Hugh Corbett 06 - Murder Wears a Cowl by Paul Doherty

bell.’
    ‘Then what?’
    ‘There’s a small well amongst the trees. We brought buckets but the flames were fierce.’ The man pulled his lips down which made him look even more like a landed carp. ‘When the fire was out we examined the rooms. Father Benedict was lying just behind the door.’
    ‘He had a key in his hand?’
    ‘Yes, he did.’
    ‘Anything else untoward?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘And do you know how the fire started?’
    ‘Father Benedict was old, he may have dropped a candle, an oil lamp, or a spark from the fire could have been the cause.’
    ‘And you noticed nothing suspicious?’
    ‘No, nothing at all. I can’t tell you any more than that. Adam of Warfield would be of more help.’ With that the fellow turned and bolted like a rabbit who had suddenly seen a fox.
    Corbett looked at Cade, raised his eyebrows and went back through the postern gate into the abbey grounds, the under-sheriff laughing loudly at Ranulf’s mimicry of the steward’s accent and strange antics.
    Before them rose the great mass of the abbey church and its stone carvings: snarling gargoyles and visions of hell. Corbett studied the latter, fascinated by the horrors the sculptor had so subtly depicted. Beneath a triumphant Christ in Judgement, the damned were being led by ghastly demons to be cooked in a great vat of bubbling oil where devils poked the unfortunate lost souls with spears and swords like cooks would do when boiling pieces of meat. Corbett heard a noise and looked to his left across the great empty vastness of the old cemetery. The grass and hemp were almost a yard and a half high but Corbett glimpsed an old gardener doing his best to clean the area around the graves.
    ‘Sir,’ Corbett called out. ‘You have a task and a half there.’
    The man half turned and faced Corbett with watery eyes and dirt-stained cheeks.
    ‘Oh, aye,’ the gardener replied in a thick rustic accent, tapping a derelict headstone. ‘But my customers don’t object.’
    Corbett smiled and looked away at the great rounded buildings overlooking the cemetery.
    ‘Is that the Chapter House?’
    Cade nodded.
    ‘And the crypt lies beneath it?’
    ‘Yes.’
    Corbett studied the thick buttresses and heavy granite wall. ‘Tell me again, how the crypt can be entered.’
    ‘Well, behind the Chapter House,’ Cade said, ‘lies the cloister but the crypt can only be entered by a door in the south-east corner of the abbey church. As I have said, the door is sealed. Behind that door there’s a low vaulted passage which descends by a steep flight of steps. These steps are broken and, to get down into the crypt, where the treasure lies, special ladders have to be used.’ Cade narrowed his eyes. ‘I have already told you this so why the fresh interest?’
    ‘I am just thinking of Father Benedict’s cryptic message.’ He smiled at the pun. ‘I wondered if his warning was about the treasury? Perhaps he saw something?’
    Cade shook his head. ‘I doubt it. The treasury door is sealed, barred and locked, and even if you could get in, you would need siege equipment to reach the heart of the crypt. Moreover, I doubt if the good brothers would allow someone to climb out of their crypt with bags of treasure.’
    Corbett reluctantly agreed and they crossed the grounds towards the main abbey buildings. A bleary-eyed, shuffling lay brother took care of their horses, then led them down paved passageways to Adam of Warfield’s chamber. Corbett took an immediate dislike to the sacristan. He was tall, angular, very precise, and had a long crooked nose and a prim, pursed mouth. Corbett thought his eyes, under their shaggy brows, were shifty and uneasy. Warfield, however, made them welcome enough with dainty flutterings of his long boned fingers; he offered them ale and bread which Corbett refused, despite Ranulf’s mutterings. All three of them sat on a bench feeling rather awkward, like boys in a school room, with the sacristan perched opposite them on a