'Why are you here?' Corbett asked him.

Monck shrugged. 'Because of the Pastoureaux.'

'And how did Lickspittle die?'

'I have told you. He went out on the moors and never returned. His decapitated corpse and severed head were found on the beach.'

'A strange way to die,' Corbett observed.

'Dying is always strange.'

'You know what I mean, Lavinius. To kill a man is one thing, to mutilate his body another.'

'This is a strange place,' Monck said. 'According to our fat physician, the Iceni who once lived in this area used to take the heads of their enemies and expose them in public – just as our king does now on London Bridge.'

'What was Lickspittle doing on the beach?'

Monck shrugged.

'He went to the convent. There's a path from there down to the beach, though why he should have followed it, if he did, is a mystery. He was certainly taking a risk.'

'Why's that?'

'The tides here are fickle. After a heavy rainfall the waves come swirling in, they could take a man unawares.' 'And you'll tell me nothing else?' 'I cannot tell you anything.'

Again that crooked smile. Corbett got to his feet and went to the door. With his hand on the latch he paused. 'Lavinius!'

'Yes?' Monck half-turned in his chair.

'You should tell me the truth. I assure you of this, more murders will occur.'

Monck just went back to his papers and Corbett left, closing the door quietly behind him. He went along the passage and stood at the top of the stairs. He could hear Maltote and Ranulf laughing below. He hoped that the precious pair had not enticed anyone into a game of dice. He went back to his chamber. Outside the wind was howling, beating on the windows and rattling the shutters. Beneath the wind's sombre song Corbett could hear the waves crashing on the rocks as the sea poured into the Wash. He knelt down, made the sign of the cross, and said his favourite prayer: 'Christ be in my head and in my thinking, Christ be in my eyes and in my seeing, Christ be at my left hand and my right.'