Corbett hid his annoyance. 'Tell me, where is Lickspittle buried?'

'In the village cemetery.'.

'Did he leave any effects?'

'Yes, some papers, geegaws, daggers, swords, the clothes he died in. Selditch prepared the corpse, though that was done hurriedly enough. A decapitated body is not something to linger over.'

'May I look at these effects?' Corbett asked.

'In time.' Monck got to his feet. 'Now I am busy with the venerable sisters of the Holy Cross convent.' He patted Corbett patronizingly on the shoulders. 'You take care of the rustics, Corbett. Leave other matters to me.' He walked out of the hall.

Corbett winked at Ranulf and Maltote. 'And how are my lively lads?'

Ranulf groaned. 'Too much wine, too little water,' he said. 'It's Maltote's fault – he invited Catchpole to a drinking contest.' He stopped speaking as Catchpole himself came into the hall.

'Sir Hugh, the prisoner is in the dungeons.' The old soldier grinned. 'It's a long time since we had a prisoner.' 'Is he comfortable?'

'Aye, but fearful of being hanged.' Catchpole smiled. 'But, there again, aren't we all?'

Corbett finished his ale and walked out to the courtyard. He watched as Monck mounted his horse and galloped out through the gates. Corbett went back up to his own chamber and took a special key from his saddlebag.

'Every self-respecting housebreaker has one, Master,' Ranulf had once explained. 'All locks are similar and this key fits most.'

Corbett hastened down the gallery towards Monck's room. He slipped the key into the lock. It turned easily.

'Well,' Corbett said to himself, 'Ranulf was right.'

He opened the door and stared around the chamber. The stools were precisely positioned around the table, the blankets neatly arranged on the bed. Monck's tidy mind, Corbett thought. Monck's saddlebags lay tidily under the window, but they were securely strapped and buckled. Corbett went across to the small table beside the bed. A thick beeswax candle stood there and the wax had dripped down, forming a brittle crust on the table.