eyes.
'My opinion,' Corbett concluded, 'is that this belt, on one occasion, was taken off Lecroix and used to bind something which strained against the belt, forcing the gouge marks around the second hole. I'll go further. This belt was strapped around Lecroix after he died. Or should I say was murdered?' Corbett knelt once more at the side of the corpse and pushed back the sleeves of the dead man's threadbare gown. 'Let us, for the sake of argument, maintain that Lecroix was murdered. Someone either took him down here or found him in a drunken stupor. Remember, Lecroix was not the most intelligent of God's creatures, God bless him, and even without wine often lapsed into a very deep sleep. With so much wine down him, I doubt very much whether he would remember his own name. So,' Corbett concluded, 'the murderer, once Lecroix was deep in his cups, took off the poor fellow's belt and bound it round him in such a way as to secure his arms.' Corbett took the belt and then carefully looped it round the corpse, threading the belt through the buckle and fastening it so Lecroix's arms were tightly pinned to his body.
Ranulf heard the murmur of agreement and grinned to himself. At last Old Master Long Face had shown them he was no fool for the belt fitted exactly at the point where the hole was recently gouged.
'Do you follow my meaning?' Corbett stared round. In the pool of torchlight they all nodded, their faces tense and watchful.
'See,' he repeated, 'the belt is now linked around the arms. Lecroix, in his drunken stupor, cannot move his hands. Our murderer then takes the drunken Lecroix, forces him to stand on that box, slips his neck through the waiting noose and knocks the box away, leaving him to kick and slowly choke to death. Now when I was here first, I thought of this possibility and so carefully examined the wrists.' Corbett undid the belt and pushed the sleeves of the gown even further back, pointing to the angry welts high on each arm just under the elbow.
'He was murdered!' Branwood declared.
'Oh, yes,' Corbett continued. 'A dreadful death, gentlemen. Lecroix may have taken minutes to die. Once he was dead, the murderer slipped out of the shadows, took off the belt and quickly wrapped it round the corpse's waist. As the assassin was right-handed, the belt was fastened differently from the way Lecroix would have tied it. And who would notice it? Who would discover the hole in the belt or the weals round the arm? Or, if they did, put all these items together?' Corbett got to his feet and shook his head. 'I only realised this when I undid my own belt in the hall.'
'But why?' Roteboeuf leaned forward.
Corbett noticed the clerk's face was pallid and covered in a sheen of sweat.
'Why should anyone murder poor Lecroix?'
'For two reasons,' Ranulf intervened, winking at his master. 'Isn't it obvious, sirs? First, if Lecroix committed suicide it's only natural to draw the conclusion that he did so out of remorse for killing his master. Such a death would also hide the real truth.'
'Which is?' Branwood snapped.
'I know what Ranulf is going to say,' Corbett intervened. 'Lecroix brooded over his master's death. Perhaps he saw or remembered something amiss in that chamber and the murderer realised this. But what was it, eh?' Corbett stared round. 'Did the man say anything to anyone here?'
'He spoke to me,' Roteboeuf called from the shadows where he stood. 'He kept saying his master was a tidy man.'
'What did he mean?'
'I don't know. He just kept mumbling about how tidy his master was.'
'But he was not!' Ranulf almost shouted. 'I mean, this castle needs cleaning, painting…' His voice trailed off at the angry murmurs his words provoked.
'What Ranulf is saying,' Corbett tactfully added, 'is that the wolfshead's depredations unhinged Sir Eustace's mind. What is more important,' he continued briskly, 'is that Lecroix was murdered because he saw something which may have unmasked his master's assassin. And, on that, sirs,
P. J. Parrish
Sebastian Gregory
Danelle Harmon
Lily R. Mason
Philip Short
Tawny Weber
Caroline B. Cooney
Simon Kewin
Francesca Simon
Mary Ting