Angel of Death

Ranulf was to accompany him into the cathedral, he was to stay in the background.
    St Paul's was empty when they entered. Because of winter, business finished early in the afternoon and the place was so cold that few people bothered to linger longer than necessary. Corbett went up to the confessional, the place where the priest would sit and shrive the sins of those seeking repentance. It was really a wooden trellis screen attached to a pillar. The priest sat on one side with his back to it, while the penitent would knee on a small wooden stool on the other. Corbett knelt and waited. He heard a sound from far beyond the sanctuary, a door opening and closing and the soft slithering sound of a man walking towards the screen. The priest sat down murmuring the 'In nomine Patris' followed by the 'benedicte' and quietly invited Corbett to begin his confession. The clerk, in a whisper to disguise his voice, began with the usual ritual.
    'Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.' Corbett stated the last time he had been shriven and mentioned a number of sins, those which immediately sprung to mind and, even though he was in danger, Corbett smiled wryly as he realized that most of his offences were either lustful thoughts or anger towards Ranulf. He heard the priest stir angrily at being called out to absolve such minor offences. So Corbett, steeling himself, his hands now dropping to the hilt of his dagger, began the most dreadful confession he had ever made.
    'Father, I know a murderer, the name of the man,' he continued hurriedly, 'who has killed two men, plotted to murder the king, the Lord's anointed, and has tried to murder someone else.' The priest stirred but Corbett continued remorselessly. 'Father, what am I to do? In justice, should I keep this information to myself? Or should I hand it over to the authorities?'
    The priest turned towards the screen.
    'No, Master Corbett,' Robert de Luce hissed through the screen. 'You have come to the right place.'
    In the faint light of the cathedral, Corbett stared through the holes of the lattice screen at de Luce's hard, angry eyes. He sensed the man was mad, not witless like some fool in the streets, but a man driven to insanity by hate. The look of malice in de Luce's eyes was something tangible. Corbett felt sudden dread, and wondered whether this dramatic confrontation of the murderer was the wisest possible course of action.
    'I have come,' Corbett said, dropping all pretence, 'to tell you what I know. To ask you to confess to what is true. You, Robert de Luce, treasurer of the Cathedral of St Paul's, the senior canon in this church, murdered Walter de Montfort during the sacrifice of the mass, attempted to murder me because I was near the truth and certainly killed Philip Plumpton because he too discovered it. I also believe deep in my heart, though I cannot prove this, that you intended to murder His Grace the King: the poisoned chalice was meant for him.'
    'And how do you know all this, my clever clerk?' de Luce rasped.
    'The chalice,' Corbett replied, 'first went to those on the Dean's right, de Eveden and Ettrick, before being passed on de Montfort's left to Plumpton, yourself and Blaskett. You knew de Eveden only pretended to drink the wine so enough would be left to disguise the poison you sprinkled as you grasped the chalice after Blaskett had drunk. And who would glimpse this sleight of hand? Your colleagues had just taken the sacrament and would stand heads bowed, eyes closed. Logic dictates either you or Plumpton was the poisoner. Plumpton's dead so it has to be you. You forgot one thing: the Hostiam pacis – the kiss of peace. De Montfort had to offer the chalice to the king and, before doing so, drink from it again. This is where your plot to slay the king went wrong. De Montfort drank the poisoned chalice and immediately fell dead. In the confusion you took de Montfort's chalice and, under your chasuble, dashed the lees of the poisoned wine onto your own garments. It wouldn't be much. After all, five men had drunk from it -de Montfort twice. The chalice bowl was small, it would contain little wine. Yet when I went up to the altar, after de Montfort's death, I found the chalice almost full. I suggest, Sir Priest, that after you dashed the chalice against your cope, you seized a cruet and refilled the chalice with wine. Actually, you needed only to put in a few drops, but, of course, you filled it too full. Yesterday Sir Philip Plumpton realized that the