The Treason of the Ghosts

Chapter 13

The jurors were a nondescript group of petty trades-men and farmers. They sat in a corner of the taproom, shuffling their feet, looking rather woebegone, frightened of meeting the royal clerk. They had fortified their courage with stoups of ale. Tressilyian cleared the taproom of everyone else. Sir Maurice Chapeleys sat some distance away, feet up on a stool, drumming his fingers on the table. Chanson went to check on the horses. Ranulf sat beside Corbett. Tressilyian took charge. He introduced the clerk and smiled sadly.

‘Time passes quickly,’ he declared. ‘Five of the jury which tried Sir Roger Chapeleys have died.’ His smile disappeared. ‘Two have been murdered. Now, you remember the days of the trial well, yes? The trial took place in the Guildhall?’

They all nodded like a group of obedient mastiffs.

‘I’ve never asked you this,’ Tressilyian continued. ‘The deliberations of the jury are usually secret but why did you return a verdict so swiftly, in less than an hour?’

‘It was your summing up.’ A burly tradesman, a butcher by the blood on his apron, spoke up.

‘Yes it was,’ Tressilyian conceded. ‘Your name is Simon, isn’t it? You are a flesher?’

‘That’s right, my lord.’

‘Please answer my question!’

‘I can’t remember every detail,’ the flesher replied, ‘but the evidence was clear: Sir Roger went down to Widow Walmer. He was seen by Deverell the carpenter — and yes, we now know he’s dead.’ He gazed round at his companions. ‘And, by the way, what protection do we have? It wasn’t our fault Sir Roger was executed.’

‘No one said it was,’ Corbett replied. ‘Do continue.’

‘Sir Roger was seen hurrying away from the widow’s cottage. He possessed belongings of the other women who had been murdered.’

‘What I’m interested in,’ Tressilyian declared, ‘and what Sir Hugh wants to know, is what happened in the jury room after you retired. Molkyn was your leader, Thorkle his deputy?’

‘Well, I’ll be honest,’ Simon replied. ‘Molkyn was a bugger. I didn’t like him alive, I don’t like him dead. He was all hot for Sir Roger being hanged. Guilty, he said, as soon as the door was closed. Thorkle, of course, followed suit.’

‘And the rest of you?’ Corbett asked.

He stared round at these men with their chapped faces and raw red hands. He felt sorry for them. It was common for juries to be intimidated but, there again, they could prove surprisingly stubborn, particularly when a man’s life was at stake.

‘Some of us objected. I am not going to say who. Rein in your horse, we told Molkyn. You could see he didn’t like Sir Roger.’

‘It was Furrell.’ One of Simon’s companions spoke up. ‘I was very concerned about Furrell’s evidence. He claimed Widow Walmer was alive after Sir Roger left. He also hinted at how others were seen going down to her cottage.’

‘Ah yes.’ Simon took up the story. ‘But Molkyn told us to shut up. He alleged Furrell had been bribed by Sir Roger. The knight could have gone back, whilst the people Furrell had glimpsed going down to Widow Walmer’s cottage were probably Repton the reeve and others who discovered the corpse.’

‘How did you vote?’ Corbett asked.

‘By a show of hands.’

‘And what convinced you?’

Corbett moved on the stool. He wished Ranulf, sitting beside him, would stop humming softly under his breath. His manservant glanced at him and winked. Corbett wondered what was wrong. He turned back to the flesher.

‘The evidence? You mentioned the justice’s summing up at the end of the trial. I asked how you voted?’

‘It was Deverell’s testimony.’ The flesher sighed.

‘The visit to Widow Walmer and the goods being found in Sir Roger’s manor. Molkyn was urging us on; eventually we all had to agree.’ He shrugged. ‘The verdict was returned.’

‘And since then?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh, we’ve discussed it — when the murders began again.’ Simon nodded. ‘Yes, we wondered if an innocent man had been executed.’ The flesher shuffled his feet and looked at the floor.

‘What is it?’ Corbett asked. ‘You have something else to say, haven’t you?’

Simon wiped his sweaty brow on the back of his wrist. ‘I’d like to make a confession.’ The words came blurting out. ‘Sir Louis, I should have told you this before.’

‘What?’ Corbett asked.

‘About two years after the trial I was in an alehouse, the Gooseberry Bush at the far end of the town. Molkyn came in. He’d just made a delivery of flour and was drinking the profits. Now most times, Molkyn was a surly bastard, always looking for a fight — fists like hams he had. He calls me over. I was delivering some meat. He was quite insistent so I joined him. He was deep in his cups. We talked about this and that. “Do you believe in ghosts?” Molkyn suddenly asked. “What do you mean, Molkyn?” I said. “Sir Roger Chapeleys,” he replied. “Do you think he can come back and haunt us for what we did?” Now I was troubled, I didn’t like that sort of talk. “He was guilty,” I replied. “What if I say he wasn’t,” Molkyn jibed-’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Corbett interrupted. ‘Molkyn said that?’

‘Aye. I became frightened. I questioned him but Molkyn grew all coy and sly, tapping his fleshy nose and winking. He then told me about a quarrel he had had with Furrell the poacher. “What quarrel?” says I. It appears that after the trial, Furrell had approached Molkyn, saying Sir Roger was innocent and he could prove it. Molkyn told him to go hang. Furrell also accused Molkyn of being a perjurer, then Furrell said something very strange. He claimed there was proof in Melford who the real killer was and that it was plain as a picture for anyone to see.’

‘And?’ Corbett asked.

‘That’s all Molkyn told me. He was fuddled in his wits and deep in his cups so I left him.’

‘Is there anything else?’ Corbett demanded.

A chorus of denial greeted his question. Corbett thanked them and the men left, eager to be away from the sharp-eyed clerk and his probing questions.

‘You are rather quiet, Sir Maurice?’ Corbett asked.

The young man gazed sullenly back. ‘Sir Hugh, what can I do? I was only a boy when my father was hanged. How can I go round Melford asking questions?’ His face became hard. ‘I can see it in their eyes, Sir Hugh. They still regard him as a killer, an assassin.’ His gaze softened. ‘But I have trust in you. Justice will be done.’

‘Sir Louis,’ Corbett glanced around to make sure there were no eavesdroppers: Matthew the taverner, however, had the sense to keep his slatterns and tapboys well away, ‘at Sir Roger’s trial, were you uneasy?’

‘Of course, but what could I do? The only evidence Sir Roger truly denied was Deverell’s.’

‘And Furrell’s evidence?’ Corbett asked.

Sir Louis sighed and sat down on a stool opposite. The justice hadn’t slept well; his eyes were heavy and red-rimmed.

‘Sir Hugh, Furrell was patronised by Sir Roger.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And there’s something else. Three young women were killed before Widow Walmer’s death, yes?’

Corbett nodded.

‘Now, whatever Sorrel has said to you, and I saw you talking to her, Furrell was a rogue. He was a thief. He poached on my land, as he did on everybody else’s but, of course, we ignored him. He only took what he wanted and there was little malice in the fellow. Except,’ Sir Louis continued, ‘Furrell was a lady’s man himself. When it came to maypole dancing or mummery on the green, Furrell, in his cups, was hot and lecherous as a sparrow. Now, when these murders occurred both Blidscote and I investigated. The finger of suspicion pointed strongly at Furrell. He was well known for talking to the girls. He did solicit, albeit well out of sight of Sorrel, and, above all, he knew the country roads and lanes.’

‘But Furrell’s dead.’

‘Is he, Corbett? Where’s the corpse? What sign or proof do we have of his death? How do we know that he is not living in the forest or hidden away at Beauchamp Place? He could return to his killing spree. He may be responsible for the deaths of Molkyn, Thorkle and Deverell. Furrell knows this town, its bylanes and its trackways. He was often knocking on this person’s house or that: he’d know about Deverell’s spyhole.’

‘But could he kill a man like Molkyn?’

Corbett was intrigued by Tressilyian’s line of argument.

‘Oh, our miller was a brawny oaf but a man in his cups. You could take his head like swatting a fly, whilst Thorkle was a frightened rabbit.’

‘If I follow your argument,’ Corbett recapped, ‘Furrell therefore spoke on Sir Roger’s behalf, not only out of kindness but because he knew the truth. At the same time Furrell secretly realised his evidence wouldn’t be taken too seriously.’

‘And afterwards,’ the justice added, ‘Furrell almost confessed as much to Molkyn before he realised what he had said and disappeared. Like any outlaw, he hides but, when all is quiet, he begins his killings.’

‘I would accept what you say,’ Corbett declared, ‘though there’s one other individual I have yet to meet.’

He quickly told Tressilyian and Sir Maurice about the Mummer’s Man.

‘I’ve never heard the like of it,’ Tressilyian whispered. ‘But that could be Furrell.’

Corbett stared across the taproom. He could hear Matthew shouting from the kitchen, the bustle and noise from the yard outside as people angrily wondered why they were being kept away from the tavern.

‘We’ll talk about this tonight at the Guildhall,’ Sir Louis said, ‘just after vespers.’

Sir Louis and Chapeleys made their farewells whilst Corbett led his two companions up to his chamber.

‘Do you think Tressilyian’s theory is possible?’ Ranulf asked.

‘All things are possible,’ Corbett replied. He took his boots off and lay down on the bed. ‘What I do think is that Furrell knew the truth. I find it difficult to accept he’s the killer. Sorrel’s no liar. Sir Louis may be right: Furrell may be the key to this mystery but I still believe the poor man’s dead. That flesher also spoke the truth; he had nothing to hide.’

Corbett paused. Then: ‘What were Furrell’s words to Molkyn? That it was all as plain as a picture?’ He stared up at the emblems on the tester cloth above the bed. ‘Plain as a picture,’ he repeated. He turned on his side. ‘Chanson, you made careful enquiries at the Guildhall?’

‘I didn’t find much,’ the groom replied. ‘Every year someone is reported missing.’

Corbett stared at a small triptych on the wall. ‘I want you to do me an errand.’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘A message for Sir Maurice.’

‘But he’s just left.’

‘I know and I apologise.’

Corbett got up and went to his writing-desk. Ranulf glared at Chanson, shaking his head as a warning not to protest. Corbett wrote quickly, took a piece of wax and sealed the note.

‘Give that to Sir Maurice personally. He is to tell no one what I ask, nor is he to mention it tonight, except to say yea or nay. Do you understand? Now drink a tankard in the taproom below and be off.’

Chanson took the message and left.

‘And what were you so pleased about in the taproom?’ Corbett asked. ‘Humming and singing under your breath?’

‘Adela. She’s quite a chatterbox,’ Ranulf replied. ‘She told me that-’

‘Told you?’ Corbett intervened. ‘When did she tell you, Ranulf?’

His manservant coloured. ‘Ah, last night I grew thirsty. Chanson is not the most ideal companion: he not only snores like a horse, he smells like one as well.’

‘So, you went downstairs and paid court to the fair Adela. Ranulf, if you become a priest, these midnight trysts will have to end.’

‘Well, she has taken a silver piece off me.’ Ranulf pulled a stool across and sat down. ‘Tavern wenches are a source of gossip. Grimstone likes his wine. Burghesh is the priest more than he is, a veritable busybody. Sir Louis Tressilyian doesn’t like the townspeople, whilst Sir Maurice, before he fell in love with Sir Louis’s daughter, would often vow terrible retribution for his father’s death. The miller was an oaf, a bullyboy. His wife is certainly hot-eyed and may have entertained Sir Roger when her husband was absent-’

‘All this we know,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘This is a town, a parish. Go to any town in the kingdom. .’

‘Master Blidscote,’ Ranulf retorted.

‘Oh, our good master bailiff.’

‘He’s unmarried.’

‘For some men that might be happiness. I suppose he has an eye for the wenches?’

‘Yes, Master, and for the boys.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘So it’s rumoured.’

‘Children rather than men?’

‘So rumour has it,’ Ranulf replied. ‘There’s even a story that Sir Roger had to have words with him years ago about his own son, Maurice. They also say Blidscote’s corrupt. A coward at times, a bully at others, his soul is constantly up for sale.’

‘So, Ranulf, a man easily blackmailed. Blidscote harmed Sir Roger by ensuring Molkyn was on that jury whilst the rest were people who would give way to the burly miller.’

‘Does the trial record reveal anything?’

‘No, Ranulf. They call it a transcript, but in truth, it is a summary; it contains nothing new. The prosecution was presented by a sergeant at law from Ipswich, a royal lawyer attached to the city council: he had an easy task.’

‘Will we trap the real murderer?’

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett murmured. ‘You see, Ranulf, everything we learn is what people tell us. And, as you know, that can be easily controlled. Some people forget, others conceal, a few tell us what we want to know. Then, of course, there are the downright lies. Of course, the killer, or shall I say killers, may make a mistake.’

‘So, we are dealing with two?’

‘Oh yes. The first likes to terrify young women, ravish and murder them. The second — I don’t know: he or she — wages bloody war against those who sent Sir Roger to the scaffold.’

Corbett recalled Old Mother Crauford’s words about Haceldema. He sat and half listened to the sounds from the taproom below.

‘What happens if we can’t prove anything?’

‘Then, Ranulf, we can’t prove anything. The King has given us little time. He’s calling a great council at Winchester shortly after the feast of All Saints and we have to be present. Look, go across to the church. Ask Parson Grimstone if I can borrow the Book of the Dead.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want it.’

Ranulf pulled a face and went out. He closed the door behind him and made a rude gesture in its direction. Ah well, he thought, old Master Long Face will sit and brood and then leap like a mouse-hunting cat. But will the murderers be so easily trapped?

Ranulf clattered down the stairs. He was so immersed in his own thoughts he didn’t even bother to stop and flirt with Adela.

Back in his bedchamber Corbett lay on the bed. He tried to conceive a map of Melford, the sprawling town, the silent, secretive countryside around. Tressilyian was correct in one thing: a man like Furrell could hide out there — but these murders? He tried to put himself in the place of young Elizabeth, whose corpse was now buried in God’s acre. A young woman full of romantic notions, probably resenting the close confines of a family house, Elizabeth would be ever ready to run on an errand to the market, any excuse to talk and chatter to others. No, he decided, the Mummer’s Man wouldn’t make contact in the town. Would Elizabeth Wheelwright stop because of a shadowy voice calling from a doorway? But she would be even more terrified if she met such a creature out on a country lane. No, there was something wrong with that. He had to ford that gap in his logic. Somehow Elizabeth, like others, is lured out into the countryside, some desolate spot where the killer is waiting. He enjoys himself like the demon he is, then hides the body, or tries to. Five years ago something went wrong. Perhaps Sir Roger began to suspect the true identity of the killer. Sir Roger was trapped, accused of the murder of Widow Walmer. An easy task for, if rumour was correct, Sir Roger was lecherous as a sparrow. The killer prepared the trap well. He not only slew young women but had gathered information about the residents of Melford which he could use. He also sent belongings taken from his victims to Sir Roger. Corbett pulled himself up against the bolsters. But that wasn’t enough: Blidscote, Molkyn, Thorkle and Deverell were blackmailed. They were forced to dance to the killer’s tune and Sir Roger’s fate was a foregone conclusion.

‘He enjoys it,’ Corbett declared. ‘The killer enjoys the power.’

They call him the Jesses killer, Corbett reasoned, the Mummer’s Man, but he’s more like a chess player. He regards other people as pieces to move as he thinks fit. He likes to see them do what he wants. But who would have such power? Sir Louis? Sir Maurice? They were both manor lords. They would have spies and retainers listening to the chatter. But Sir Louis himself had been attacked. He also had played a major part in Sir Roger’s execution. And Sir Maurice? A man dedicated to clearing his father’s name, he’d have little love for the people of Melford. But which killer was he thinking about? Corbett shook his head. Then there were the others: Parson Grimstone with his drinking, his seclusion; Curate Robert with his hidden anxiety and deep feeling of guilt. Or Burghesh? Could Blidscote be a killer? A man who may not even like women? Or was it someone he had forgotten? Corbett beat his fist against his thigh. Two killers, he thought, or one? The murder of Molkyn and the rest had only occurred after the killings of the young women had begun again. So, what did that mean? Corbett sighed as he heard footsteps outside. Ranulf entered with Burghesh behind him.

‘I brought the Book of the Dead myself,’ the old soldier declared. He took it out of the leather bag and placed it on the stool beside Corbett’s bed.

‘I really shouldn’t allow it but,’ he grinned, ‘you are the King’s clerk. If I stay in the taproom below and take it back later. .?’

Corbett’s hand went to the purse in his belt.

‘No, no,’ Burghesh said. ‘I can pay for my own ale. Sir Hugh, I’ll be downstairs.’

Ranulf closed the door behind him. Corbett picked up the book and began to leaf through it.

‘Well, Chanson’s galloping after Sir Maurice,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘You are going down amongst the dead.’

Corbett smiled over the book. ‘If you were involved in Sir Roger’s death. .?’ Corbett paused. ‘No, let me put the question another way. Who has the most to fear?’

‘Sir Louis?’

‘But he’s a manor lord.’

‘Then Blidscote,’ Ranulf remarked.

‘I agree, and there’s little we can do to save him. But, go round Melford, Ranulf, see if you can track our fat bailiff down, then bring him back here for questioning.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘Ask young Adela to come up. Tell her she has nothing to fear.’

‘If the Lady Maeve got to know? Shouldn’t I stay,’ Ranulf teased, ‘and act the chaperone?’

‘Ask her to come up,’ Corbett repeated. ‘She has more to fear from the messenger than the message he carries.’

Ranulf collected his cloak and sword belt and went down the stairs. A short while later Adela tapped on the door of the chamber. She slipped in, nervous but still bold-eyed, pretending to stand in a docile fashion, hands hanging beside her.

‘Sit down.’ Corbett gestured to the stool. ‘I believe you know Ranulf?’

The tavern wench looked for sarcasm but found none. This clerk’s gaze was not lustful or mocking but rather gentle and sad.

‘What do you want, Master?’

‘Just a little of your time. I am sorry about the game Ranulf and Chanson played with you, bringing you out of the tavern,’ he added hastily.

Adela shrugged one shoulder.

‘What harm can a man do in a busy marketplace?’

‘Has any man tried to harm you, Adela?’

She smiled sweetly. ‘Most men are babies: they think with their codpieces.’

‘Do we now?’ Corbett laughed. ‘But you are able to look after yourself?’

‘A swift slap and an even swifter kick, Master, is a good defence.’

‘You were the last to talk to the wheelwright’s daughter, Elizabeth?’

‘Aye, but I have answered this. She was in a hurry to get away. I thought she was going home.’

‘Did she ever talk of the Mummer’s Man or any other creature?’

‘No.’

‘Tell me, Adela, if you met a man out in the countryside, riding a horse, wearing one of those masks they use in a miracle play. .?’

‘I’d run and hide,’ she laughed.

‘And if this evening you were going home and a voice called “Adela” from the shadows?’

‘I’d stop, if there was someone with me.’

‘And if this voice said that you must go to such and such a place, where some admirer was waiting for you or a gift had been left?’

‘I wouldn’t believe it. I certainly wouldn’t stand there. I’d see who it was.’

‘And if that man was wearing a mask?’

‘I’d scream and run. Why these questions? I’ve learnt my lesson about-’

‘What do you mean?’ Corbett asked sharply.

‘Oh, about four months ago, that fool Peterkin — well, he’s not as dull-witted as he looks — he brought me a message.’

‘What did this message say?’

She closed her eyes. ‘ “A gift awaits for the one I love at Hamden Mere. After the market horn, it will appear.”

Corbett asked her to repeat it.

‘It’s doggerel poetry,’ he murmured.

‘Peterkin’s like that,’ Adela remarked. ‘Hurrying hither and thither like a little rabbit. Ask the taverner: even as a lad, Peterkin was used as a messenger by lovesick swains.’

‘And did you go to Hamden Mere?’

‘Yes. It’s a marsh in a copse of wood on the south side of the town. I was impatient. I wanted to know who it was: the tavern becomes busy after the horn is sounded and the market’s ended.’

‘Why Hamden Mere?’ Corbett asked. ‘Why not Devil’s Oak or Gully Lane?’

She smiled. ‘It’s where I used to play as a child.’

‘And where you take your love swain?’

‘Yes, but don’t tell Taverner Matthew: he’s always boasting how he runs a good house.’

‘And what happened?’ Corbett demanded.

‘I went and waited. I searched and I looked but there was nothing — a cruel jape — so I came back.’

‘Did you later question Peterkin?’

‘Yes I did, quietly. I didn’t want to make myself look as big a fool as he is. He just gaped at me, said it was a poem he had learnt and didn’t say any more.’

‘But you believed him the first time?’

‘He showed me a coin: said he’d been paid to deliver it.’ She shrugged. ‘That convinced me.’ Adela became all nervous.

‘You know what I’m going to ask,’ Corbett said softly. ‘Is that how Elizabeth was trapped?’

‘But I had no proof,’ she hissed. ‘I was frightened. I did not want to become a laughing stock. The taproom would never let me forget the day I believed simple Peterkin. Even if I had said something — who would believe me? What proof did I have?’

Corbett took a coin from his purse, went across and pushed it into the wench’s hand.

‘What’s that for, Master?’ she asked cheekily.

‘Your company,’ Corbett replied. ‘If I were you I’d go across to the church. I’d buy a candle and light it.’

The young tavern wench looked puzzled. Corbett opened the door. She slipped out, he closed and locked it behind her.

‘You danced with death,’ he murmured, ‘and were allowed to walk away.’

Corbett went to the window and stared down at an ostler cooling horses off in the yard below.

Of course, Corbett thought. Poor Peterkin! Frightened of being taken away, so easily terrified, so quickly bribed. Who would pay much attention to him? The man may be a dullard but the same doggerel would have been taught to him time and time again, only the place changed. Corbett wondered how many other young women in the town had received such an invitation? Some would ignore it, dismissing Peterkin as mad as a March hare. Others, like Adela, would go, perhaps at the wrong time, and find nothing. Poor Elizabeth was not so fortunate. Of course, she’d tell no one. She wouldn’t want anyone to know about the secret or, as Adela said, be made to look a fool if there was nothing there.

Corbett turned his back on the window. No one would ever connect the two: daft Peterkin and these murders. He was weak and helpless; a wench like Adela would find him no threat. Corbett smiled grimly. The killer was clever: love trysts, messages. .! As Adela had proved, young women did not like their elders to know about such things — a conspiracy of silence which the killer exploited.

Corbett picked up the Book of the Dead.

‘He didn’t strike twice,’ he murmured. ‘He just did it the once!’

Elizabeth was lured to some place where the Mummer’s Man was waiting. Peterkin, he concluded, would be the perfect messenger. Probably after a day or so, the message and the memory would fade and, if the simpleton realised there was something wrong, how could he proclaim what he had done? Corbett vowed to have words with Peterkin. In the meantime. . He opened the Book of the Dead and, going back twenty years, began to read. He recalled lines from a poem:

Amongst the dead I have walked,

And amongst the dead I have found the

truth.

Corbett closely studied the Book of the Dead and found what he was looking for: unexplained deaths. He closed it and sat back. Melford was truly a place of bloody slaughter! He recalled Beauchamp Place and that pathetic skeleton stowed away in the old chapel wall.

‘Some are left,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Some are buried, which means not all have been discovered!’

He recalled what Tressilyian had said about the poacher. Was it possible?

‘Two assassins!’ Corbett murmured.

He thought of Furrell and Sorrel: one a lecherous poacher, the other committed to what? Justice? Vengeance? Both knew the countryside, and what did Furrell mean about ‘the truth being plain as a picture’?

Corbett pushed back the chair, got to his feet and reached for his cloak and war belt.