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Authors: Paul C. Doherty
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Lecroix. Could he have been the culprit? Could there have been a private feud between him and his master, and then, overcome by remorse, Lecroix took his own life?'
'I'd thought of that myself,' Maigret trumpeted.
'But why?' Friar Thomas intervened. 'Lecroix was a simple man. He could hardly fill a goblet, never mind buy some deadly potion and then administer it in a way no one can discover.'
Corbett sipped at his wine. Lecroix, he thought, might be the murderer but there was something in that cellar, something he had seen which was out of place, and whilst the conversation turned back to the outlaws' recent attack on the castle, Corbett brooded on what he might have missed.
More courses were served: fish in a tangy sauce, roast beef in an onion stew, small loaves of wheaten bread. Corbett ate quietly, half-listening to Sir Peter's plan for the following morning. His eyes grew heavy. Images of Maeve flickered through his mind then Uncle Morgan bawling out some Welsh song, Edward screaming at him from the throne at Westminster about that damnable cipher, three kings visiting the two fools' tower with the two chevaliers… A grinning Ranulf nudged him awake.
'Master!'
Corbett smiled and picked up his wine cup. His stomach felt heavy, one of those rare occasions when he had eaten far too much and drunk too fast. Corbett loosened the belt around his waist to make himself more comfortable – then sprang to his feet.
'Of course!' he whispered to his startled companions. 'Of course!'
'What's the matter, man?' Branwood shouted.
Corbett looked at him. 'Sir Peter, my apologies but I have just realised that Lecroix was murdered.'
'What do you mean?' Branwood snapped.
'Nothing,' Corbett replied sourly. 'Except the way a man puts on his belt. Where is Lecroix's corpse now?'
'Where it was left, under a sheet in the cellar. You know soldiers, Sir Hugh, they are superstitious and refused to remove the corpse of a suicide except in daylight hours.'
'Then we had better go down,' Corbett insisted.
At Branwood's order, soldiers appeared with torches and led them down to the cellar. Corbett crouched in a pool of light and pulled back the sheets covering the corpse.
'Lecroix was left-handed?' he asked.
'Is this necessary?' Roteboeuf asked languidly. 'God's tooth, man! Having to look at Lecroix when he was alive was enough to put you off your dinner!'
Corbett ignored the sniggers. 'The corpse has not been disturbed?'
'Of course not.'
'Well,' Corbett said, 'look at the belt.' 'Oh, for God's sake!' snapped Branwood. Corbett tapped Lecroix's belt.
'You notice how the tongue at the loose end of the belt lies to the left?' 'So?'
'Lecroix was left-handed. I found that out when we examined the corpse earlier. This belt should be on the other way round, looped through the clasp, with the tongue of the belt hanging to his right.'
'He was so bloody drunk,' Naylor muttered, 'it was a wonder he could put it on at all.'
Corbett shrugged. 'I thought of that, until I remembered something else. See how this belt is fastened?' He undid the belt carefully and held it up. 'Now all the holes on this belt except for one are undamaged, for the simple reason that they were never used. A belt is a very personal article. We fasten it the same way every day – unless, of course, we become fatter.' Corbett moved his finger to a hole further up the belt, well away from the one Lecroix had used. 'See how this hole has been torn, slightly gouged? We can tell, from the specks of creamy leather underneath, that this was very recent.' He put down the belt and got to his feet. 'So I ask you first, why did Lecroix put his belt on the wrong way? Secondly, we have seen the hole he always used – so why is this one, much further up the belt, so recently damaged?'
Everyone stared back, Sir Peter open-mouthed, Naylor blinking as if he could not follow Corbett's reasoning. Friar Thomas looked expectant whilst Corbett caught a glint of understanding in Roteboeuf's
'I'd thought of that myself,' Maigret trumpeted.
'But why?' Friar Thomas intervened. 'Lecroix was a simple man. He could hardly fill a goblet, never mind buy some deadly potion and then administer it in a way no one can discover.'
Corbett sipped at his wine. Lecroix, he thought, might be the murderer but there was something in that cellar, something he had seen which was out of place, and whilst the conversation turned back to the outlaws' recent attack on the castle, Corbett brooded on what he might have missed.
More courses were served: fish in a tangy sauce, roast beef in an onion stew, small loaves of wheaten bread. Corbett ate quietly, half-listening to Sir Peter's plan for the following morning. His eyes grew heavy. Images of Maeve flickered through his mind then Uncle Morgan bawling out some Welsh song, Edward screaming at him from the throne at Westminster about that damnable cipher, three kings visiting the two fools' tower with the two chevaliers… A grinning Ranulf nudged him awake.
'Master!'
Corbett smiled and picked up his wine cup. His stomach felt heavy, one of those rare occasions when he had eaten far too much and drunk too fast. Corbett loosened the belt around his waist to make himself more comfortable – then sprang to his feet.
'Of course!' he whispered to his startled companions. 'Of course!'
'What's the matter, man?' Branwood shouted.
Corbett looked at him. 'Sir Peter, my apologies but I have just realised that Lecroix was murdered.'
'What do you mean?' Branwood snapped.
'Nothing,' Corbett replied sourly. 'Except the way a man puts on his belt. Where is Lecroix's corpse now?'
'Where it was left, under a sheet in the cellar. You know soldiers, Sir Hugh, they are superstitious and refused to remove the corpse of a suicide except in daylight hours.'
'Then we had better go down,' Corbett insisted.
At Branwood's order, soldiers appeared with torches and led them down to the cellar. Corbett crouched in a pool of light and pulled back the sheets covering the corpse.
'Lecroix was left-handed?' he asked.
'Is this necessary?' Roteboeuf asked languidly. 'God's tooth, man! Having to look at Lecroix when he was alive was enough to put you off your dinner!'
Corbett ignored the sniggers. 'The corpse has not been disturbed?'
'Of course not.'
'Well,' Corbett said, 'look at the belt.' 'Oh, for God's sake!' snapped Branwood. Corbett tapped Lecroix's belt.
'You notice how the tongue at the loose end of the belt lies to the left?' 'So?'
'Lecroix was left-handed. I found that out when we examined the corpse earlier. This belt should be on the other way round, looped through the clasp, with the tongue of the belt hanging to his right.'
'He was so bloody drunk,' Naylor muttered, 'it was a wonder he could put it on at all.'
Corbett shrugged. 'I thought of that, until I remembered something else. See how this belt is fastened?' He undid the belt carefully and held it up. 'Now all the holes on this belt except for one are undamaged, for the simple reason that they were never used. A belt is a very personal article. We fasten it the same way every day – unless, of course, we become fatter.' Corbett moved his finger to a hole further up the belt, well away from the one Lecroix had used. 'See how this hole has been torn, slightly gouged? We can tell, from the specks of creamy leather underneath, that this was very recent.' He put down the belt and got to his feet. 'So I ask you first, why did Lecroix put his belt on the wrong way? Secondly, we have seen the hole he always used – so why is this one, much further up the belt, so recently damaged?'
Everyone stared back, Sir Peter open-mouthed, Naylor blinking as if he could not follow Corbett's reasoning. Friar Thomas looked expectant whilst Corbett caught a glint of understanding in Roteboeuf's
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