Hugh Corbett 06 - Murder Wears a Cowl by Paul Doherty Page A

high stool, hiding his hands in the voluminous sleeves of his brown robe. Too composed, Corbett thought, too placid: not the sort of man you would put in charge of a great abbey. At first their conversation was desultory; Corbett asked after the old abbot who was virtually bed-ridden and expressed his condolences at the recent death of Prior Roger. Adam of Warfield seemed unmoved.
    ‘We have sent word to Rome,’ he rasped. ‘But we have not yet received the authority to hold fresh elections for a new prior.’ He smiled deprecatingly. ‘But I do what I can.’
    ‘I’m sure you do!’ Corbett replied.
    He could hardly abide the sanctimonious smile on the man’s face so he stared round the austere chamber with its few sticks of paltry furniture. He sensed Warfield was a hypocrite, noticed the crumbs of fine sugar on the monk’s dark robe and glimpsed the rim stain left by a wine goblet on the table. The clerk was sure that this monk liked his stomach as much as the priest at St Lawrence Jewry did his.
    ‘Father Benedict’s death?’ he asked abruptly.
    Adam of Warfield stiffened. ‘I have told Master Cade already,’ the monk whined. ‘We were roused from our dormitory by Master William, the palace steward. We did what we could but the house was gutted by flames.’
    ‘Don’t you think it was strange,’ Corbett continued, ‘that on the day Father Benedict died, he sent a message to Cade saying something terrible, something quite blasphemous, was happening? I ask you now, Adam of Warfield, what is happening in the King’s abbey which so disturbed that old, saintly priest?’
    The sacristan let out a deep breath. Corbett caught the stench of wine fumes.
    ‘Our Lord the King,’ Corbett continued, ‘had a deep love of Father Benedict and whatever was worrying him now intrigues me. Believe me, I will satisfy my curiosity.’
    The sacristan was now agitated, his fingers fluttering above his brown robe. ‘Father Benedict was old,’ he stammered. ‘He imagined things.’
    He strained his scrawny neck and Corbett suddenly noticed the faded purple mark on the right side of the sacristan’s throat. How, Corbett wondered, did an ordained priest and monk of Westminster get a love bite on his neck? He looked again and was sure the mark was not some cut or graze caused by shaving. Corbett rose and stared through the small, diamond-shaped window.
    ‘The Sisters of St Martha, Brother Adam, what do you know of them?’
    ‘They are a devoted and devout group of ladies who meet in our Chapter House every afternoon. They pray, they do good works, especially amongst the whores and prostitutes of the city.’
    ‘You support their work?’
    ‘Of course I do!’
    Corbett half turned. ‘Were you shocked by Lady Somerville’s death?’
    ‘Naturally!’
    ‘I understand she did work in the laundry? What work, exactly?’ Corbett peered over his shoulder at the sacristan and noticed how pale the man’s face had become. Were there beads of sweat on his forehead? Corbett wondered.
    ‘Lady Somerville washed and took particular care of altar cloths, napkins, vestments and other liturgical cloths as well as the brothers’ robes.’
    ‘Do you know what Lady Somerville meant by the phrase “ Cacullus non facit monachum ”?’
    ‘The cowl does not make the monk?’ The sacristan smiled thinly. ‘It’s a phrase often used by our enemies who claim there’s more to being a monk than wearing a certain habit.’
    ‘Is that so?’ Ranulf spoke up. ‘And would you agree, Brother?’
    Warfield threw him a look of contempt, and Corbett drummed his fingers on the window sill.
    ‘So you don’t know what she was referring to?’
    ‘No, my relationship with the Sisters of St Martha is negligible. I have enough matters in hand. Sometimes I meet them in the Chapter House but that is all.’
    ‘Well, well, well!’ Corbett walked back to the bench. ‘Nobody at Westminster seems to know anything. Am I right, dear Brother? Well, I wish