are, quite rightly, an important man in this community. You could spend months in London.'
The reeve looked sullen and bit at a dirty fingernail.
'I was given the money honestly.'
'Who by?'
The reeve sighed.
'I want the truth, Robert,' Corbett persisted.
'A pedlar came to Hunstanton. He brought a message from Edward Orifab, a goldsmith in Bishop's Lynn, saying that he held certain monies for me. 1 went there and was given five silver coins and one gold piece.'
Corbett narrowed his eyes. 'And you didn't ask who would bestow such wealth on you?'
Robert shook his head. 'The goldsmith was most insistent. He would tell me nothing.'
Corbett watched the reeve carefully. You are lying, he thought.
'You are sure of that, Robert?'
'As God made little green apples, Sir Hugh.'
'And your daughter, Blanche?'
Robert smiled. 'She joined the Pastoureaux and left.' 'You seem pleased.'
'I miss her, but I have seven mouths to feed and what could Blanche do? She was too poor for the nunnery and whom could she marry? Someone like Gilbert? I am a poor man, Sir Hugh. Blanche will be happy.'
Corbctt nodded. He thanked and dismissed the reeve, then sat staring at the wall. 'Bishop's Lynn! Bishop's Lynn!' he repeated to himself.
'Master?'
Corbett looked up. Ranulf was standing over him.
'Sit down, Ranulf. Do you feel better now?'
'Aye, it's a wonder what a walk in God's fresh air will do.'
'Good! Listen, Ranulf, we are just whistling in the dark here. Monck scurries around the countryside doing God knows what. It's time we did a little work ourselves. I want you and Maltote to go to the village tomorrow and see what you can find out. And talk to Gilbert – he roams the moors and may have seen 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 again stopping to stare out at the grey angry sea. At last the convent came into sight. As soon as he entered the gates, Corbett sensed the wealth of the foundation. The doors were freshly painted, opening soundlessly on well-oiled hinges. The outhouses were tiled, the woodwork fresh and gleaming and the yard neatly cobbled. A groom took his horse and a lay sister led him into the convent. Here again the wealth of the sisters was apparent. The walls were panelled, the furniture well polished and beautifully carved statues stood in recesses. At the end of the passageway, above an arched door, was a superb triptych. The air smelt sweetly of wood, resin and incense.
'You admire our convent?' the lay sister asked, pausing as Corbett stopped to gaze at a large cross carved and painted in the Byzantine style.
'It is quite beautiful,' Corbett replied.
'Only the high-born are admitted here, the daughters or widows of nobles,' the lay sister explained. 'They bring rich dowries – and, of course, there's always the profit from the sheep.'
Corbett remembered the flocks he had seen on the moors.
'The convent exports wool?' he asked.
'Oh, yes, it goes by the cartload to Whitstable, Boston, Bishop's Lynn and Hull.' The lay sister straightened up. 'It is high-quality wool, much in demand by Flemish weavers.'
Corbett took one last, lingering look at the crucifix and followed his guide along beautifully furnished passageways to Dame Cecily's chamber. The prioress appeared pleased to see him. She ordered wine and sweetmeats and escorted Corbett to a large throne-like chair before a roaring fire. Corbett sat down and stared around. Even the queen's chamber at Westminster couldn't rival such riches – woollen rugs, golden tapestries, silver oil-lamps, precious candelabra, paintings and silver ewers, cups and dishes adorned the room.
'Before you ask, Sir Hugh,' said Dame Cecily, placing a goblet of wine beside him. 'We sisters of the Holy Cross do not take a vow of poverty. We are a foundation dedicated to good works and prayer and to providing a refuge for women of good standing in what can only be termed a violent world.'
Corbett murmured his thanks and stared at the fire. Such foundations were common, he reflected, built on generous endowments and constantly financed by a regular source of income.
'How long has the convent been here?' he asked.
'Sir Simon's great-grandfather issued the first charter. The building was completed in 1220.1 am the fifth prioress and our community is sixty strong.'
'So you have no objection to the Pastoureaux. You don't see them as rivals?' Corbett said, half-teasingly, as the prioress lowered herself gracefully into a large, quilted chair.
Dame Cecily shook her head.
'Of course not. We give the Pastoureaux every help we can. We are only too pleased to accept their labour in our stables, farms and orchards. They cause us no problems.'
'You have heard of the murder?' Corbett abruptly asked. 'The girl Marina?'
Dame Cecily nodded. 'Of course, poor girl. She did apply to this convent, wishing to come to us as a lay sister, but…' Dame Cecily shrugged elegantly plump shoulders, with such a look of contrived sorrow on her face that, in any other circumstances, Corbett would have laughed.
'Has Master Monck been here?'
'Yes, this morning.' 'Why?'
'He came about his servant, Cerdic Lickspittle, the one who was found murdered on the beach.' 'And?' Corbett asked testily.
Dame Cecily became flustered. 'Well, specifically, he wanted to know if Lickspittle visited here the day he died. I said yes.' Dame Cecily played with the pleats of her woollen gown. 'But his visit was very short. He was a nuisance – our sisters were for ever seeing him riding out along the headland and staring out to sea. Master Monck is no better.'
'Perhaps they were concerned?' Corbett suggested.
'About what?'
'About one of your order, Dame Agnes, who fell from the cliff top.'
Dame Cecily became visibly agitated. 'That was an accident!' she snapped.
'But Dame Cecily,' Corbett persisted, 'what on earth was one of your sisters doing out on the headland at the dead of night?'
'I don't know. We are a foundation for noble ladies, not a prison. We guard against intruders, but do not prevent our sisters from leaving as they wish. I can only suppose that Sister Agnes wished to go for a walk.'
'On a stormy cliff top,' Corbett said disbelievingly. 'In the dead of night?'
Dame Cecily spread her plump little fingers.
'Sister Agnes was a hardy soul.'
'What position did she hold?'
'She was our treasurer.'
'Did you investigate her death?'
'Yes. Sir Simon came, as did Master Monck. They examined the headland, but found no marks to suggest anything but that Agnes slipped and fell.'
'So there was nothing suspicious about her death?' Corbett asked.
'Nothing whatsoever. We found her corpse on the rocks below and she now lies buried in our graveyard, God rest her!'
'And Cerdic?'
'Oh, he came one morning. He stayed for Mass, saw round our church then left.' 'Is that all?' 'Of course.'
'And the baker's wife,' Corbett asked. 'Amelia Fourbour?'
'Poor woman, she would often ride past our gates.' Dame Cecily played with the gold bracelet around her plump wrist. 'But we knew nothing about her.'
Corbett sensed he would get no further. He finished his wine and placed the goblet gently on the table beside him.
'Dame Cecily, I ride to Walsingham. His Grace the King will be pleased at the hospitality you have offered me.'
Dame Cecily's lips smiled, but her eyes were puzzled.
'I would like to stay here,' Corbett explained, 'in your guest house.'
The prioress clapped her hands girlishly. 'Of course, you will be our welcome guest.'
Corbett thanked her, withdrew and went back to the stables. He told the groom that he would be back in the hour -he needed to ride, relax and marshal his thoughts. Once outside the convent he turned his horse's head in the direction of the headland, determined to make use of the dying day's light. First he found the long, winding path leading down to the beach. He hobbled his horse and went downwards. However, the mist was growing thicker and the tide was racing in, beating against the rocks at the foot of the cliffs. He went back and led his horse along the cliff edge, turning his head sideways against the buffeting wind. He walked carefully because the ground was treacherous. He passed the convent where it nestled in a small hollow, a sprawling collection of buildings behind its curtain wall. He continued along the headland and gazed out over the sea. The wind was even stronger here. His horse became nervous, so he left it to crop the grass, and went back to the spot where Sister Agnes must have stood. Darkness was falling. He was glad that he had a warm bed to go to – the night would be black, without stars or moon, and the wind, which snatched at his hair and stung his eyes, would grow stronger.
He stood for a while. He could understand how Sister Agnes could have slipped, but what was a middle-aged nun doing out at night staring across the sea? Just what were the mysteries of these parts? Why had Monck and Cerdic come here? Corbett was about to turn away when he glimpsed a faint light on the sea. He stared and realized that, in spite of the mist and the loneliness, the sea roads beyond the horizon would be very busy, with cogs and fishing smacks sailing to and from Hull and other eastern ports and the many fishing villages clustered along the coast. Corbett walked further along, away from the convent, noticing how the cliffs turned in a series of little bays and natural harbours. Satisfied, he collected his horse and went back to the convent. He watched the groom unsaddle and stable the horse for the night and slipped the man a coin.
'Take good care of my horse,' he urged. 'Tomorrow I have to travel far and fast.'
'Where to, sir?'
'Walsingham.'
The man scratched his head. 'You'd best go back to the village and find the road from there. If you keep to it and the weather is fair, you should be at Walsingham by the afternoon.'
Corbett thanked him. 'Oh, by the way, Sister Agnes, the nun who fell-'
'God rest her, sir, I knew her well.'
'Did she often go out for walks along the cliff top?'
'Oh no, just occasionally. Always very careful she was, carried her staff and lantern but, there again, she was such a busy woman.' The groom gave a gap-toothed grin. 'A busy hive this convent, what with its farms, its sheep and its wool.'
'But there was no pattern to her leaving?' Corbett asked.
'Why?' The man became more defensive. 'Sister Agnes came and went as she pleased. I tell you this, sir, I was born in these parts and they be treacherous. The cliffs are made of chalk and can crumble. On the moors be marsh which will trap a horse and rider. And above all there's the tides – after heavy rain and in high winds the sea can race in faster than a greyhound.'
Corbett thanked him and went back into the convent. One of the sisters showed him to the small guest house opposite the chapel and brought to him a savoury meat pie and a small jug of the best claret he had drunk in months. After which Corbett retired. However, as he lay dozing on the bed, his mind kept returning to that lonely, windswept headland and the figure of the nun resting on a stick, holding a lantern, staring out across the midnight sea.