The Treason of the Ghosts

Chapter 10

‘An exciting day, Master.’

Ranulf, perched on a stool, grinned over his shoulder at Chanson, who squatted near the door. Corbett sat on his bed beneath the small casement window. He stared around his bedchamber, a comfortable, sweet-smelling place. He was particularly intrigued by this large four-poster bed with its ornate tester and curtains of mulberry-coloured wool.

‘You’d think it was a bridal chamber,’ he murmured. ‘Certainly comfortable; even rugs on the floor.’

‘At least our taverner knows how to treat a royal clerk,’ Ranulf laughed.

‘I am that tired,’ Corbett replied, ‘I’d sleep in a pigsty. Don’t be too hard on the good citizens of Melford: they are frightened.’

He watched the capped brazier in the corner, its coals glowing through the narrow slits. Every so often he would catch the flavour of spring from the herbs sprinkled there. Corbett had not demanded such luxury but he was appreciative of it.

‘Nothing like a well-aimed kick, is there, Master?’

‘Repton was a fool, yet I couldn’t let it pass. Well, I know what you found and you now know what I’ve learnt.’

They’d spent at least an hour exchanging information. Corbett was particularly intrigued at how Ranulf’s story about the Mummer’s Man corroborated what Sorrel had told him.

‘Oh, what was that information from Westminster?’ Ranulf asked.

‘A record of the trial from the court of King’s Bench. The rest was a little research I’d organised. Never once,’ Corbett waved a hand, ‘was Sir Roger, whilst serving with the King’s forces in many places, ever accused of attacking or raping women. As you know, when troops are in hostile country those who love to abuse women seize such opportunities with relish. I’ve seen at least five or six hanged in Wales for rape and abduction.’

‘What do you mean, relish?’ Chanson asked.

‘When we return to London, Chanson, Ranulf may take you down to the stews of Southwark, introduce you to some of his lady friends.’

‘You mean whores? Ranulf’s talked about them.’

‘No woman is a whore!’ Ranulf snapped. ‘I call them my ladies of the night. A prettier bunch of damsels you’ve never clapped eyes on.’

‘You should talk to them,’ Corbett continued. ‘They will tell you about a certain type of man who can only enjoy intercourse after he has beaten a woman. The ladies of the night make them pay for such a privilege. Last Michaelmas we entertained Monsieur de Craon, the French envoy. When he’s not busy plotting for his master, Philip of France, or trying to steal secrets or kill our spies, de Craon is used, like I am, to track down killers. He mentioned a particular case near the royal hunting lodge of Fontainebleau. About two summers ago, young women were attacked, raped and murdered. De Craon eventually caught the killer and watched him broken on the wheel at Montfaucon. He was fascinated by how the man enjoyed what he did. De Craon described him as an animal; a human wolf, who liked to prey: he enjoyed the violence more than the kill.’

‘And this is what we have in Melford?’

‘Yes, Ranulf, but I can’t make sense of anything we have learnt.’ Corbett leant forward. ‘Let me tell you a story.’

Chanson drew nearer and sat cross-legged next to Ranulf.

‘Once upon a time,’ Corbett smiled at his companions, ‘we have the King’s market town of Melford, a very prosperous place where crops are no longer sown but the fields are grassed over. Sheep are raised and the wool is sold for a fat profit. You’ve seen the effects of this: good, stout buildings, a tavern like the Golden Fleece, Guildhall, shops, luxury items, brought in from the merchants of London. Now all is pleasant in this little Eden until five years ago. .’

‘So, who came here five years ago?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I’ve scrutinised that,’ Corbett replied. ‘No one did. Most of the characters we are dealing with, including the Chapeleys, have been here at least ten years, as have the vicar, his curate and Burghesh, Molkyn the miller and so on. However, I know what you’re implying. The first murder took place five years ago but, according to Sorrel, there have been others: the womenfolk of traders, chapmen, tinkers, Moon People. The latter now avoid this place like the plague. However,’ Corbett continued, ‘five years ago, in the space of a few months, three townswomen were attacked, raped and garrotted; their corpses found in different parts of the countryside. Now you have seen this town, it lacks walls and gates. An army could slip in and out and not be noticed. I have ridden around it: at one time you are in a busy, prosperous market town, the next lonely countryside. It’s a landscape our killer would love: it dips and rolls. Part of the forest has been cleared away but copses and woods still survive.’

‘And there’s no ploughing,’ Ranulf declared.

‘Good man, Ranulf! We’ll make a farmer of you yet. When fields are ploughed, you have a constant stream of labourers moving in and out: harrowing, fertilising, sowing, reaping. Meadow land is different, that’s why raising sheep is so profitable. The longer the grass grows the better. The sheep are put out to pasture and who looks after them? A shepherd with, perhaps, his boy and dogs? Because sheep wander, hedgerows have been planted along the narrow lanes. In places the trackways are like trenches. Someone could move along them and not be seen by a shepherd boy dozing under a tree — a perfect killing ground. However,’ he tapped his foot on the floor, ‘we do have one perplexing problem. Why should a young woman wander out into such countryside to meet this assassin? Yes, Chanson, I accept how you bribed the tavern wench to come out and meet Ranulf. But, would she have gone into the countryside, to a lonely place like Devil’s Oak? And this Mummer’s Man, riding his silent horse? Is he the murderer? If so, his victim would have to be out in the countryside to begin with. And, bold as she might be, Adela would not approach such a strangely garbed figure on a lonely country lane.’

‘But for silver?’

‘Oh, I accept the logic of what you say, Ranulf. If I told any of the serving girls below that a silver piece was out at Devil’s Oak, they wouldn’t tell anybody in case they lost it. They’d keep it quiet. I could understand Adela going out for a second time, if her first journey had been profitable. But, what inducement would she be given first?’

Ranulf snapped his fingers. ‘Master, the Mummer’s Man was seen riding the country lanes?’

‘Yes, that’s what Sorrel told me.’

‘So, he may have been going to put the silver in the secret place, travelling to meet his victim? Or even returning after the murder?’

‘And?’

‘I’d wager,’ Ranulf continued excitedly, ‘the killer first approaches his victim here in the town, a narrow lane, a dark alleyway. He calls out a name. Perhaps he coats the trap with honey? Says so-and-so admires her. Perhaps that Mummer’s Man, if he is the killer, doesn’t give a name but just says a silver piece will be in a certain place?’

‘I agree. Few young women could resist such an approach. The victim would be curious, wondering if it was true or not. So she plucks up her courage and goes out to some desolate spot. The silver piece is there. Perhaps she is killed on the first occasion, the assassin lurking nearby. Or, maybe she has only to go a short distance that first time, and, the trap laid to ensure greater compliance, it’s the second time he strikes, luring her further away to an appropriate place.’

Corbett half cocked his head and listened to the sounds from the stable yard, the cries of farewells as the taproom was cleared.

‘Anyway, let me continue my story. Our killer lusts after young women. Wearing a disguise and mask, he makes his approach. The victim is lured out into the lonely countryside and killed. For all we know, there may be women who were not tricked so easily but that might be difficult to establish. Now, so far,’ Corbett continued, rubbing his chin, ‘the story is simple, it’s like luring a child with sweetmeats. I suspect this Mummer’s Man is the killer. He roams the countryside lanes and trackways looking for possible victims like a fox hunting rabbits. Remember, the corpses of these victims have been found because relatives became worried. But, what happens to other victims, the wandering womenfolk? Their relatives might believe the wench has run away, gone somewhere else. Or don’t even care? In the area around Whitefriars in London, God forgive us, you can buy a girl of twelve for a penny.’

‘But Widow Walmer doesn’t fit this pattern.’

‘No, Ranulf, she doesn’t. Here’s a pretty widow who has probably seen the world, knows its wickedness and has the wit not to be trapped. She lived by herself though Margaret the miller’s daughter served as her companion. On the night she died she expected Sir Roger, that’s a well-known fact, so young Margaret was told to stay at home.’

‘How would the killer know that?’

‘By deduction, Ranulf. If Sir Roger, God bless him, was trumpeting in the taproom how he was going to visit the widow and the killer heard.’ Corbett pulled a face. ‘That’s not the real problem: the riddle is why? Why Widow Walmer?’

‘It would appear, Master, she almost had to die?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If she hadn’t, Sir Roger wouldn’t have been trapped, his house wouldn’t have been searched. The carpenter wouldn’t have remembered seeing him in Gully Lane.’

Corbett sat and reflected. ‘Are you implying, Ranulf, that Widow Walmer was murdered because she knew something? Or that she was deliberately killed to trap Sir Roger?’

‘Possibly both, but I would choose the latter.’

Corbett shook his head in disbelief. ‘You are a man of cunning wit, Ranulf. I hadn’t thought of that. Let’s follow that path. Sir Roger suspects who the true killer of the young women is. Perhaps he hints at this knowledge. So, our mysterious Mummer’s Man spins his own murderous web to catch this knight. The only weakness of this argument is Sir Roger was a man of hot temperament. Why didn’t he just accuse the killer openly? Have him arrested? Drag him before Justice Tressilyian?’

Ranulf, who had been preening himself at Corbett’s praise, stared blankly back.

‘No, no.’ Corbett leant over and patted him on the knee. ‘I accept your hypothesis. Let us return to Widow Walmer. Sir Roger goes for his evening of love, then leaves. We have to believe that Furrell was telling the truth but the poacher also claimed he saw other people slipping down Gully Lane towards Widow Walmer’s cottage. One of these could have been the killer, the other two must have been Repton’s comings and goings.’

‘Do you think Furrell really was telling the truth?’

‘Yes, Ranulf, I do. It makes sense. The killer knew that Sir Roger would leave Widow Walmer. The goodwoman probably insisted that he not spend the night there. So the killer goes down, he murders Widow Walmer, and finds, by good luck, Chapeleys’ knife and sheath which had been given as a gift. Those are left on the floor and he flees into the night. Repton goes down once and, having fortified himself with ale and the company of Master Burghesh, returns. The murder is known and the hunt is on. What happens next is what you’d expect. They visit the local justice and warrants are sworn out. Thockton Hall is searched where more incriminating evidence is found.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Chanson, who had been carefully following the argument, spoke up. ‘What was a manor lord doing with gewgaws from wenches of the town?’

‘If, my dear horseman, our noble Clerk of the Green Wax is correct, then I believe the killer sent these to Sir Roger, who mistakenly thought they were keepsakes of some woman he had tumbled. It’s like young Adela in the taproom below sending me a ring or a brooch-’

‘Lady Maeve would have your head!’ Ranulf broke in.

‘Yes, yes, she would,’ Corbett smiled. ‘But if I was Sir Roger, I wouldn’t want to throw them away. I’d toss them into my coffer and not give them a second thought, which is what happened. Now, it’s Sir Roger we must concentrate on.’ Corbett scratched the back of his head. ‘He didn’t help his case one whit. He was disliked and he was blunt but three things he stoutly denied: the murder of the young women, the slaying of Widow Walmer and Deverell the carpenter’s evidence.’

‘We should have visited him first,’ Ranulf declared.

‘He’ll not change his story. This is not Repton the reeve. Deverell went on oath; he swore a man’s life away. If he changes his story now he’ll hang tomorrow and he knows that. I suspect that’s why he wasn’t in the taproom tonight.’

‘He’s hiding from us?’

‘As well as from the real killer. I’ll come to him in a moment.’

‘So,’ Ranulf spoke up, ‘we have the allegations laid and Sir Roger under arrest in the crypt. Justice Tressilyian sweeps into Melford, takes his seat at the Guildhall. Popular feeling is running high against the imprisoned knight and a jury is empanelled.’

Corbett tapped the roll of the court with the toe of his boot. ‘The record will give us the other jurors’ names. Tressilyian is under orders to gather them together for me to question. However, I do think it’s a remarkable coincidence that the jury was led by a man who hated Sir Roger.’

‘Even so,’ Ranulf declared, ‘the evidence against the knight was impressive.’

‘Except in one matter: the garrotte — that was never found. But you are right, Ranulf, the evidence is impressive and the trial takes its course. Justice Tressilyian tries to have the matter referred to King’s Bench at Westminster but this is refused. Chapeleys is found guilty. There’s only one sentence the justice can pass, though, once again, letters are sent to Westminster, this time pleading for a pardon. The King, advised by his own Chief Justice, refuses to grant a pardon and Sir Roger is hanged.’ Corbett paused. ‘My feet are killing me,’ he groaned. He eased his boots off and threw them into a corner. ‘Melford goes back to its peaceful existence. But,’ Corbett paused, ‘that doesn’t mean the murders cease. I am not too sure how many other women, the kin of wandering folk, this assassin has killed.’

‘And don’t forget Furrell the poacher.’

‘No, we mustn’t forget him. All the evidence indicates Furrell saw something, knew more than he should have done. He would have to be silenced. I believe Sorrel. Furrell’s cold in his grave, God only knows where that is. Sorrel knows this countryside like the palm of her hand but, there again, her husband’s corpse may lie at the bottom of the Swaile, weights and stones attached to its legs. Anyway, back to Melford. In appearances, all is quiet. The murders have been avenged, the King’s justice carried out, then the murders begin again.’

‘Why?’ Chanson asked. ‘That, Master, doesn’t make sense.’ He smiled. ‘It’s not logical.’ He quoted Corbett’s oft-repeated phrase.

‘What do you know about logic?’ Ranulf asked crossly.

‘About as much as you know about horses!’

‘Hush now! Chanson has made a good point. There were certainly no killings amongst the townswomen for five years. There must be reasons for that. First, it had to be seen that Chapeleys was responsible. Secondly, we must understand the soul of the killer. Here is a man who knows he does wrong but, like a dog returning to its vomit, cannot restrain himself. Over the years his frustration grows. He walks the lanes and streets of Melford and sees this pretty face, a soft neck, well-turned ankles. He lusts in secret. Eventually the demons return. And, finally. .’ Corbett stared across the chamber.

‘Yes, Master?’

‘We have hunted killers, Ranulf, those who plot murder, the taking of lives. One trait of these children of Cain always fascinates me: their overweening arrogance. They are like pompous scholars in the Halls of Oxford. They think they are different from anyone else, more intelligent, more cunning. They enjoy the game, they truly believe they cannot be caught. In a sense, the killer is mocking Melford, ridiculing the townspeople. “Look,” he is saying, “I killed before and I escaped. Now I’ll kill again and what can you do?”

‘Of course, we could be wrong,’ Ranulf said. ‘There is the possibility that Sir Roger was guilty and someone is now copying these murders.’

‘True,’ Corbett smiled. ‘But logic indicates the same killer, using the same method. Young Elizabeth, the wheelwright’s daughter, a lovely, young woman, is teased and enticed by the Mummer’s Man. Maybe he’s already tested her and she’s taken the bait. Now she goes out to her secret place somewhere near Devil’s Oak. The first time she collected a piece of silver but the second time her killer is waiting: it was money well spent for the enjoyment he gets.’

‘And the other murders? Molkyn and Thorkle?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Ah yes, that precious pair. Let’s discuss them as well as Blidscote and Deverell the carpenter. Let us say, for sake of argument, that all four were corrupted. How could that be done?’

‘Money!’ Chanson spoke so loudly Ranulf jumped.

‘I’d like to agree,’ Corbett replied. ‘But we are no longer talking about young women. These are wealthy, responsible burgesses of Melford. They would have to be bribed heavily to participate in corruption which would lead to an innocent man’s execution. They would also know that if they were ever discovered, the most gruesome death awaited them.’

‘Blackmail?’ Ranulf queried.

‘That would seem the most logical explanation. But, there again, who would know so much to put the fear of God in all four? We must also remember they were halfway down the Judas path: they disliked Sir Roger and so were receptive to any approach.’

‘That means they must have known the killer?’ Ranulf rubbed his hands, enjoying himself. He loved to follow his master’s tortuous mind. It reminded him of a hunting dog snaking and curling amongst the bushes, refusing to give up the scent, determined to track down its quarry. ‘Perhaps,’ he suggested, ‘we should collect Master Blidscote and Deverell and cart them off to London.’

‘I doubt it.’ Corbett loosened the cords on the neck of his shirt. ‘The most they would tell us is that they were corrupted. The killer, the blackmailer, probably approached his victims in a silent, secretive way.’ He sighed. ‘Now, as for the killer of Molkyn and Thorkle, we have two choices. First, the Mummer’s Man could have silenced them. Perhaps both were having qualms of conscience, feelings of guilt, although there is no evidence of that. Indeed, the little I know of Molkyn, it’s highly unlikely.’

‘And secondly?’ Ranulf asked.

‘That there’s a second killer in Melford. Someone who now knows Sir Roger was innocent either because they found evidence or, more simply, because these murders have begun again. This man, or woman, realises what a heinous miscarriage of justice has been committed and is determined to avenge Sir Roger’s death. Molkyn and Thorkle die and Sir Louis is attacked.’ Corbett chewed the corner of his lip. ‘Yes, it must be an avenging angel, hence the warnings daubed on Sir Roger’s tombstone and at the gibbet.’

‘And who could this avenging angel be?’ Chanson asked.

‘Well, the list is endless. Perhaps the priests, they may have heard something in confession. Chapeleys’ son, Sir Maurice, eager to avenge his father’s name. Oh, God knows! It could have even been their wives.’

‘Their wives!’ Ranulf exclaimed.

‘I told you. I met them tonight. Believe me, Ranulf, if some assassin cut my throat, and the Lady Maeve showed as little grief as those two,’ he smiled, ‘I’d be tempted to come back and haunt her! I have never met widows like that. God forgive me, they were almost happy to have their husbands cold in their graves. I believe Ursula may have known Sir Roger more intimately than her husband would have liked. There is no doubt that Lucy, Thorkle’s wife, is dewy-eyed about the miller’s son. The one I would love to have questioned, and intend to do so, is young Margaret.’

‘Why?’

‘Why, Chanson, because I am suspicious. Somehow or other she knows a great deal. She was Molkyn’s daughter, a companion to Widow Walmer and she hated her father.’

‘So many theories,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘So many paths. Which one do we follow?’

‘I don’t know.’ The clerk spread his hands. ‘So many possibilities. Is the murderer of five years ago responsible for these last two young women’s deaths? Is he responsible for the killing of Molkyn, Thorkle, the attack on Tressilyian, those secret messages? Or are there two, perhaps even three, killers? Are the Jesses killer and the Mummer’s Man one and the same? How did this assassin, despite all our theories, entice his victims out to some desolate spot? Why was Walmer killed? What happened to Furrell? Were Blidscote, Deverell, Molkyn and Thorkle corrupted? If so, why and by whom?’

Corbett got to his feet, undid his jerkin, went across to the lavarium and splashed water over his face. He took a linen cloth and dried himself.

‘We should question Master Deverell but it will be as informative as talking to this bed post. I could go back to the mill and, of course, there are those two priests. Tomorrow, Chanson, Ranulf will come with me. You seek out Master Blidscote. Take him to the Guildhall. I want to know if there have been other reports about young women disappearing over the last ten years.’

‘And us?’ Ranulf asked.

‘We are going to the dawn Mass at St Edmund’s.’ Corbett looked down at the floor. ‘I was attacked tonight. I don’t see the logic behind that, or indeed what happened to Justice Tressilyian. Beneath the serene surface of this town seethe bloody passions and murderous urges. I need the Mass. I must take the sacrament.’

Ranulf watched his strange master.

‘In a matter of days,’ Corbett continued, ‘we celebrate All-Hallows Eve. They say the ghosts of the dead come back. When I was a boy, we used to light fires, a circle of bonfires around the village, to ward off the ghosts. Well, the ghosts have come back to Melford to haunt, to seek justice, perhaps even revenge. We not only deal with treasons of the living, Ranulf, but the treason of the ghosts. Old lies, deeply embedded, ancient sins quickened and festering. We should be careful as we walk. Perhaps that’s the last time I’ll journey around Melford under the cloak of darkness.’ He sat on the edge of the bed. ‘It’s best if we sleep. The morning will come soon enough.’

He bade his companions good night and ushered them out.

Ranulf led Chanson back to their own chamber at the end of the gallery overlooking the stable yard.

‘He’s in a sombre mood,’ the groom declared as they settled for the night.

‘He’s always in a sombre mood,’ Ranulf answered, sitting at the table, busily lighting more candles.

‘Aren’t you going to sleep?’

‘I have a letter to write,’ Ranulf declared proudly.

He opened one of the panniers and took out a sheet of vellum and laid it on the desk, then his portable writing-tray, quills, inkpot and pumice stone. Ranulf heard Chanson’s chatter but he wasn’t listening. He wanted to write to Alicia in that lonely convent in Wiltshire. This would be the sixth letter he had written and still he’d received no reply. Each occasion Ranulf found it more difficult. Was he writing because he missed her? Because he truly loved her? Or because he rejoiced in his new-found skills? He was now Master of the Cursive Script, the elegant phrase: Ranulf had a passion for scholarship. One day he would be a senior clerk in the Chancery of the Secret Seal.

He wrote the words: ‘My dearest Alicia,’ and then paused. Would he be a senior clerk? He smiled at his secret ambition: to take Holy Orders! And why not? He was a King’s man, wasn’t he? Time and again, old Edward at Westminster would take him aside, grasp him by the arm as if Ranulf was one of his boon companions. The King would share his sorrows and troubles; flatter Ranulf with praise and promises of things to come. It was the one part of Ranulf’s life he never shared with Corbett. Yet, sometimes, more frequently now than ever, Corbett would sit and stare at him. Was it mockery? Cynicism? Or sadness?

Ranulf sighed. He told Chanson to go to sleep and continued with his letter.

In his chamber Corbett lay on the bed, hands stretched out, staring up through the darkness at the embroidered tester. The wind rattled the shutters. Distant sounds of the tavern settling for the night drifted up. Images came and went: Maeve dressing for bed; little Edward, plump and pink, snoring softly in the cradle well away from window draughts; Uncle Morgan downstairs, busy baiting the servants. Corbett let these images go. He was standing under the Devil’s Oak in Falmer Lane. He was watching a young woman slip through the meadow to that copse of trees at the top of the hill. The Mummer’s Man or the Jesses killer would be waiting.

‘The bells!’ Corbett whispered to himself. ‘It wasn’t jesses. The Mummer’s Man wore a mask with bells on either side. So, who would do that? And why?’

Only a few streets away, Ysabeau, wife of Deverell the carpenter, was also concerned about the hideous murders which had taken place out in the countryside. She lay in bed staring into the darkness, straining her ears for sounds from downstairs. Since Sir Roger’s trial, nothing had been the same! Deverell, a surly man, had only grown more grim and withdrawn. He had never discussed his evidence but, when asked, would repeat it by rote like a chanteur telling a story. Had her husband told the truth? Why had he been so insistent he had seen Sir Roger that night? She could never understand Deverell’s unhappiness. He was a carpenter, a craftsman. He had done work as far as Ipswich. Merchants and burgesses visited his workshop. Why was he always sad? What did he have to hide?

Deverell had come to Melford some seven years ago. A travelling journeyman, he possessed skill with the hammer and chisel that had soon established him as a craftsman. He was definitely learned. He could read and write and, at times, betrayed a knowledge of Latin and French. On one occasion, in his cups, he had even discussed Parson Grimstone’s sermon on the body and blood of Christ. He was a good husband, loyal, faithful and, even when drunk, he never beat her. So why this great fear? And why now?

News had swept through Melford of the arrival of the King’s clerk. Deverell had grown pale and withdrawn. He had spent more and more time in his workshop. When she brought him food and drink, Ysabeau found he had almost turned it into a fortress, shutters and doors all closed, locked and barred. It was the same with the kitchen below. Deverell had even replaced the door and built a Judas squint in the wall. He never told her the reason why. Now he refused to come to bed but sat in his great high-backed chair in front of the fire, drinking and brooding. If anyone knocked on the door, he went to the Judas squint and peered through to see who was standing in the porch.

The carpenter’s wife stirred. Wasn’t that a tapping on the door? At this hour? She threw the blankets back and sat up. Yes, someone was tapping. She could hear it. She swung her legs off the bed and, putting on a pair of soft buskins, stole across to the latticed window. She opened it and looked out.

‘Who’s there?’ she called.

She could still hear the tapping but she couldn’t see anybody because of the porch recess. Whoever was there was well hidden. She closed the window and went across the bedchamber. She heard a sound like that of a groan, the crash of a stool, even as the rapping on the door continued. She waited no longer but fled down the stairs, along the passageway and into the kitchen. Lanterns and candles still glowed, the door was still barred but Deverell lay sprawled near the fireplace. A crossbow bolt had smashed him full in the face, shattering skin and bone. Blood pumped out of the terrible wounds, spilling out of the half-opened mouth.

Deverell’s wife grasped the back of a chair and stared in horror. She couldn’t breathe. She could hear screaming and realised it was herself, just before fainting away.