Read Online Hugh Corbett 13 - Corpse Candle by Paul Doherty - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paul Doherty
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souls along the corridors and galleries. They, too, reported that the brothers were friendly enough but they had learnt nothing from them. Corbett sent them back to the guesthouse and returned to the abbot’s chamber. Going through letters and books, he could find no clue, no reason why this saintly abbot’s life ended so brutally.
A servant came to announce that the requiem Mass was about to begin. Corbett joined the community in the great abbey church with its long nave and shadow-filled transepts, cut off from the sanctuary by an ornately carved rood screen. The lay brothers gathered here whilst the monks sat in their stalls. Prior Cuthbert entered, garbed in the magnificent pontificals for the mass of the dead: black and gold vestments. The Abbot’s coffin, draped in purple cloth of gold, lay in state on trestles before the high altar.
Corbett was lulled by the rise and fall of the plain chant, the solemn words of invocation as censors swung, sending up billowing clouds of perfumed incense. The sanctuary was ablaze with the light from tall purple candles. The clerk felt as though he was in another world. He was aware of statues, the faces of gargoyles peering down at him; of Father Prior and his concelebrants moving round the high altar, lifting chalice and host, interceding with God for the soul of their departed brother. He was chilled by the final, solemn invocation to the Archangels of heaven that they go out to meet the Abbot’s soul and not allow him to ‘fall into the hands of the enemy’. Corbett became acutely aware of his own mortality and recalled Maeve’s warning about tasks such as this, investigating sudden, mysterious death, hunting down the bloody-handed sons of Cain. He found it difficult to accept, in the midst of so much peace, that members of this community, participating in this sacred, gorgeous ceremony, could have planned, plotted and perpetrated this foul murder. Nevertheless, that was the conclusion Corbett had reached and he would have to stay here until it was resolved.
Corbett gazed up at the stained-glass windows of the sanctuary. Darkness was falling. He glanced over his shoulder back through the rood screen. The shadows in the nave were growing longer like extended, dark fingers stretching towards him. Were Maeve’s warnings relevant to this sacred place? Would he and his two companions escape unscathed? He turned back and watched Prior Cuthbert solemnly wave incense over the coffin. Corbett had hunted many an assassin and, although he accepted the serenity and harmony of St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh, he had his own premonitions that the Abbot’s murder was the flower of a hideous plant with deep, twisted roots.
Corbett had not shared such macabre thoughts with his companions but this abbey, with its shadow-filled corridors and galleries, its lonely fields and gardens was just as dangerous as any battlefield, or the alleys in Whitefriars or Southwark. Indeed, death had already struck and would be all the more surprising and sudden in any fresh assault. Corbett’s hand fell to the hilt of his dagger. He studied the brothers in their stalls and the three celebrants, Prior Cuthbert, Hamo and Aelfric. They seemed to ignore his presence but now and again a cowled head would turn and he would catch a furtive glance or a sharp look.
After the Mass was finished Corbett returned to the nave. He leaned against a pillar as the brothers lowered the coffin into a prepared pit just before the Lady Chapel. Corbett said his own prayers, crossed himself and left. He walked down to the guesthouse and found Ranulf and Chanson fast asleep. Corbett returned to his own chamber. For a while he lay on the bed reflecting on what he had heard and seen but nothing made any sense. He drifted into sleep and was awoken by the abbey bell tolling the Vespers for the Dead. Again he joined the brothers in the sanctuary, sitting on a stool just within the rood screen. This time he joined in the singing. Corbett
A servant came to announce that the requiem Mass was about to begin. Corbett joined the community in the great abbey church with its long nave and shadow-filled transepts, cut off from the sanctuary by an ornately carved rood screen. The lay brothers gathered here whilst the monks sat in their stalls. Prior Cuthbert entered, garbed in the magnificent pontificals for the mass of the dead: black and gold vestments. The Abbot’s coffin, draped in purple cloth of gold, lay in state on trestles before the high altar.
Corbett was lulled by the rise and fall of the plain chant, the solemn words of invocation as censors swung, sending up billowing clouds of perfumed incense. The sanctuary was ablaze with the light from tall purple candles. The clerk felt as though he was in another world. He was aware of statues, the faces of gargoyles peering down at him; of Father Prior and his concelebrants moving round the high altar, lifting chalice and host, interceding with God for the soul of their departed brother. He was chilled by the final, solemn invocation to the Archangels of heaven that they go out to meet the Abbot’s soul and not allow him to ‘fall into the hands of the enemy’. Corbett became acutely aware of his own mortality and recalled Maeve’s warning about tasks such as this, investigating sudden, mysterious death, hunting down the bloody-handed sons of Cain. He found it difficult to accept, in the midst of so much peace, that members of this community, participating in this sacred, gorgeous ceremony, could have planned, plotted and perpetrated this foul murder. Nevertheless, that was the conclusion Corbett had reached and he would have to stay here until it was resolved.
Corbett gazed up at the stained-glass windows of the sanctuary. Darkness was falling. He glanced over his shoulder back through the rood screen. The shadows in the nave were growing longer like extended, dark fingers stretching towards him. Were Maeve’s warnings relevant to this sacred place? Would he and his two companions escape unscathed? He turned back and watched Prior Cuthbert solemnly wave incense over the coffin. Corbett had hunted many an assassin and, although he accepted the serenity and harmony of St Martin’s-in-the-Marsh, he had his own premonitions that the Abbot’s murder was the flower of a hideous plant with deep, twisted roots.
Corbett had not shared such macabre thoughts with his companions but this abbey, with its shadow-filled corridors and galleries, its lonely fields and gardens was just as dangerous as any battlefield, or the alleys in Whitefriars or Southwark. Indeed, death had already struck and would be all the more surprising and sudden in any fresh assault. Corbett’s hand fell to the hilt of his dagger. He studied the brothers in their stalls and the three celebrants, Prior Cuthbert, Hamo and Aelfric. They seemed to ignore his presence but now and again a cowled head would turn and he would catch a furtive glance or a sharp look.
After the Mass was finished Corbett returned to the nave. He leaned against a pillar as the brothers lowered the coffin into a prepared pit just before the Lady Chapel. Corbett said his own prayers, crossed himself and left. He walked down to the guesthouse and found Ranulf and Chanson fast asleep. Corbett returned to his own chamber. For a while he lay on the bed reflecting on what he had heard and seen but nothing made any sense. He drifted into sleep and was awoken by the abbey bell tolling the Vespers for the Dead. Again he joined the brothers in the sanctuary, sitting on a stool just within the rood screen. This time he joined in the singing. Corbett