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guard around the hall and in its courtyard. No one could hurt them here.’
    ‘You could have moved them elsewhere: the castle?’
    ‘No, no!’ Castledene shook his head. ‘Paulents was very determined on that. He believed he was safe under my protection. Maubisson is on the Dover Road, close to Canterbury, and can be easily guarded.’
    ‘And how was that arranged?’
    ‘Furnishings were brought in.’ Castledene gestured around. ‘Food and provisions. The guards were always here. Nothing untoward happened. Paulents arrived late yesterday morning. I and Physician Desroches greeted him and his family. We brought them in here and housed them securely. I took Paulents around the manor, showing him where things were. Desroches then left, and I followed soon afterwards.’
    ‘And yet,’ Corbett declared, ‘within hours Paulents and his family were brutally murdered. But how? That provokes further mystery. Paulents was not an old man; he was strong, so was his wife, his son, even the maid; yet no one resisted. No one raised the alarm. How could anyone have got in here and hanged all four without being detected?’

Chapter 3
    Quod non vertat iniquia dies .
And so it comes, the wicked day.
    Rabanus Maurus
    Corbett scratched his chin, trying to ignore the cold, prickling fear in his stomach. He felt heavy-eyed, repelled by the lurking menace of this desolate manor house, now reeking of a mysterious malevolence.
    ‘There’s Servinus,’ Castledene remarked, ‘the bodyguard: a tall, burly man, head all shaven, dressed in black leather and armed to the teeth.’
    ‘Did Paulents trust him?’
    ‘Yes, Servinus had worked for at least a year in his household: a Brandenburger, a mercenary who’d fought with the Teutonic knights. Servinus was sober and taciturn; he’d stare at you but hardly speak, a shadow who knew his place. He too had suffered from the rough crossing, complaining in broken English about the sea salt getting everywhere. He seemed pleased to be here, satisfied with this house, calling it a “donjon” – a place of safety.’
    ‘So where is he now?’ Corbett wondered aloud. ‘Is he the killer? Did he flee? But how? Why? A Brandenburger, a foreigner in Canterbury in the depth of winter, would find it difficult to hide.’ Corbett moved restlessly. ‘And how could he kill four people so silently and escape so easily from what he himself called a donjon?’
    ‘I have issued a description . . .’ Castledene murmured, his voice trailing off.
    ‘Let’s return to the obvious,’ Corbett insisted. ‘We know that Blackstock had a half-brother. We know that you sailed down the Orwell to the Hermitage with Blackstock’s corpse dangling by the neck from the poop of The Caltrop . This must be Hubert’s vengeance. Paulents hanged his brother, so he has now hanged Paulents’ family.’
    ‘But why? I mean why now?’
    Corbett shook his head, picked up the Cloister Map and stared at it. ‘I’ll try and decipher this, discover what the truth is. For the moment, let us return downstairs.’
    They left the chamber, going down the rickety wooden staircase into the kitchen and buttery, then back into the hall. Parson Warfeld, a rubicund, smooth-faced man, was busy amongst the corpses. He’d brought a boy holding a taper and was now anointing the corpses with holy oil, dabbing their heads, eyes, lips, chests, hands and feet whilst he whispered the sacred words, urging the souls of the dead to go out and be greeted by the angels. Another man was sitting in the throne-like chair behind the dais. Castledene took Corbett over and introduced Peter Desroches, the city physician, former scholar of Salerno and Montpellier. Desroches was of medium height, thick-set, with blond hair neatly cropped above a pleasant, smiling face. He was dressed in a dark blue serge tunic gathered around his waist by a silver cord; precious rings winked on his fingers as did a bracelet about his wrist. He was clean-shaven, fresh-faced, eyes