"Assassin in the Greenwood" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doherty Paul)

Chapter 1

'Murder, Sir Peter, that's why the King has sent me north!'

Sir Hugh Corbett, Keeper of the King's Secret Seal, stared across the table at Sir Peter Branwood, under-sheriff of Nottingham, now acting-sheriff after the mysterious murder of Sir Eustace Vechey. Corbett propped his elbows on the table and ticked off the points on his fingers.

'The outlaw Robin Hood has reneged on his pardon. He has re-formed his coven of outlaws and wolvesheads and taken refuge in Sherwood Forest. From there he has attacked merchants, pilgrims, and finally royal tax-collectors. He has pillaged and plundered. Now he has murdered the King's officer in these parts! That, Sir Peter, is why I am here!'

The smooth-faced Branwood never flinched. He leaned his head on his hand and scratched his close-cropped dark hair.

'And you, Sir Hugh,' he said slowly, 'must realise that I would gain great personal satisfaction from capturing this malefactor. He has murdered my friend Sir Eustace, injured and killed retainers and officials from this castle. He hampers our administration. He has even attacked and pillaged my manor outside Newark on Trent, burning my barns and slaughtering my cattle.' Branwood licked his lips. 'He has brought my name into mockery and continues to harass and revile my office as well as the Crown.' He got up and went to look through one of the arrow-slit windows. 'Just look out there, Sir Hugh.' Corbett rose to join him.

'You see the castle and town walls – and what else?' 'Forest,' replied Corbett.

'Yes,' sighed Branwood. 'Forest! Are you a hunting man, Corbett?' He did not wait for a reply. 'Go in there as I have with mounted men, and within a bowshot of leaving the path you will be in a darkness so dense not even the brightest sun above can diminish it. Chase a deer and you'll find your skills hard pressed. Hunt an outlaw and you finish up hunting death itself.' Branwood walked away from the window. 'In Sherwood, Master Clerk, it is very easy for the hunter to become the hunted.' He rubbed his hands on his dark green gown and re-hitched the sword belt round his slim waist. 'The soldiers you take with you,' he continued, 'cannot be trusted. Some may well be in the pay of Robin Hood.'

He caught the disbelieving expression on Corbett's face.

'Oh, yes, there are sympathisers even here. How else did Robin Hood gain access to murder Eustace Vechey? This God-forsaken town and castle are built on a crag with as many secret tunnels and passageways as you'd find in a rabbit warren. Some of the tunnels reach the forest itself.' Branwood paused. 'Now let us say you do trust the soldiers,' he continued. 'Once in that forest, their mood changes. They are superstitious and fear the place. They still believe the small dark people live there who might cast spells and carry them off to Elfin Land. Three days ago…' He turned and pointed to his burly serjeant-at-arms, seated at the table. 'You tell him, Naylor.'

The serjeant-at-arms stirred; his black leather jerkin studded with steel points creaked as he moved his arms. His craggy face and balding head reminded Corbett of a piece of stone brought to life only by sharp, restless eyes.

'As Sir Peter says, we went into the forest.' The soldier glared coldly at Corbett. 'Within a quarter of an hour, the time it would take a man to snatch a meal, two of my soldiers were missing. Neither horses nor riders have been seen since. The following day Robin Hood himself entered Nottingham and impudently pinned a rhyming ballad on one of the postern gates of the castle about how Sir Eustace Vechey was well named – being useless as a sheriff as well as a man!'

Naylor's eyes moved from Corbett to the clerk's two servants, Ranulf-atte-Newgate and Maltote the messenger, who sat quietly at the end of the table.

'And how,' he sneered, 'does His Grace the King think a clerk and two manservants will resolve all this?'

'I don't know,' Corbett replied slowly. 'God knows, the King's mind is taken up with the French threat against Flanders but he cannot have his tax-collectors and soldiers hanged like barnyard rats and his sheriff mysteriously murdered.' Corbett spoke to Branwood. 'When did these attacks begin?'

'About six months ago.'

'And the robbery and murder of the tax-collectors?'

'Three weeks ago. A peasant found Willoughby wandering witless in the forest and brought him in.'

Corbett nodded and looked away. He had seen Willoughby in London. He would never forget that meeting. The once proud exchequer clerk was reduced to a shambling wreck. Dirty, dishevelled and ill-clad, Willoughby simply stared at his mutilated hand and recounted time and again how his companions had died. The King's anger had boiled over at the sight and Corbett had been forced to witness Edward in one of his black rages. He kicked furniture over, pounded on walls till his fists were bloodied, scattered papers from his table and dragged hangings from their hooks. Even the royal greyhounds had the sense to cower and hide. Corbett had effaced himself until the royal rage abated.

'Am I the King?' Edward roared. 'To be made a mockery of in my own kingdom? You will go north, Corbett, you understand? You will go to bloody Nottingham and see Robin Hood hang!'

So Corbett had come to Nottingham. He bore the King's message of angry disapproval to the sheriff Sir Eustace Vechey but, on his arrival at the castle, discovered Vechey had been poisoned in his own chamber.

'Tell me again,' Corbett said, breaking free from his reverie, 'how Sir Eustace died.'

'Sir Eustace,' Branwood began slowly, 'was in the blackest pit of depression. On Wednesday evening he dined here in the hall. He hardly spoke. He ate sparingly though he drank well. At last he got to his feet, said he was retiring early and, followed by Lecroix his manservant, took a goblet of wine up to his chamber. Vechey slept in a great four-poster bed, Lecroix on a pallet in a corner of the same chamber.'

'Was there any food in the room?'

Branwood made a face. 'A little. A plate of sweetmeats, and of course the cup of wine. However, when Vechey's corpse was discovered, Physician Maigret tasted both the sweetmeats and what was left of the wine. Both were found to be harmless.'

'Did anyone visit him in the night?'

'No. Vechey locked his chamber door, leaving the key in the lock. Two soldiers stood guard outside, Vechey's personal retainers. No one came near that chamber.'

'You talked of secret passageways?'

'Oh, they may exist under the castle but Sir Eustace's chamber is on the floor above. Not even a rat could squeeze in there.'

'And the windows?'

'As here, mere arrow slits.'

'So,' mused Corbett, 'a man is poisoned in a locked chamber. No one entered, no one could force their way through a window and there are no secret passageways. And you say he only ate and drank what you did?'

Branwood snorted. 'Even better. He made myself, Lecroix, and Physician Maigret taste everything before he did. You see, Sir Eustace had nightmares about Robin Hood. He believed the outlaw wanted him dead, if not by an arrow or dagger then by poison.'

Corbett shook his head and went back to the table.

'So this man leaves the table in good health. He takes a goblet of wine upstairs, perhaps eats a sweetmeat, yet neither of these was tainted?'

'Yes,' Branwood said softly. 'Go to the chamber yourself, Master Clerk. Naturally Sir Eustace's corpse has been removed, but on my orders and those of Physician Maigret, nothing else. The wine and sweetmeats – everything is still there.'

'I would like to question the servant Lecroix.'

'He will be found for you but is surely not responsible,' Branwood explained. 'Lecroix is simple-minded and deeply loved his master.'

Ranulf-atte-Newgate spoke up clearly, tired of the way Naylor was glaring at him. 'But you said, Sir Peter, that Lecroix slept in the same chamber. Surely Sir Eustace Vechey's death throes would have woken him?'

Branwood shrugged. 'Vechey had drunk deep, as had Lecroix. The fellow sleeps like a log. And according to Physician Maigret, certain noxious potions can kill quietly and swiftly.'

Corbett rubbed his face and walked over to the window, drawn there by a clamour from the castle bailey below. He stared down at the small crowd of retainers who had gathered round a makeshift execution platform on which a red-masked headsman was standing. Corbett stood transfixed as a man was hustled up the steps, hands bound behind his back. His head was thrust down on the block, the axe rose, glinting in the sunlight, and fell with a loud thud. Corbett flinched and looked away as hot blood spurted in a curving arc. 'Master, what is it?'

Ranulf and Maltote left the table and peered over Corbett's shoulder.

'See,' Ranulf whispered to Maltote, 'the eyes still flutter and the lips are moving.'

The round-faced Maltote, who could not stand the sight of blood, his or anyone else's, briskly walked away, praying not to faint. Corbett looked at the sheriff.

'A bloody business, Sir Peter?'

'No, a lesson,' Branwood replied, toying with a ring on his slim brown hand.

Corbett flinched as the axe fell again. He caught the glint of amusement in Branwood's eyes.

'What is happening?' Corbett jerked his head towards the window.

'You are a visitor to Nottingham, Sir Hugh. There's an outbreak of plague in the city.'

Corbett shivered and turned away. Thank God, he thought, he hadn't brought Maeve and baby Eleanor here.

'A house in Castle Street,' Branwood explained, 'was taken by the plague and a group of night watchmen, in accordance with city regulations, had the place shut up, marking the door and windows with crosses.'

Corbett breathed a prayer; if the plague visited any house, all the occupants suffered.

'Anyway,' continued Branwood, 'a man, his wife, a girl, a boy, and two servants were declared dead. The corpses were to be removed to the lime pits outside the city gates. Now usually everyone stays away in these cases but this time an inquisitive relative, braver than the rest, came to pay his last respects. He hid in the shadows and, when one of the corpses was dragged out, saw the head roll to one side. The throat had been cut.' Branwood nodded at the window. 'The night watchmen were murderers. They'd killed the entire family and plundered the house. Now they pay the price, to the King and to God.'

Corbett walked back to the table, trying to close his mind to the repetitive thuds followed by murmurs from the small crowd of spectators.

'I need to inspect Sir Eustace's corpse,' he demanded.

'It's been moved.' Branwood shrugged. 'Because of the heat. To a death house in a garden near the postern gate.'

'No time like the present,' Corbett replied briskly. 'Sir Peter, you'll show us the way?' The under-sheriff led them out, Naylor, Ranulf and Maltote following. Corbett looked carefully around. For a royal castle Nottingham was painfully neglected. The paint on the walls was mouldy and flaking; the paving stones underfoot uneven, damp and cracked. Branwood led them through a dirty kitchen. The walls were spattered with traces of meals long past whilst bloated flies buzzed lazily over pools of blood as a sweating cook and his grimy-faced scullions hacked at a chunk of beef. Corbett glimpsed a tub of dirty water covered in scum. He swallowed and quietly vowed he would be careful what he ate here. They crossed an empty yard, passed down more passageways and into a small garden. Perhaps under previous sheriffs it had been a bower, but now the chipped statue in the centre was almost hidden by a wild tangle of brambles and weeds.

'Better care should be taken,' Ranulf murmured.

'We are King's officers not gardeners!' Branwood snapped. 'And, thanks to Robin Hood, poor Vechey could hardly take care of himself.'

They fought their way through the high grass and gorse to a small stone building with a flat roof whose cracked door hung askew on leather hinges. Branwood pulled it back and waved Corbett in. The stench was so pungent he pinched his nostrils.

'Today is Friday,' he muttered to himself. 'Vechey died late on Wednesday evening.'

He stared round, took a thick tallow candle left just inside the door, struck a tinder and moved deeper into the darkness. Ranulf and Maltote wisely stayed outside. The dead sheriff's body had been laid on the floor, a dirty linen sheet flung over it.

'I am sorry,' Branwood called in through the half-open door, 'but we knew you were coming, Master Corbett, and Physician Maigret told us not to dress the corpse until you had inspected it.'

Corbett pulled back the fetid sheet and tried not to think or reflect. If he did so he would gag or retch. Vechey had been middle-aged, balding, a slightly podgy man though the stomach was even more swollen with the trapped gases. The eyes were still half-open. Corbett tried not to look at them but examined the lips which had turned a purple hue, particularly the open sores at each side of the mouth. In his earlier days the clerk had performed military service in Wales and knew enough physic to conclude that such blotches were the result of poor diet, too much meat and very little fruit. He carefully scrutinised the dead man's fingers and nails but noticed nothing untoward except that the skin of Vechey's hand felt like wet wool. Corbett sighed, pulled back the sheet, blew out the candle and walked back into the garden.

'Does Sir Eustace have any family?'

'He has a son in the King's army in Scotland and a daughter married to some Cornish knight; he was a widower. His remains will probably be interred in one of the city churches until Sir Eustace's son declares his intentions.'

'You can take him away,' Corbett murmured. 'God knows that body has suffered enough!'

Naylor rejoined them, marching purposefully through the long grass. He seemed more friendly and grinned at Corbett.

'They are all ready. I've summoned them to the hall,' he announced.

Ranulf, sitting on a stone wall sunning himself, squinted up at this serjeant-at-arms against whom he had taken an instant dislike. 'Who is ready?' he asked.

Before he received an answer, three others came through the garden: a friar, small, balding and brown as a berry, his face glistening, eyes almost lost in rolls of fat. Beside him was a young clerk, with thick hair cut painfully short. He was dressed in a fustian knee-length sleeveless jupon. Underneath his jerkin was of padded silk with slashed sleeves, and on his dark head sat a small tasselled skull cap. A clerk, Corbett thought, but a fop. Nevertheless, he liked the fellow with his boyish face and laughing eyes. Beside him stood a severe figure with steel-grey hair and a long white face, his chin deeply cleft. He was dressed in a blue quilted gown, fringed at the neck and cuff with dyed black lambswool, which almost hid his spindly legs. Branwood waved them over.

'Sir Hugh Corbett, may I introduce three members of my household. Friar Thomas, my clerk Roteboeuf, and Physician Maigret.'

Hands were clasped and shaken, Corbett introducing Ranulf and Maltote. He glared as Ranulf winked fleetingly at his fellow. Corbett knew his manservant was already poking fun at the young clerk's name which, translated from the Norman French, meant 'Roast Beef. The quick-witted young man caught the exchange of grins.

'My name,' he laughed loudly, 'indicates my origins but not the quality of meals received here in the castle.'

The murmur of laughter, shared by all except Maigret and the sombre-faced Naylor, was halted by Branwood putting up his hands and loudly declaring, 'Sirs, we have problems enough but, I assure you, either the cook changes his ways or he goes!'

'Who knows?' Roteboeuf quipped. 'Sir Eustace, God rest him, may have been poisoned by his own cook.'

'He would not have died so quickly,' Maigret snapped, his eyes flickering with annoyance as he scratched the tip of his nose. 'Sir Eustace was murdered. And you, Sir Peter, had a narrow escape.'

Corbett glimpsed the annoyance on Branwood's saturnine face.

'What does the physician mean, Sir Peter?'

'The night Sir Eustace died, we had been dining at table in the hall. I left after Sir Eustace. Later I returned for a half-finished cup of wine. I drank it but the taste was acrid so I threw it away. After I retired I began to retch and vomit. I spent the night in the latrines. My bowels had turned to water.' Sir Peter cleared his throat. 'The next morning I felt weak. I thought it was something I had eaten until Sir Eustace's corpse was found when I consulted Physician Maigret.'

'He had been poisoned,' the doctor declared triumphantly, as if daring anyone to contradict him.

'With what?' Corbett asked.

'I don't know, but if Sir Peter had finished that cup of wine he would surely have died. I told him to fast for twenty-four hours and drink as much water from the castle well as possible.'

Corbett stared round the group. 'You did say someone was waiting for us?'

'Ah, yes, the two guards and Lecroix are in the small hall.'

'The same two who guarded Sir Eustace's chamber?' 'Of course.'

'Then we had better not keep them waiting. And I would like everyone,' Corbett continued, 'to be present at the interrogation.'

They went back into the castle and into the small hall. Corbett noticed this too shared the general air of decay which hung over the whole castle. A dirty, flagstoned room, its narrow windows were protected by wooden shutters or a few glazed with horn. Along the hammer-beam roof Corbett glimpsed huge cobwebs and on the dirty white-washed walls hung dusty shields bearing the faded escutcheons of former sheriffs. The fireplace was battered and the grate still full of last winter's ash. There were no carpets or rugs on the floor which was instead thickly covered with lime. There were two wall seats covered in cushions but these were ragged and faded. There was very little in the way of furniture except two grease-covered trestle tables on the dais as well as a number of makeshift benches and stools. On one bench, pushed against the wall, sat three lack-lustre figures. They stood up as Corbett entered. The two guards looked morose and greasy-haired, while Lecroix, skull-faced under a mop of tousled black hair, was rather obese with an unkempt moustache and beard to hide his hare lip.

'Let us make ourselves comfortable,' Branwood suggested.

Benches and stools were moved into a horseshoe pattern, everyone self-consciously taking their seats as Sir Peter once again introduced Corbett.

'Sir Peter,' he began briskly, trying to dispel the tension, 'tell me once again what happened on the night Sir Eustace died.'

'We all gathered here. The food was rancid as usual. The cook said it was roast pork but it was wet, soggy and tasted of salt.'

This drew a snigger from his companions.

'Some of us drank ale, others wine.' Sir Peter stroked his chin, trying to remember. 'There was a dish of vegetables and some marchpane.'

'And nothing happened at the meal?' asked Corbett.

'Those who were hungry ate, then as usual we sat about talking.'

'Sir Eustace included?' 'Yes.'

'For how long?'

Corbett studied the faces of the rest of Branwood's household; from their expressions he deduced the sheriff was telling the truth.

'Oh, about an hour and a half, then we went to bed.'

'And what happened next?'

'I was up early the next morning. As I have explained, I had been unwell all night,' Branwood continued. 'I attended mass and came down here to break my fast. I expected Sir Eustace to be here. When he wasn't, I went up to his chamber and asked the two guards if he had risen.'

They shook their heads as if anticipating Corbett's question.

'We never hears anything,' one of them replied in a thick country accent. 'We hears nothing so Sir Peter bangs on the door.'

'And then what?'

Lecroix pulled himself out of his reverie. 'I woke up,' he muttered. 'You see, sir, I am a heavy sleeper.'

'More like a heavy drinker!' snapped Maigret.

'I had drunk deeply,' Lecroix cried, 'but I was tired!'

Corbett watched him carefully. He noticed the man's flickering eyes, the drool of saliva down his tangled beard. This man is not full in his wits, he thought, the mind of a child in the body of a man.

'Master Lecroix,' he said softly, 'no one is accusing you. Just tell me what happened.'

'I was asleep on the trestle bed on the other side of the chamber. I always sleep there. Sir Peter's loud knocking woke me up and made my head even more sore. I went across to Sir Eustace's bed to pull back the heavy drapes. He was just lying there.' Lecroix's lower lip began to tremble and his eyes filled with tears.

'Continue,' Corbett said quietly.

'I knew there was something wrong. My master's body was twisted, his face turned to one side and his mouth open. His eyes were staring. They reminded me of a dog I had seen crushed by a cart.' Lecroix put his head in his hands. 'Sir Peter was still knocking and my head was hurting so I went and unlocked the door.'

'And you went in, Sir Peter?' Corbett asked.

'We all did,' the sheriff explained. 'I sent one of the guards here down to the hall. Naylor, Roteboeuf, and of course Physician Maigret joined me.'

'When I went in,' Maigret explained, 'Lecroix was kneeling by the bed weeping.' He patted the servant on the shoulder. 'He was devoted to his master. One of the bed curtains had been pulled aside and it was as Lecroix has described; Sir Eustace lay sprawled as if he had suffered some dreadful seizure. By the appearance of his skin, his eyes and mouth, I immediately concluded he was poisoned.'

Corbett got to his feet and shook his head in disbelief.

'Sirs, let me repeat the obvious. Sir Eustace drank and ate only what you did at supper?'

'Yes,' Sir Peter replied. 'And, remember, Master Clerk, he insisted on Lecroix, Maigret and I testing everything for him.'

'Did he eat or drink anything else?'

'No,' replied Maigret. 'When he left the hall I went up with him to his chamber. Lecroix bore his wine cup for him. Sir Eustace was lost in his own thoughts. He was almost beside himself with fear about your visit, Sir Hugh. He believed the King would hold him personally responsible for the robbery and murder of the tax-collectors. Anyway, I wished him good night, took the wine cup from Lecroix and put it in his hands. Even then Vechey asked me to taste it, so I did.'

Corbett came back and stood over the manservant. 'Lecroix!' he whispered.

The servant looked up, his face made even uglier with fear.

'Inside his bed chamber,' Corbett continued, 'your master drank the wine. Anything else?'

'Just the sweetmeats,' Lecroix murmured. 'He always kept a small tray there, but I ate some as well.'

'Did he drink any water?'

'No.' Maigret spoke up defensively. 'There's only a bowl of washing water. Both I and Roteboeuf here tested this and examined the napkin on which he dried himself. There was nothing untoward. You can see for yourself, Sir Hugh, they are still there, as are the sweetmeats and what is left of the wine. I insisted that the room be sealed so nothing could be tampered with.'

'Maigret speaks the truth,' Roteboeuf added. 'I ate some of the sweetmeats. I even examined the water in the bowl.'

Corbett stared at the mildewed wall and momentarily closed his eyes. Something was wrong here, he thought. How could a man be poisoned in a locked room and yet no one trace the source of the poison which killed him? He sighed heavily.

'Look.' He held up his hands. 'Sir Eustace died of poisoning. How it was administered and who administered it are a mystery. However, surely he would have suffered spasms, cried out in pain and woken Lecroix?'

'Not necessarily,' Maigret answered quickly. 'God knows what killed Sir Eustace Vechey but there are poisons, Sir Hugh – white arsenic, henbane, foxglove – which can kill as quickly as an arrow to the heart. Remember, Sir Eustace was not a fit man. He was overweight and his heart was growing weak. He may have taken only a few seconds to die.'

Ranulf, leaning against the wall, now unfolded his arms and stepped forward.

'Is it possible,' he asked, 'that Lecroix or anyone else could have changed the wine or water?'

'No,' Maigret explained. 'I saw to that. In Sir Eustace's chamber the windows are mere arrow slits. I examined them carefully. Nothing had been thrown out, and even if it had, how could it have been replaced? There was no more water or a jug of wine in the room.'

'So,' Corbett concluded, 'we have Sir Eustace who dines and wines but only what you eat and drink and even then it is first tasted by others. He goes up to his room with half a cup of wine which was apparently untainted. The same applies to a tray of sweetmeats he kept there and the water with which he washed his hands.' He glanced at Lecroix. 'Your master did wash before he retired?'

The man nodded.

'So, Sir Eustace retired to his bed, locked in a chamber with the key on the inside?' He stared at Branwood who was watching him carefully.

'Yes,' Branwood replied. 'Lecroix opened the door. I heard the key turn.'

'And you, sirs,' Corbett pointed to the soldiers, 'never left your post and no one visited Sir Eustace that night?'

Both men shook their heads.

'On the same evening,' Corbett continued, 'you, Sir Peter, returned to the hall for a cup of wine you had left. Now, if our good physician is to be believed, that too had been poisoned. A mere sip of it turned your bowels to water.' Corbett looked at the friar who had been sitting on a stool, hands on his knees, half-dozing. 'Father, I beg your pardon, Where were you when Sir Eustace's corpse was discovered?'

'1 had gone back to the chapel to clear up after saying mass. Sir Peter sent a servant for me. I went up and did the only thing I could. I anointed the body and blessed it.'

'You have seen many corpses. Father?'

The friar's merry eyes met Corbett's.

Aye, Sir Hugh, more than you have. I served as King's chaplain with the armies on the Scottish march.'

'And when you saw the corpse and anointed it, would you say that Sir Eustace had been dead for hours or had died shortly before Sir Peter knocked on the door?'

The friar narrowed his eyes.

'The corpse was growing stiff,' he replied haltingly. 'Still supple though there was a tightness to the limbs. Sir Eustace retired an hour before midnight. I anointed his poor remains somewhere between eight and nine in the morning.' He stared up at Corbett. 'To give you an honest answer, Sir Hugh, I believe Sir Eustace may well have been dead by midnight.' The friar laughed sourly. 'The witching hour when more souls go to God than at any other time.'

Corbett scratched his brow, genuinely perplexed as well as tired and weary after his journey. He rubbed his eyes. Nothing, he thought to himself, there is nothing here, not even a loose thread.

'So,' he breathed, 'we do not know how Sir Eustace died or who killed him?'

'Oh, yes we do,' Sir Peter spoke up. 'The wolfshead Robin Hood!'

'How could he?' Corbett retorted. 'Enter a castle at the dead of night and administer a deadly potion to a man already on his guard against him? Why do you say that?'

Sir Peter dug into his wallet and tossed a greasy piece of parchment across.

'Because that's what Robin Hood claimed he did.'