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.