Read Online Hugh Corbett 17 - The Mysterium by Paul Doherty - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paul Doherty
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mind drifting back to St Botulph’s. He had ringed that church and secured the doors: the main one, the sacristy door, the north door and the corpse door. The windows were narrow and high. The tower, with its plastered walls winding steps and small enclaves, held no secrets. At the top, the crenellated platform provided only a dizzying drop to the steep slate roof below. So, how had Boniface Ippegrave escaped? How had he managed to disappear from such a close, fast place? Corbett paused to light tapers for his wife, for their two children, Edward and Eleanor, for himself and his two companions. By the time he had finished his Ave, the Jesus bell was ringing for the dawn Mass.
Afterwards Corbett and his two companions, laughing about Chanson’s singing, broke their fast over bowls of oatmeal at the ale table in the buttery before leaving the abbey precincts. The morning was dull. Clouds blocked the sun and a sharp breeze whipped their faces as they made their way out through the Galilee porch into Goose Meadow, which stretched down to the corpse chapel of St Lazarus. Already the brothers were filing out to the outlying fields and granges. Corbett heard their chanting, so strong on the morning breeze not even the cawing of a host of rooks could drown it. The grass was still frosty and wet, the feeding ground for a nearby warren of rabbits, who disappeared in darting flashes of brown and white. Ogadon, on guard outside the entrance of the chapel, close to the ledge beneath the bell, lumbered to his feet growling.
‘ Pax et Bonum ,’ called a voice. The old war hound collapsed, relieved that he didn’t have to exert himself, as Brother Cuthbert crept out of the door. A tall, angular figure in his shabby Benedictine robe, a grey cord around his waist, stout sandals on his feet, his long neck and small, pert face gave him a bird-like look, heightened by the stiff movements of his arms, hands and legs. Corbett suspected the lay brother suffered severe inflammation of the joints. Cuthbert was old, his white hair shorn on three sides; the little on his pate displaying the tonsure. He was cheerful and welcoming enough, nodding quietly as Corbett introduced his companions, watery blue eyes crinkling in amusement when Corbett expressed regret at the death of Lord Evesham.
‘You’d best come down to the pit of hell,’ he said sardonically. ‘My humble abode below.’
Corbett pointed to the snoring Ogadon. ‘Brother, on the night Evesham was murdered?’
‘The same as every night,’ Cuthbert replied. ‘Compline is sung. My lord abbot has excused me from that, as there are usually corpses to be washed or a recluse to be cared for. Anyway, once it is over,’ he continued so breathlessly Corbett wondered if the man’s wits were sound, ‘a servant brings me a goblet of wine and a platter of food from the buttery. My other guests,’ he gestured over his shoulder, ‘are past all sustenance.’
‘And Walter Evesham?’
‘He had his own food brought, though much earlier than mine: a goblet of wine and a platter. The servant puts the tray on the ledge and . . .’ Cuthbert pulled at the rope and glanced up as the bell clanged. ‘You see, not everyone likes to enter a death house,’ he whispered. ‘I go up, collect the tray, then bolt the door from inside.’
‘You secured the door?’ Corbett exclaimed.
‘Yes, yes, come in, come in.’
Corbett and Ranulf followed Cuthbert into the corpse chapel. The lay brother slammed the door shut and drew across the iron bolts at top and bottom. Corbett stared around. It was a truly chilling place now the light had faded. Shadows and shapes flittered around the macabre bundles on the mortuary tables. The only light came from the windows along one wall, nothing more than narrow apertures, their shutters flung back.
‘I close the shutters and bolt the door,’ Brother Cuthbert continued conversationally, ‘then I am fastened in for the night. You see, Domine,’ he drew back
Afterwards Corbett and his two companions, laughing about Chanson’s singing, broke their fast over bowls of oatmeal at the ale table in the buttery before leaving the abbey precincts. The morning was dull. Clouds blocked the sun and a sharp breeze whipped their faces as they made their way out through the Galilee porch into Goose Meadow, which stretched down to the corpse chapel of St Lazarus. Already the brothers were filing out to the outlying fields and granges. Corbett heard their chanting, so strong on the morning breeze not even the cawing of a host of rooks could drown it. The grass was still frosty and wet, the feeding ground for a nearby warren of rabbits, who disappeared in darting flashes of brown and white. Ogadon, on guard outside the entrance of the chapel, close to the ledge beneath the bell, lumbered to his feet growling.
‘ Pax et Bonum ,’ called a voice. The old war hound collapsed, relieved that he didn’t have to exert himself, as Brother Cuthbert crept out of the door. A tall, angular figure in his shabby Benedictine robe, a grey cord around his waist, stout sandals on his feet, his long neck and small, pert face gave him a bird-like look, heightened by the stiff movements of his arms, hands and legs. Corbett suspected the lay brother suffered severe inflammation of the joints. Cuthbert was old, his white hair shorn on three sides; the little on his pate displaying the tonsure. He was cheerful and welcoming enough, nodding quietly as Corbett introduced his companions, watery blue eyes crinkling in amusement when Corbett expressed regret at the death of Lord Evesham.
‘You’d best come down to the pit of hell,’ he said sardonically. ‘My humble abode below.’
Corbett pointed to the snoring Ogadon. ‘Brother, on the night Evesham was murdered?’
‘The same as every night,’ Cuthbert replied. ‘Compline is sung. My lord abbot has excused me from that, as there are usually corpses to be washed or a recluse to be cared for. Anyway, once it is over,’ he continued so breathlessly Corbett wondered if the man’s wits were sound, ‘a servant brings me a goblet of wine and a platter of food from the buttery. My other guests,’ he gestured over his shoulder, ‘are past all sustenance.’
‘And Walter Evesham?’
‘He had his own food brought, though much earlier than mine: a goblet of wine and a platter. The servant puts the tray on the ledge and . . .’ Cuthbert pulled at the rope and glanced up as the bell clanged. ‘You see, not everyone likes to enter a death house,’ he whispered. ‘I go up, collect the tray, then bolt the door from inside.’
‘You secured the door?’ Corbett exclaimed.
‘Yes, yes, come in, come in.’
Corbett and Ranulf followed Cuthbert into the corpse chapel. The lay brother slammed the door shut and drew across the iron bolts at top and bottom. Corbett stared around. It was a truly chilling place now the light had faded. Shadows and shapes flittered around the macabre bundles on the mortuary tables. The only light came from the windows along one wall, nothing more than narrow apertures, their shutters flung back.
‘I close the shutters and bolt the door,’ Brother Cuthbert continued conversationally, ‘then I am fastened in for the night. You see, Domine,’ he drew back
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