Assassin in the Greenwood

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