The Waxman Murders by Paul Doherty

Author:Paul Doherty [Doherty, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub, mobi
Tags: Historical, Fiction
ISBN: 9780755350421
Google: llS38WFMs54C
Amazon: B00GU35U7Y
Publisher: Headline
Published: 2012-10-29T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 8

Desunt sermones, dolor sensum abtulit.

Words fail and sorrow numbs the senses.

Paulinus of Aquilea

Hidden behind a line of trees, Sweetmead proved to be a splendid square three-storey building of shiny black timber and pink plaster which stood on a ragstone base behind its own red-brick curtain wall. The double gate to this had been flung open, and even though all the noonday bells were yet to ring, Castledene, Wendover, Parson Warfeld, Physician Desroches, Lady Adelicia, Berengaria and Lechlade were already gathered on the small pebble-strewn forecourt before the steps to the main door. Corbett noticed how the windows of the house were firmly shuttered. City guards stood everywhere, and had been there for some time judging from the rubbish strewn around the blackened circles in the snow where they’d built their campfires. Hasty introductions and salutations were exchanged. Corbett asked Castledene if Servinus had been seen. The Mayor shrugged.

‘No sign whatsoever, Sir Hugh. The roads are clogged; even so, I’ve sent more couriers to the nearest ports.’ He shook his head. ‘He must still be hiding in the city, though a foreigner would find it difficult to find any sanctuary here. I have given my men his description; sooner or later he’ll be seen.’

Corbett chewed on the corner of his lip and stared around.

‘Lady Adelicia.’ He beckoned her away from the sharp-eyed Berengaria.

‘Sir Hugh?’ Lady Adelicia drew close.

‘Madame, you are enceinte?’

Her cold blue eyes held his.

‘The father?’ Corbett asked. ‘Sir Rauf?’

‘My secret, Sir Hugh. More importantly, I cannot hang or burn, and why should I? I hated him but I did not kill him!’ Adelicia’s voice was quiet but she spat the words out, the curl of her lips turning that beautiful face ugly. Corbett turned away, his patience exhausted; he had decided on his course of action. He strode to the foot of the steps.

‘Open the door.’

He was weary of this Hodman’s bluff, of blundering around, of being poked and pushed like some blindfolded fool. Time was passing. He had questions to ask and they had to be answered. Wendover and the guards hurried to obey. Castledene came over to speak, but Corbett held up a gauntleted hand.

‘Sir Walter, I have decided on what I must do.’ He let his hand drop gently on the Mayor’s shoulder. ‘You must send two of your men back to your clerks in the Guildhall. I want,’ he squeezed Castledene’s shoulder, ‘every record, every scrap of parchment your chancery holds about the pirate Blackstock and his half-brother Hubert. They have to be brought here, now!’ He brushed aside Castledene’s protests and went up the steps. ‘And you.’ He grabbed Wendover by the arm. ‘Light all candles, lamps and lantern horns, refill braziers, every hearth must have a fire. Light the ovens, and then check the stores and the buttery. Send one of your men to the tavern we passed as we crossed the wasteland; it has a red sign.’

‘The Antlered Stag,’ Parson Warfeld intervened. ‘That’s it.’

‘Buy food, a cask of ale.’

‘And the money?’ Wendover was still impudent.

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