Read Online Hugh Corbett 17 - The Mysterium by Paul Doherty - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul Doherty
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the bolts, led them out again and pointed, ‘beyond the chapel, bushes and trees fringe the high wall of the abbey, lofty as that of Troy. On the outside it stands on a ramp of earth; its top is covered with sharp shards of tile and pottery. The wall has to be a good defence against the river along which flow the barges of wickedness oared by pirates and other river monsters.’ Cuthbert’s light blue eyes crinkled, Corbett glimpsed the intelligence and humour there. Brother Cuthbert was not just an old lay brother, but a clever man pretending to be distracted.
‘And your mastiff?’
‘Old Ogadon is not as fierce as he looks. He can tell friend from foe; he growls but would only roar at some footpad slipping through the night.’
Corbett smiled as Cuthbert led them back into the chapel and down the steps into the cellar. The tunnel was narrow, the timbered ceiling just above their heads. The first cell on the right, Cuthbert’s own, was neat and clean. High in one corner of its whitewashed walls was a vent that allowed in a crack of light. The chamber was sparsely furnished: a cot bed draped with a black coverlet edged with silver, a stool, a table, shelves over the bed holding pots, platters and jugs. Crucifixes were nailed against the walls; robes hung on pegs, and from beneath the table peeped a small wineskin. The next cell was a storeroom. The far one, its door leaning against the wall, had been Evesham’s. It was similar to Cuthbert’s, but the table, pushed against the wall, was heavily stained with the justice’s blood.
‘Soaked it must have been,’ Ranulf observed. ‘His throat was cut like a pig’s.’
They looked around. The coverlet and sheets on the bed had been removed, as had the jugs and pots from the shelf above it.
‘Any manuscripts?’ Corbett asked.
‘My guest was reading Boethius’ De Consolatione Philosophiae . It was lying on the bed so it was not stained with blood. Father Abbot had it taken back to the library.’
‘Any other possessions?’
‘Yes.’ Cuthbert scratched his head. ‘A ring or two, a cross on a chain. Abbot Serlo had them washed and sent back to Evesham’s widow.’
Corbett moved to examine the door and lintel.
‘Boethius!’ Ranulf remarked.
‘A suitable choice. The reflections of a minister who fell from power, though Boethius was innocent.’ Corbett turned and smiled. ‘Evesham certainly wasn’t, was he, Parson Tunstall?’
Cuthbert coloured slightly and glanced beyond Corbett as if staring at something else.
‘That will wait, that will wait,’ Corbett remarked and pushed by him to stare down at the table.
Ranulf was right. Evesham’s blood must have splattered out like water, staining the surface; even the two candlesticks standing at each corner were clotted with dried blood. Corbett took a stool, sat down and stared up at Brother Cuthbert.
‘Walter Evesham?’
Cuthbert glanced at Ranulf standing close to him. Corbett gestured with his head. Ranulf patted the lay brother on the shoulder and went to stand in the doorway, whilst Corbett indicated that Cuthbert sit on the end of the bed. The lay brother did so. Beads of sweat wetted his forehead, and the constant licking of lips showed his dryness. A wine toper perhaps? A man who drank to forget?
‘Walter Evesham?’ Corbett repeated.
‘He came here weeks ago. First he sheltered in the guesthouse, then for the last month here.’
‘At his request?’
‘I think so. Abbot Serlo decided it was for the best. You see,’ Cuthbert continued, ‘this is where all who desire a recluse’s life within the abbey come. To be sure,’ he laughed sharply, ‘a rare event. Sometimes one of the brothers simply wishes to be alone for a while.’
‘Did you talk with Evesham?’
‘Sir Hugh, you know I did, at least at the beginning. You’ve heard the story, or at least some of it. Evesham begged for my forgiveness, but if the root be tainted, so is the branch . . .’
‘What do you
‘And your mastiff?’
‘Old Ogadon is not as fierce as he looks. He can tell friend from foe; he growls but would only roar at some footpad slipping through the night.’
Corbett smiled as Cuthbert led them back into the chapel and down the steps into the cellar. The tunnel was narrow, the timbered ceiling just above their heads. The first cell on the right, Cuthbert’s own, was neat and clean. High in one corner of its whitewashed walls was a vent that allowed in a crack of light. The chamber was sparsely furnished: a cot bed draped with a black coverlet edged with silver, a stool, a table, shelves over the bed holding pots, platters and jugs. Crucifixes were nailed against the walls; robes hung on pegs, and from beneath the table peeped a small wineskin. The next cell was a storeroom. The far one, its door leaning against the wall, had been Evesham’s. It was similar to Cuthbert’s, but the table, pushed against the wall, was heavily stained with the justice’s blood.
‘Soaked it must have been,’ Ranulf observed. ‘His throat was cut like a pig’s.’
They looked around. The coverlet and sheets on the bed had been removed, as had the jugs and pots from the shelf above it.
‘Any manuscripts?’ Corbett asked.
‘My guest was reading Boethius’ De Consolatione Philosophiae . It was lying on the bed so it was not stained with blood. Father Abbot had it taken back to the library.’
‘Any other possessions?’
‘Yes.’ Cuthbert scratched his head. ‘A ring or two, a cross on a chain. Abbot Serlo had them washed and sent back to Evesham’s widow.’
Corbett moved to examine the door and lintel.
‘Boethius!’ Ranulf remarked.
‘A suitable choice. The reflections of a minister who fell from power, though Boethius was innocent.’ Corbett turned and smiled. ‘Evesham certainly wasn’t, was he, Parson Tunstall?’
Cuthbert coloured slightly and glanced beyond Corbett as if staring at something else.
‘That will wait, that will wait,’ Corbett remarked and pushed by him to stare down at the table.
Ranulf was right. Evesham’s blood must have splattered out like water, staining the surface; even the two candlesticks standing at each corner were clotted with dried blood. Corbett took a stool, sat down and stared up at Brother Cuthbert.
‘Walter Evesham?’
Cuthbert glanced at Ranulf standing close to him. Corbett gestured with his head. Ranulf patted the lay brother on the shoulder and went to stand in the doorway, whilst Corbett indicated that Cuthbert sit on the end of the bed. The lay brother did so. Beads of sweat wetted his forehead, and the constant licking of lips showed his dryness. A wine toper perhaps? A man who drank to forget?
‘Walter Evesham?’ Corbett repeated.
‘He came here weeks ago. First he sheltered in the guesthouse, then for the last month here.’
‘At his request?’
‘I think so. Abbot Serlo decided it was for the best. You see,’ Cuthbert continued, ‘this is where all who desire a recluse’s life within the abbey come. To be sure,’ he laughed sharply, ‘a rare event. Sometimes one of the brothers simply wishes to be alone for a while.’
‘Did you talk with Evesham?’
‘Sir Hugh, you know I did, at least at the beginning. You’ve heard the story, or at least some of it. Evesham begged for my forgiveness, but if the root be tainted, so is the branch . . .’
‘What do you
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