The Treason of the Ghosts

Chapter 12

Deverell’s house stood in its own ground between two alleyways: a broad, two-storeyed building with a garden plot and workshops. The area was thronged with people as Tressilyian and Chapeleys ushered Corbett through the front door into the kitchen. The curious, despite the best efforts of Blidscote and Tressilyian, had their faces pressed up against the window. Ranulf cleared the kitchen except for Deverell’s wife. She sat, white-faced and hollow-eyed in a chair, staring down at the bloodstain on the stone-flagged floor. Standing beside her was a neighbour who, by her own confession, had come to borrow some honey. She’d knocked and rapped but the carpenter’s wife had refused to open the door. The neighbour, a prim, self-composed woman, had taken one look through the crack in a shutter and raised the alarm.

‘I was in Melford,’ Tressilyian explained, ‘to summon the jurors who served at the trial. Blidscote found us in the marketplace. Sir Maurice searched for you.’ He pointed at Chanson sitting at the foot of the stairs. ‘He told us you had gone to the morning Mass.’

‘What happened?’ Corbett demanded.

‘Last night Deverell refused to go to bed. Apparently he was much disturbed by your arrival, Sir Hugh; drawn and fearful, as he had been over the last few days. He sat here, brooding and drinking, staring into the fireplace. Now his wife claims. .’

Corbett raised his head and studied the carpenter’s wife. She was pretty, with her long, black hair, but her face was piteous, grey and haggard, her eyes circled by dark rings. She sat, lips moving, talking to herself, almost unaware of what was going on around her. Now and again she seemed to catch herself, stare around, then go back to her own thoughts.

‘Continue,’ Corbett demanded.

‘Ysabeau,’ Tressilyian gestured at Deverell’s widow, ‘retired to bed. She could do nothing about her husband. He had locked and bolted the door, the same with the shutters. She was lying upstairs wondering what to do when she heard a knock at the door. She got up and went to the window. You’ve seen the porch in front of the house? The door is in a recess and she couldn’t see the visitor. She then heard a crash even as the knocking continued.’ Tressilyian paused. ‘Well, God save us, Deverell took a crossbow bolt just beneath his left eye. Killed instantly. His wife came hurrying down, took one look and fell into a deep swoon.’

‘Clerk?’ Ysabeau was staring at him with hate-filled eyes.

‘Yes, Mistress?’

‘Are you the royal clerk?’

‘I am.’

‘He feared you.’ Her upper lip curled. ‘He didn’t want you to come to Melford.’

‘Why not, Mistress?’

‘He never said. A man of secrets, my Deverell.’ She moved her dark eyes to Sir Maurice. ‘And you are the Chapeleys whelp? He was never the same after they hanged your father.’ She eased herself up in the chair. ‘Never the same,’ she repeated.

‘There was more found.’ Blidscote opened his wallet and handed across a scrap of parchment squeezed into a ball. ‘Apparently Deverell held that. It was found near his corpse.’

Corbett undid the parchment: it was yellowing and dirty, tattered at the edges. The scrawled words were like letters from a child’s horn book.

‘It’s a quotation,’ Corbett murmured. ‘From the commandments.’ He smiled at Ranulf. ‘We seem to be having many of these. Have you read it, Master Blidscote?’

‘Aye, Sir Hugh.’

‘What does it say?’ Sir Maurice demanded.

‘ “Thou shalt not bear false testimony.”

‘He didn’t.’ Deverell’s wife half rose from the chair, her face a mask of fury. ‘He didn’t bear false testimony.’

Her neighbour coaxed her back, patting her gently on the shoulder.

‘There’s a true mystery,’ Blidscote continued, ‘about Deverell’s death.’

‘Explain!’

‘Well, Sir Hugh, the shutters were still barred, all the doors to this house were locked. So how was Deverell murdered? How did the killer manage to pass this message to the victim?’

Corbett stared at the pasty-faced bailiff. It was still early morning yet Blidscote had been drinking even though he hadn’t recovered from the previous night’s bout. You are frightened, Corbett thought: at the appropriate time I’ll squeeze your ear like a physician would a boil and see what pus comes out.

‘I mean, I had to force the door,’ Blidscote stammered.

Corbett looked behind him and saw the lock buckled. He walked across, opened the door and stood in the porch. On either side rose plaster walls. He glimpsed the Judas squint high on the right side.

‘Apparently Deverell refurbished this door,’ Blidscote explained. ‘It took a battering ram to force it.’

‘And there’s no other open entrance to the house?’ Corbett demanded, aware of the others joining him in the porch.

‘I tell you, Sir Hugh,’ the bailiff whined, ‘the back door and the shutters were all locked. The neighbour became concerned. She peered through a crack in one of the shutters and saw the body lying on the floor. She pounded and yelled. Eventually Ysabeau unlocked the door and the alarm was raised.’

‘So, why did you have to force it?’ Corbett asked.

‘Deverell’s wife was in a frightful state. She claimed the killer would come back for her. She relocked the door. We shouted and we reasoned.’ He pointed to a half-burnt timber lying on the cobbled yard. ‘We had to force an entry.’

‘The killer could have used the Judas squint,’ Corbett reasoned. ‘Look, it’s a handspan across and the same deep. You could rest an arbalest against it. A crossbow bolt would take whoever stood on the other side full in the face.’

‘I know,’ Tressilyian replied. ‘But, according to Ysabeau, the knocking continued even after her husband was killed. She remembers that distinctly. She was in the bedchamber, heard the rapping on the door, the crash of her husband’s fall but the knocking continued.’

Corbett stood by the Judas squint. Try as he might, pretending to hold a crossbow in one hand, he couldn’t knock at the door: it was too far.

‘There would be another problem.’

Corbett peered through the Judas squint at Ranulf standing on the other side.

‘What’s that, Clerk of the Green Wax?’

‘Well,’ Ranulf’s voice sounded hollow, ‘Deverell was killed in the dead of night. It would be dark. How would you know when I appeared at the Judas squint? That’s why these spyholes exist, isn’t it? You’d only be allowed to loose one bolt and Deverell would be warned.’

Corbett asked them all to go back inside. He had the front door closed and stood in the porch. He knocked on the door. At the same time he pretended to hold a crossbow aimed at the Judas squint. Now he couldn’t reach that.

‘I can’t do both at once,’ he murmured.

He then told Ranulf to act the part of Deverell but this only complicated matters. He never knew when the soft-shoed Ranulf stood at the Judas squint. It would be even harder at night, Corbett confessed to himself. He opened the door and walked back into the kitchen. Were there two killers? he wondered. One who knocked at the door, the other positioned at the Judas squint, crossbow primed? But how would the killer know when Deverell approached?

‘You are sure,’ Corbett demanded of Blidscote, ‘that the knocking continued even as Deverell was killed?’

‘That’s what Ysabeau said.’

Corbett picked up the crumpled piece of parchment and turned it over. He noted the faint streaks of blood.

‘That’s Deverell’s?’

‘Oh yes,’ Blidscote replied.

Corbett walked back to the front door and stared out. The curious still thronged at the mouth of the alleyway. From where he stood Corbett could hear the hustle and bustle of the marketplace. Old Mother Crauford was standing in the front of the crowd, one hand resting on her stick, the other on the arm of the lank-haired, empty-faced, young man.

Peterkin, Corbett thought, the one who had found Molkyn’s head floating on the mere. The old woman raised her cane in greeting. Corbett was about to reply with a wave, then closed his eyes and laughed.

‘Master?’ Ranulf was standing behind him.

‘What I want, Ranulf, is a long piece of fire wood, a cloth and a small cup of wine.’

He followed his bemused companion back to the kitchen. Ranulf searched around and brought a long piece of kindling, a wet rag from the buttery and a pewter cup half-full of ale.

‘I couldn’t find a wine cask,’ Ranulf apologised.

‘Sir Hugh?’ Tressilyian, sitting on a bench near the fireside, got up.

‘Please sit here and see what happens,’ Corbett invited him. ‘Ranulf, you pretend to be the carpenter. When I knock on the door, do what you think Deverell did last night. Don’t flinch or delay.’

Ranulf agreed. Corbett went outside, pulling the door closed. He put the cup of ale down, rolled the wet cloth in a ball and pushed it down the Judas squint as far as he could. He then grasped the piece of kindling in one hand, the cup of ale in the other. He stood by the spyhole and used the stick to rap on the front door. He heard a movement within followed by Ranulf’s exclamation. The piece of rag was removed and, as it was, Corbett threw the contents of the cup into the spyhole. Ranulf’s curse was long and colourful.

‘That’s how it was done,’ Corbett declared, coming back into the kitchen. ‘There weren’t two killers, just one. He put that piece of parchment into the spyhole and brought the primed crossbow up to rest on the ledge, the bolt aimed to hit anyone who stood on the other side. It was dark, the killer knew about Deverell’s fears so he kept tapping insistently on the door with a stick or a cane. He wouldn’t hear him come to the spyhole but he’d hear and see the parchment being removed. Once it was, he let slip the catch and the crossbow bolt took Deverell full in the face.’

‘Is that possible?’ Blidscote stammered.

‘It’s logical,’ Corbett replied. ‘And very easy. Imagine Deverell being frightened. He hears a constant rapping at the door. He thinks he’s safe. Deverell knew his own house: you can’t knock on the door and stare through the Judas squint at the same time. He doesn’t realise the killer is using a cane. He goes to the spyhole to stare out but becomes confused. His view is blocked by that ball of parchment. He naturally pulls it out: that’s the sign for the killer. He sees a pale reflection of light from the kitchen, knows that Deverell is standing there, the crossbow bolt is primed. One simple touch of his finger and the bolt is sent speeding through. Deverell wouldn’t have known what was happening. He is still curious about the piece of parchment. Perhaps he thinks it’s a message. He has been drinking, his wits are dull, he doesn’t move away. In a few heartbeats he’s dead, staggering to collapse on the kitchen floor. The crumpled piece of parchment rolls out of his fingers. He didn’t even have time to read it.’

Sir Maurice clapped his hand gently. ‘Well done, Sir Hugh, but who is the killer and why?’

‘I don’t know who but I do know why. Deverell gave evidence at your father’s trial, how he saw Sir Roger fleeing along Gully Lane on the night Widow Walmer was killed. Sir Louis, I truly believe that was a lie and an innocent man was executed.’

‘So soon?’ Sir Maurice’s face had paled. ‘You have reached that conclusion so soon?’

‘Sir Maurice, you don’t have to be a scholar of great wit or learning: Molkyn and Thorkle have been murdered, now Deverell.’

‘Why?’ Sir Maurice asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied, ‘whether it’s to punish them or to close their mouths for ever. What we have is a continuation of the horrid murders of young women and now the grisly deaths of some of those who played a prominent part in your father’s trial.’ Corbett rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t know whether we are dealing with one killer or two.’

‘And there was the attack on me,’ Tressilyian said sharply.

‘Yes, Sir Louis, there was.’ Corbett slapped Blidscote on the shoulder. ‘If I were you, master bailiff, I’d walk most warily at night. Sir Louis, you have the other jurymen?’

‘I told them to meet in the taproom of the Golden Fleece. There should be ten but only five remain. In the last few years the others have died.’ His face broke into a cold smile. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Sir Hugh, apart from Molkyn and Thorkle, they died of natural causes.’

Blidscote was now moving from foot to foot, nervously clasping at his groin.

‘Am I in danger, Sir Hugh? I did nothing wrong!’

Corbett went across. ‘Of wetting yourself, Master Blidscote,’ he whispered into his ear. ‘For all our sakes, if you wish to relieve yourself, go!’

Blidscote hurried down the passageway. Corbett wondered if he should question the bailiff now, but what proof of corruption or complicity did he have? Blidscote would deny any wrongdoing. He had to or he’d hang.

The clerk went and squatted down beside Ysabeau. She seemed more composed now, no longer talking to herself. She lifted her eyes and smiled slyly at him. Corbett was chilled by the look. The woman’s wits were certainly disturbed. Corbett felt a pang of grief, of deep regret. Deverell had died because of the King’s clerk’s arrival in Melford. Justice had to be done but the price would be heavy.

‘I am sorry,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Mistress, I deeply regret your husband’s death. God be my witness, I did not want his blood on my hands!’

Ysabeau just glanced at the bailiff, who’d returned.

‘Tell me,’ Corbett looked up at the neighbour, ‘how many people knew about the Judas squint?’

‘Not many,’ the neighbour answered. ‘Deverell, God rest him, was a man who kept to himself but, there again, people did call to place orders.’

Corbett looked over his shoulder. ‘Master Blidscote, did you know about this?’

‘I did and I didn’t,’ came the defensive reply. ‘True, I visited here but I’d always forget it.’

‘Sir Louis? Sir Maurice?’

Both knights shook their heads.

‘Have there been any strangers at the house?’ Corbett asked.

Ysabeau’s gaze didn’t shift.

‘I glimpsed a friar,’ the neighbour replied. ‘One of those wandering priests, ragged and dirty. He came here recently. Deverell called him a nuisance. He only left when he was given some food and drink.’

‘Anyone else?’ Corbett demanded.

The woman shook her head.

‘I’ll look upstairs,’ Corbett declared. ‘I want to view the corpse.’

He left the rest and climbed the broad polished stairs to the small gallery. The door to the bedchamber was open, a well-furnished room with gleaming furniture which matched the carved woodwork of the four-poster bed. Corbett went across and looked through the window. A crowd still gathered below. Burghesh had joined them. The church bell began to toll and Corbett realised St Edmund’s would be getting ready for the funeral of Elizabeth the wheelwright’s daughter.

He moved back to the bed and pulled aside the drapes. Deverell’s corpse was hidden beneath a bloody sheet. He carefully peeled this back and flinched at the terrible wound. The crossbow bolt had been shot very close, reducing one side of the carpenter’s face to a bloody pulp. The bolt had entered just beneath the eye: a piteous, hideous sight. Corbett murmured the requiem. Surely God would have mercy on this man, so full of fear, sent so quickly into the dark?

Although Corbett felt a deep regret, he knew the root cause of Deverell’s murder was Sir Roger’s death. Deverell had certainly lied at the trial, but why? What had forced this wealthy craftsman to perjure himself, to send a man to the gallows? Who in Melford could exercise such power, exploit fearful nightmares? Had Deverell himself begun to regret his sin? Was he the one who had daubed Chapeleys’ tomb, pinned the notice to the gallows post? Indeed, had Deverell been the stranger who had so mysteriously assaulted him the previous evening, a fearful man who had lashed out but then panicked and fled?

‘A terrible death,’ Corbett murmured, pulling over the blood-soaked sheets. He heard a sound behind him; it must be Ranulf. ‘I’ve seen many corpses but each time is different.’

Again the floorboard creaked. Corbett whirled round. Ysabeau was creeping towards him, a broad-bladed knife in her hand. Corbett was trapped by the bed behind him. He moved sideways. She moved with him. She shifted her grip. Those black eyes never left Corbett. The clerk knew he was in mortal danger. Ysabeau had one thought only: to kill the man responsible for her husband’s death. Corbett moved away. She moved with him. He feinted to draw her in but she kept on the balls of her feet like a dancer. Corbett had no choice. He moved closer. Ysabeau was quicker, the knife snaking out, but he caught her wrist: her strength surprised him. He put one hand on the wrist holding the dagger. He tried to cup his other hand beneath her chin to force her away. She was tense and taut as a bowstring.

Corbett began to panic. He wanted to defend himself but, try as he might, he could not hurt this woman. She was no footpad or outlaw, only demented with grief. He pushed her back against the half-opened door.

‘Ranulf!’ he screamed.

Ysabeau, eyes blazing with hate, suddenly brought her other hand round and clawed Corbett’s face. The clerk hit her, sending her out on to the gallery to collide with Ranulf. She turned. Ranulf lashed out with his boot, kicking the knife out of her hand. Others were hurrying up the stairs as Ranulf seized her in a vicelike grip, pinioning her arms to her side.

‘You whoreson!’ The froth flecked Ysabeau’s lips. ‘You gallows bird!’

She struggled against Ranulf. The clerk held her fast. The neighbour appeared, a cup in her hand. Ranulf dragged the unfortunate woman down the gallery, kicked open the door to a chamber and threw her in. The neighbour, accompanied by Blidscote, followed, slamming the door behind them. Corbett heard the bolts being drawn. He dabbed the cut on his face, then picked up the knife and tossed it down the stairs.

‘I am sorry,’ Sir Maurice gasped. ‘One minute she was sitting there, then she said she wanted to view her husband’s corpse and apologise to you. She must have had the knife hidden away.’

‘It’s all right. It’s all right,’ Corbett breathed.

He went back to the bedchamber, splashed water over his hands and face, drying himself on a linen cloth.

‘It’s only a small scratch,’ Ranulf declared briskly. ‘It will make you look more handsome.’

‘Thank you, Ranulf.’

Corbett wiped some water from his eyebrows.

‘She was strong. Sir Louis, you are the local justice, yes? I want you to send Chanson downstairs for an apothecary or physician. The woman needs a sleeping potion. She should be guarded day and night. At least,’ he added drily, ‘until I leave Melford. I am also going to search this house.’

‘You can’t do that,’ the justice retorted. ‘You have no warrant.’

Corbett tapped his pouch. ‘I have all the warrants I need. You can wait for me in the kitchen below. Ranulf will be your host.’

Once they had left, Corbett closed the door behind them and began his search: coffers, aumbrys, chests, but they contained nothing untoward. Most of what he found was connected with Deverell’s trade: receipts, ledgers, as well as different purchases. The bedchamber yielded nothing.

Corbett went downstairs. Ignoring the rest, he searched the kitchen and the small parlour. He found a little chancery or writing office behind it. The door was locked. Ranulf found the keys and Corbett went inside.

A narrow, dusty chamber with one small window high in the wall; a tall writing-desk and stool. Corbett lit the candles. He had to force the desk, but again nothing. The small coffer beneath it, however, with its three locks, looked more interesting. A search was made and the keys found in the dead man’s purse. Corbett undid the three locks and pulled back the lid. It contained a small breviary, a Book of Hours, not a collection of prayers but the Divine Office: Prime, Matins, Lauds. The writing was the careful script of some monk, the pages well thumbed.

‘A carpenter who understood Latin?’ Corbett murmured.

There was also a white cord with three knots in it and a brown scapular, two pieces of leather on a coarse string. Corbett slipped this over his own head, allowing one piece of the leather to lie on his chest, the other on his back. The cord looked well used, slightly fraying in places. He went through the other items: a medal, Ave beads, a small pyx for carrying the host.

‘So, that’s what you were?’ Corbett declared. ‘No wonder you kept yourself to yourself!’

He took off the scapular and put all the contents back in the coffer, closed and locked it and returned to the kitchen.

The two knights and Ranulf were sitting at the kitchen table. Chanson came through the front door, a stout man striding behind him who introduced himself as a local physician. He brusquely told Corbett to get out of his way and went upstairs to see his patient.

‘We should be gone,’ Corbett declared, picking up his cloak.

‘Did you find anything?’ Sir Maurice asked.

‘Is Blidscote still here?’ Corbett asked Chanson.

‘Oh yes, but he prefers to be as far away from you, Master, as possible.’

‘I’ll have words with him soon,’ Corbett replied.

‘What have you found, Corbett?’ Tressilyian demanded.

‘Deverell may have been a carpenter but, once upon a time he was a monk.’

‘A monk!’ Sir Maurice exclaimed.

‘A defrocked priest,’ Corbett replied. ‘A monk who ran away from his monastery. It’s not so unusual. He could never really close the door on his past so he kept a few mementoes: Ave beads, the scapular some monks wear beneath their robes, his psalter and his cord with the three knots symbolising the vows of Chastity, Poverty and Obedience. I suspect Master Deverell, as a monk, showed tremendous skill as a carpenter. Perhaps he got tired of his vocation. Perhaps he quarrelled with Father Abbot. So he fled. He arrived in a prosperous town like Melford, married and settled down.’

‘And what has this got to do with my father’s death?’

‘A great deal, Sir Maurice. Remember Deverell was a craftsman, a worthy burgess of this town. His word would carry a great deal of weight.’ Corbett lowered his voice. ‘On oath his evidence would be believed by a judge and jury. Yes, Sir Louis?’

The justice, tight-lipped, nodded. Corbett glimpsed the anger in his eyes. Judges and justices made mistakes. Sir Louis would not be the first, and certainly not the last, to regret a sentence passed.

‘I appreciate, sir, this is difficult for you,’ Corbett apologised.

‘In the end, Sir Hugh, justice will be done. If Deverell gave false testimony, and any others, then let it be upon their heads. I can only accept the verdict of the jury. God knows, I pleaded for Sir Roger’s life.’

‘I know.’ Corbett glanced over his shoulder towards the stairs. ‘Deverell, God rest him, lied and perjured himself. But why? Gold or silver?’ He pulled a face. ‘A man like Deverell wouldn’t risk his life and reputation for that. No, Deverell was being blackmailed. Someone here knew he was a runaway monk, which means his marriage wasn’t valid. The summoner could arrive from the Archdeacon’s court: Deverell could either be excommunicated or dragged back to his monastery to do penance on bread and water.’

‘So, Deverell perjured himself?’

‘Yes, he perjured himself. The problem is, who knew his secret? I wonder about Deverell,’ Corbett continued. ‘Was he the one who sent Molkyn the miller that verse from Leviticus?’

‘What verse?’ Sir Louis asked.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ Corbett replied.

They walked out into the sunshine. Corbett heard his name called. Sorrel came out of one of the alleyways.

‘So, Deverell’s dead!’ she murmured, eyes gleaming. ‘Fitting punishment for a perjurer.’ She offered Corbett the coin he’d given her the previous evening. ‘I shouldn’t have taken that.’

‘Why not?’ Corbett steered her away from the rest.

‘I didn’t tell you,’ she confessed. ‘I’m well furnished with silver.’

‘How?’

‘Three times a year,’ she said, ‘at Beauchamp Place a silver coin appears wrapped in a piece of parchment. No messages: it’s been the same since Furrell died. Every January, Easter and Michaelmas.’

‘Keep it.’

Corbett closed her fingers round the coin. He was about to join the rest but Old Mother Crauford hobbled forward, cane tapping the cobbles, one hand grasping Peterkin. She shooed a scavenging cat out of her way.

‘More deaths, royal clerk. They should rename Melford, Haceldema.’

‘The Field of Blood,’ Corbett translated. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Always been deaths,’ she declared.

‘What’s the matter?’ Corbett glanced at Peterkin, who was jibbering with fright.

‘He lives with me,’ the old woman explained, ‘and he’s all a-feared. He thinks you’ve come to take him away to a house of simpletons, where he’ll be fed bread and water and given the whip.’

Peterkin’s face was dirty and unshaven, his eyes full of terror, his lower lip quivering. If Old Mother Crauford hadn’t held him by the wrist, he would have bolted like a rabbit. Corbett took a coin out of his wallet and, grasping the man’s hand, made him accept it.

‘I have not come to take you,’ Corbett said softly. ‘Peterkin is my friend. Old Mother Crauford is my friend. Buy some sweetmeats, a hot pie or join me in the Golden Fleece. Have a tankard of ale.’

The change in the simpleton’s face was wonderful to behold. He shook himself free and danced from foot to foot, humming under his breath.

‘Peterkin’s rich! Peterkin’s rich!’ he slurred.

‘Aye, Peterkin’s a friend of the King,’ Corbett added.

He was about to walk away when Mother Crauford caught him by the fingers.

‘That was kind of you, clerk,’ she whispered. ‘But, be careful as you walk through Haceldema!’