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

to see three things: first, Father Benedict’s house; secondly, the door to the crypt and, finally, the Sisters of St Martha. You say they meet every afternoon?’
    The sacristan nodded.
    ‘Then, my dear Brother, let’s go. Let’s begin.’
    They walked out of the abbey buildings, Warfield leading them through overgrown gardens into a small orchard.
    ‘What has happened here?’ Ranulf whispered loudly. ‘This is the King’s abbey, the King’s house, yet nothing has been attended to.’
    ‘The fault is really the King’s,’ Corbett murmured. ‘He is too busy in Scotland to press Pope Boniface for the right to hold elections. He has withdrawn his household from Westminster; his treasury has no money to pay masons or gardeners. I do not think he knows how bad the situation is. When this matter is over, he will be enlightened.’
    ‘And the others don’t care,’ Cade added. ‘Our wealthy burgesses regard Westminster as a village, whilst the bishops of Canterbury and London are only too happy to see it decline.’
    The orchard thinned and before them, in a small enclosure with its fence broken down, stood the blackened ruins of Father Benedict’s house. Corbett walked slowly around the building. It had not been built with wattle and daub but bricks quarried by the stone cutters, otherwise it would have been reduced to a smouldering heap. Corbett studied the wooden-framed window high in the wall, well over two yards above the vegetable garden.
    ‘That is the only window?’ he remarked.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And was the roof thatched, or tiled?’
    ‘Oh, tiled with red slate.’
    Corbett walked up to the front door which still hung askew on its steel hinges. The door was oaken, about two inches thick and reinforced with steel strips.
    ‘And was there only one door?’
    ‘Yes! Yes!’
    Corbett pushed it to one side and they entered the blackened, ruined house, wrinkling their noses at the stench of burnt wood and stale smoke. The inside of the building had been totally gutted, the white-washed walls blackened and scorched. The stone hearth at the far end had been reduced to crumbling brick.
    ‘A simple place,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Father Benedict’s bed must have been in the far corner? Next to the hearth? Yes?’
    Warfield nodded.
    ‘He probably ate, slept and studied here?’
    ‘Yes, Master Corbett, there was only one room.’
    ‘And on the floor?’
    ‘Probably rushes.’
    Corbett walked over to the near corner and sifted amongst the ashes on the floor. He pulled up a few strands and rubbed them between his fingers; yes, they were rushes and had probably been very dry and would have soon caught fire.
    Corbett walked into the centre of the room and stared at the wall underneath the window, where the fire had burnt fiercely, turning the wooden window frame into black feathery ash; the flames had gouged deep black marks on the wall and reduced everything on the floor to a powdery dust. Corbett walked over to the hearth and to the remains of the wooden bed. He stood for a while, ignoring the impatient mutterings of his companions, and scraped his boot amongst the ashes.
    ‘Bring me a stick, Ranulf!’
    The manservant hurried out to the orchard and brought back a long piece of yew which he pruned with his dagger. Corbett began to sift amongst the ashes, digging at the packed earth, concentrating on a line which ran directly from the window; then he went over to where they stood near the door.
    ‘Father Benedict was murdered,’ he announced.
    The sacristan gasped.
    ‘Oh, yes, Brother Adam. Tell me again what happened when you tried to douse the flames?’
    ‘Well, we couldn’t get near the door, the heat was so intense. We threw buckets of water at the walls and through the window. It was the only thing we could do.’
    ‘And then?’
    ‘Well, the flames died and we forced the door.’
    ‘It was still locked?’
    ‘Oh, yes, but loose on its hinges.’
    ‘And you found the half-burnt body of Father