The Treason of the Ghosts

Chapter 16

‘Who is the Mummer’s Man?’

Corbett sat in Old Mother Crauford’s small, mud-packed earth cottage. It was smoky and dark. The fire in the makeshift hearth was lacklustre, the green logs gently resisting the licking flames. Old Mother Crauford put down the bellows and looked over her shoulder at Peterkin sitting on a three-legged stool. The simpleton was cradling a bowl of leek soup on his lap. He dropped his horn spoon with a clatter, frightened eyes still on Corbett. He slowly put the bowl on the ground beside him.

‘What nonsense is this?’ Old Mother Crauford asked. ‘It’s barely dawn and you come knocking on my door? We have nothing to do with Haceldema.’

‘I know why you call it that, Mother,’ Corbett replied. ‘No, no. .’ Corbett put out a hand.

Peterkin was now staring at the doorway but that was blocked by Ranulf.

‘You mustn’t run,’ Corbett said gently. ‘I’ll only catch you. Hush!’ He held up a hand to fend off more questions from the old woman. ‘Look, Peterkin.’ Corbett held a silver coin between his fingers.

The slack face relaxed. Peterkin smiled, opening his mouth, tongue coming out as if he could already savour the sweetmeat he’d buy.

‘He’s a poor, witless fool,’ Mother Crauford mumbled.

‘He’s not as stupid as you think,’ Corbett retorted. ‘You know that, Mother, and so does he. It’s not really foolish Peterkin, is it? Or simple Peterkin? Or witless Peterkin?’ Corbett caught it — just a shift in the eyes, a gleam, a knowing look. ‘You understand what I am saying, don’t you?’ Corbett continued.

‘Peterkin does not know.’ The reply was low, throaty.

‘Yes you do. I’ll tell you and Mother Crauford a story. But first I do wonder where you have your secret place, Peterkin? Where do you hide the coins the Mummer’s Man gives you?’

‘What secret place?’ Mother Crauford demanded.

She pulled across a stool and studied Peterkin rather than Corbett, as if the clerk’s words had jolted a memory.

‘What I’ll do,’ Corbett declared, ‘is tell you my story, then I’ll threaten. I’ll bully you with all sorts of dire punishments, Peterkin, but, if you help me,’ he smiled, ‘it will be a silver coin for wise Peterkin. St Edmund’s parish in Melford,’ Corbett continued. ‘Well, it’s a strange place for a man like you, Peterkin. People are growing wealthy, travellers arrive, merchants, traders, pedlars and chapmen. Your world is changing, isn’t it, Mother Crauford? Forty years ago, who cared about Melford, when the plough ripped the earth and the peasants spent every hour wondering what the harvest would be like? Now it’s all different: broad meadows cut off by hedgerows where sheep graze and everyone becomes fat on the profits. Peterkin has to be careful. He has no family: people say he has no wits. He acts the part but Peterkin is quite cunning. He has to protect himself from the goodly, newly rich people. Peterkin is frightened of one thing: that he will be taken away and put in some Bethlehem house. No one knows this better than the Mummer’s Man. Where does he meet you, Peterkin? Does he come to this desolate lane? And has he taught you a poem?’

Mother Crauford was now staring at Corbett.

‘He did, didn’t he, over the years — take a message to this or that young woman? How a lover or admirer has left a gift, a token of their appreciation near Devil’s Oak, Brackham Mere or some place along Gully Lane. Peterkin takes the message. Everyone ignores you, running up and down, backwards and forwards across the marketplace.’

‘That’s true,’ Mother Crauford intervened. ‘But it’s only poor Peterkin. He often talks to young women yet he means no harm. No one takes offence.’

‘Of course they don’t,’ Corbett replied. ‘Look at him: innocent as a lamb. He wants to be accepted and chatters. Our killer recognised this. So, five years ago, young Peterkin is approached. He’s taught the doggerel, given the message-’

‘And why should he obey?’ Mother Crauford broke in.

‘Because the Mummer’s Man is frightening. He has a hideous mask. He threatens: if Peterkin doesn’t do what he says, the masters of the Bethlehem house will come with a cart and a whip. Poor Peterkin has seen that, haven’t you? When the parish gets rid of some beggar? Peterkin’s frightened.’

Corbett paused and glanced at Ranulf. In this dank cottage everything he had concentrated on the previous night now hung in the balance. He studied Peterkin’s sallow, unshaven face. The mouth hung slack but the eyes were not so frightened, more watchful.

‘Peterkin is also rewarded. Because the Mummer’s Man holds a rod in one hand but a coin in the other. All Peterkin has to do is go into Melford, seek out a certain young woman and deliver the message. Peterkin may have refused but, there again, why should you? Never, in all your woebegone days, have you earned a penny so quickly. You are given simple instructions. You are to approach the young woman when she is alone, never in a group. You are to tell her to keep quiet but, there again, she’s not going to tell anyone, is she?’

‘Oh my God!’ Mother Crauford groaned. ‘Oh, sweet Mary and all the saints!’ The old woman was now following Corbett’s logic.

‘A simple ruse,’ Corbett continued, pressing his point. ‘Peterkin delivers the message. A short while later that young woman’s corpse is found out in the countryside-’

‘Peterkin wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ Mother Crauford interrupted.

‘I didn’t say he did but Peterkin is now truly trapped. He must have remembered the victim was the same young woman to whom he delivered the message. But you can’t tell anyone, can you, Peterkin? The Mummer’s Man, the next time he approached you, reminded you of that. Ah well.’ Corbett sighed. ‘Peterkin is now very frightened. This dreadful Mummer’s Man truly has him by the neck. If he confesses what has happened, who will believe Peterkin? People will start pointing the finger. You wouldn’t be the first man, Peterkin, to be strung up like a rat on the town gibbet.’

Peterkin’s jaw was now trembling. He started to shake, one hand going out towards Mother Crauford.

‘He’s just a fool,’ the old woman repeated.

‘Not as dull as you think, Mother Crauford. And you know that! Haven’t you ever wondered why Peterkin is eating a pie or a sweetmeat? Or how he bought some gewgaw from the market stalls?’

‘People are kind,’ she retorted.

‘Oh, I am sure they are,’ Corbett declared. ‘But let’s go back five years. Sir Roger Chapeleys was accused of the murders. He died on the gibbet. The murder of the young women abruptly ended and so did the visits from the Mummer’s Man, or at least I think they did. But, late in the summer of this year, the Mummer’s Man reappears. Peterkin has no choice but to obey his instructions. Somehow or other you took the message to Elizabeth the wheelwright’s daughter, didn’t you?’

Mother Crauford seized Peterkin’s hand, rubbing it between hers.

‘You have no proof of this,’ she whispered to Corbett. Her hand went out and clutched Peterkin’s face.

Corbett wondered about the true relationship between these two. Some blood tie? Some kinship? Everybody in Melford acted their roles. Blidscote, the pompous master bailiff, Adela the bold-eyed tavern wench. Why not Mother Crauford and Peterkin? She, the old crone, but in reality her mind and memory were sharp and fresh as anyone’s, as Corbett’s study of the Book of the Dead had proved. And Peterkin? In truth, he led quite a comfortable life: dull in his wits but not the fool he pretended to be.

‘They could hang you.’ Ranulf spoke up, wondering how his master had discovered this information.

‘What do you mean?’ Mother Crauford snapped. ‘They couldn’t hang Peterkin!’

‘They would,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘And you beside him. Don’t you understand the word “accomplice”? Sir Hugh is correct. Some people might even allege Peterkin’s the murderer. You can tell from his face he is being confronted with the truth.’

‘You could hang.’ Corbett leant forward. ‘You must have known what the Mummer’s Man really intended. But, there again, you were frightened, weren’t you, whilst, after the first murder, you had no choice.’ He glanced at Mother Crauford. ‘And I wonder how much you knew? Did Peterkin ever tell, or begin to tell you, what had happened? Did you press your finger against his lips and so help the Mummer’s Man in his murderous games? Oh, you knew Peterkin wouldn’t hurt a fly. After all, such murders were taking place in Melford long before Peterkin was born. Yet, I tell you this,’ Corbett concluded briskly. ‘If Peterkin tells the truth he gets rewarded. Some coins and a letter, with the King’s Seal on it, proclaiming he is never to be troubled by anyone. And when the new priest arrives. .’ Corbett paused: he could have bitten his tongue off. ‘In future years, perhaps, even a small annuity for Peterkin and Mother Crauford from the parish chest?’

Peterkin stopped his gibbering, a calculating look in his eyes.

‘And, before Mother Crauford starts talking about the truth,’ Corbett added, ‘Peterkin must also be puzzled: sometimes he delivered the message but nothing happened because the young woman concerned didn’t go or went too soon or too late.’

‘Like whom?’ Mother Crauford demanded.

‘Adela the tavern wench.’

‘Oh no.’ Mother Crauford tightened her grip on Peterkin’s hand. ‘Not that bold-eyed, loud-mouthed hussy. It’s a wonder she wasn’t suspicious.’

‘Nothing happened to her,’ Corbett smiled. ‘So why should she be? And everyone knows Peterkin. Isn’t it true, Mother Crauford, some years ago, long before this spate of murders began, Peterkin was used by love swains to take messages to their sweethearts? That’s why the Mummer’s Man chose him in the first place. However, if I went back to the Golden Fleece and told Adela the true story. .’

‘Peterkin’s been stupid,’ the simpleton mumbled, head down. ‘Peterkin’s been wicked.’

‘Look at me!’ Corbett ordered.

The man raised his head. Corbett judged the woebegone look genuine: beneath the dirt and stubble, Peterkin’s face had paled.

‘Where did he meet you?’ Corbett demanded.

‘He’d wait for me,’ came the stumbled reply, ‘at the bottom of the lane. At first I was curious.’

‘How tall was he?’ Corbett asked.

‘I don’t know. He made me stand behind an oak, he was on the other side. Sometimes his face would peep round. The mask was hideous, red like blood. He carried. .’ Peterkin imitated a bracelet round his wrist.

‘A cord?’ Corbett asked. ‘With a bell on it?’

‘Yes. That’s why I knew he was there. I’d go out early in the morning. Most times there’s a mist. I’d hear the bell tinkle. At first I thought it was some silly jape. He told me how he knew who I was. He said he had the ear of Justice Tressilyian. Yes.’ Peterkin licked his lips. ‘That’s how he put it. He knew about the way I spied on the young women. How in summer I followed couples out into the countryside. He also claimed I had stolen things: that he’d tell Master Blidscote, who would put me in the stocks.’

‘So, he taught you the rhyme?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes, he did, but no name was mentioned at first. He returned a few mornings later; ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling his bell would ring. He asked me to repeat the rhyme and I did so. Then he told me to take a message to this person or that.’ He shook his head. ‘I forget who.’

‘Then, eventually, the name of his first victim?’

‘Yes.’ Peterkin blinked. ‘I thought it was all a harmless game. Poor Peterkin.’ He clasped his hands together and stared beseechingly at Corbett. ‘Poor Peterkin didn’t know.’

‘And what did the Mummer’s Man order you to do?’

‘I must find the young woman by herself: I had a great secret for her so she was to tell no one. Only when she had solemnly promised and crossed herself did I give the message.’

‘What happened?’ Ranulf asked, getting up and coming forward, intrigued by how this cunning murderer had worked. ‘What happened?’ he repeated. ‘Young Elizabeth, the last victim — what did she do?’

‘I found her in the lane coming from the marketplace.’ Peterkin closed his eyes. ‘ “Elizabeth,” I said, “I have a great secret for you.” “Oh, Peterkin, don’t be silly,” she replied. “No, no,” I whispered. “It’s true.”

‘Then you showed her a coin, didn’t you?’ Corbett asked.

Peterkin, now terrified, nodded.

‘You said how an admirer had given you that coin so Elizabeth knew you weren’t jesting? Yes?’

The simpleton agreed. ‘ “Oh, Peterkin,” she said. “Who is it?” I shook my head. I was sworn not to tell her. I delivered the message and ran away.’

‘Skilful,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Everyone’s trapped. Peterkin must deliver the message. He’s told to show the victim a coin so she’ll believe him. Now, do you understand, Mother?’

‘I do.’ The old woman’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘God knows, poor Elizabeth wouldn’t dream of telling anyone else. They’d either follow her to the place or race her to it. Of course, no one really believes poor Peterkin. It might be some madcap notion. She wouldn’t want to appear foolish. .’

‘Yes, but Elizabeth, like the other victims, had her curiosity whetted. Peterkin’s message was so clear yet so mysterious. The town’s simpleton had been paid to carry it so it must mean something. She wouldn’t dare tell anyone and so sealed her own fate.’

‘What was his voice like?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Peterkin wailed. ‘A soft voice.’

‘Have you ever heard it before?’

‘For God’s sake, Sir Hugh!’ Mother Crauford exclaimed. ‘The man wore a mask!’

‘Did you ever follow him out?’ Ranulf asked.

Peterkin, eyes terrified, shook his head.

‘After the first death what could I do?’ he wailed. Peterkin rubbed his hands together, tears streaking his dirty face. ‘I was frightened, I was frightened. Where could I go to? Poor Peterkin!’ He beat his chest.

Corbett glanced at Ranulf and shook his head. Peterkin acted more stupid that he really was but what he said possessed its own logic. He was like a trained dog, governed by greed and fear, sent hither and thither on his master’s commands.

‘You’ll catch him.’

Mother Crauford glanced up at Corbett, who now got to his feet, tightening his war belt.

‘Oh, I’ll catch him. Like a bird in a net. And then I’ll hang him, Mother Crauford, on the scaffold outside Melford, like the cruel soul he is.’

Corbett walked to the door. He put his hands on the latch.

‘And now you know why I call this place Haceldema?’ she called after him.

‘Oh yes, Mother, I do.’

Corbett glanced back. Mother Crauford had dried her tears.

‘You had your suspicions from the start, didn’t you?’

Mother Crauford blinked away her cunning look.

‘Couldn’t you have done something?’ Corbett asked.

‘I am an old woman, clerk. I haven’t got a bullyboy.’ She plucked at her dusty gown. ‘I don’t carry sword and dagger. Nor can I produce the King’s Writ, with a piece of wax on the end, telling everyone to stand aside and bow their heads. You talk of help? How could I mumble my suspicions? Have you ever seen a woman burnt for witchcraft, Sir Hugh? Watched her old body hang above the flames whilst her eyes bubble and her skin shrivels like that of rotten fruit? Don’t act the preacher with me!’

Corbett smiled grimly and nodded in agreement. They went out to where Chanson was holding their horses. Corbett refused to answer Ranulf’s questions but swung himself into the saddle, riding ahead during their short journey up to the mill.

This time Corbett did not stand on ceremony. When Ralph the miller came out, shouting and gesticulating that he was a busy man, Corbett rapped out an order. Ranulf drew his sword and brought the flat of its blade down on the young man’s shoulder.

‘Keep a civil tongue in your head!’ the Clerk of the Green Wax warned. ‘My master has a terrible temper.’

Corbett swung himself out of the saddle, gave the reins to Chanson and pushed open the kitchen door. Ursula was standing by the fire. She was not fully dressed but wearing a dark-brown robe fringed with squirrel fur, tied round the waist by a cord. She didn’t look so pretty now, her face heavy-eyed with sleep. She pushed the hair away from her face.

‘I thought you were Molkyn,’ she said archly. ‘He used to come charging in like that.’

‘Molkyn’s dancing with the devil!’ Corbett snapped. ‘And what a dance it will be, eh, Ursula? Your husband was corrupt, a dishonest bullyboy, and those are just his petty crimes.’

‘What do you mean?’ Ursula’s face paled.

‘Why did you send Margaret to be Widow Walmer’s companion? To get her out of the house? Away from Molkyn?’

‘Why?’ she stuttered.

‘I’ve been to many towns and villages, Mistress. I have seen what happens to men who commit incest with their daughters, who abuse their own children! A sin which stinks in the eyes of God and man!’

‘How dare you?’

‘Oh, I dare,’ Corbett replied. He stared round the kitchen. ‘You are Molkyn’s second wife, aren’t you? How old was Margaret when Molkyn lurched into her bedchamber? Twelve, thirteen?’

‘How do you know all this? It’s a lie!’

‘Is it?’ Corbett asked. ‘Molkyn may have killed his first wife. He certainly abused his daughter and, when you married him, you stumbled on his little nest of hideous secrets. But you are a good woman, aren’t you, Ursula, behind the bold glance and pert reply? You protected Margaret. You warned Molkyn. Someone else learnt the miller’s secret. When Molkyn was chosen by that lazy, dishonest bastard Blidscote to sit on the jury and try Sir Roger Chapeleys, the time of retribution had arrived. Molkyn was blackmailed: find Chapeleys guilty or all of Melford would discover his secret sin.’

Corbett sat down on a chair at the table.

‘And what else was Molkyn told? Suspicions about his first wife’s death? Or that his second wife, pretty and winsome, had entertained Sir Roger on more than one occasion when Molkyn was away?’

Ursula swayed slightly on her feet. She went across to a cupboard and, opening it, splashed wine into a goblet. She drank it greedily, the drops running down her chin.

‘I wonder who knew,’ Corbett said. ‘For the first time in Molkyn’s life, he was trapped. Motivated by fear and the lust for vengeance, he hammered the nails into Sir Roger’s coffin, he and Thorkle.’

Ursula sat down and clutched the table.

‘It’s a pity Lucy isn’t here.’ Corbett rose and slammed the door shut. ‘She has a lot to hide as well, doesn’t she? Molkyn was told other secrets. How Lucy lusted after young Ralph, Molkyn’s son. Thorkle was more pliant. No man likes to be proclaimed a cuckold. Molkyn wanted Sir Roger’s death and he had been given information about Thorkle. I can imagine it happening. Do what I say, Molkyn would bully Thorkle, or they’ll be planting cuckold horns on you for as long as you live. I don’t think Thorkle would need much persuasion. He, like Molkyn and the rest, had no love for Sir Roger.’

‘You have no proof.’ Ursula tried to reassert herself.

‘Yes he does, Mother.’

Margaret, in a nightshift, a cloak about her, sandals in her hands, had crept quietly down the stairs to stand in the shadows. She came forward and crouched by the fire, stretching out her hands.

‘You are well, master clerk?’

She looked over her shoulder, her pale face lit by a smile. Her beauty looked fragile in the morning light, blonde hair cascading down to her shoulders.

‘When you first came here I thought you’d be back. The King’s crow, ready to pick at the rottenness in our lives. Oh yes, that’s what they call you,’ she smiled. ‘The King’s crow: dark-eyed and sharp-beaked, eh?’

She got to her feet and sat on the bench between Corbett and her mother.

‘Our Father who art in Heaven,’ she intoned. ‘Do you know what my idea of a father is?’ Margaret’s blue eyes filled with tears, lips quivered but she controlled herself. ‘What was your father like, Corbett? Did he come to tuck you into bed at night? My father joined me in mine. Molkyn with his big, burly body and heavy hands.’

‘And you confessed this?’ Corbett asked. He hid his own sorrow at the hurt in this young woman’s face.

‘I felt dirty. When Molkyn married Ursula I told her. Who else could I confide in?’

‘And I protected you,’ Ursula retorted. ‘Whenever I could, I sent Margaret hither and thither. Widow Walmer helped. I think she suspected.’

‘I liked it there,’ Margaret continued dreamily. ‘She was very pretty. I think she was in love with Sir Roger and he with her.’

‘So you think he was innocent?’

‘I do.’

‘And did you tell your father that?’

‘I never spoke to my father. We were strangers. When someone cut his head off, I was glad that this terrible stranger was dead.’

‘Widow Walmer — ’ Corbett tried to ease the tension — ‘who do you think killed her?’

‘The day she died,’ Margaret replied, ‘she sent me a message not to come that night. I half suspected the reason why. I also knew about Sir Roger’s gift to her. After she was killed, I just thought Melford was a wicked place where people commit mortal sins.’

Corbett studied the girl closely. He wondered if the terrible abuse had slightly unhinged her wits, turned her mind.

‘Molkyn’s dead,’ he murmured. ‘He’ll answer to God for his crimes. Whom did you tell?’

‘I nearly told the priest, the young one, the one who died last night.’ She shook her head. ‘But who would believe me?’

‘I did,’ Ursula declared.

Corbett placed his elbows on the table. ‘And?’

‘I let you speculate, clerk, on my relationship with Molkyn: a drunk, a beater, an oaf, a man who abused his own daughter. Sometimes I felt as if I wanted to be sick in his face.’

‘That’s why you refused to go across to the mill on Saturdays?’

‘Of course! Let Molkyn drink, let him sleep like a hog. Do you know something, clerk, sometimes I considered killing him myself and setting the whole place alight. I used to pray that one evening he would stagger out and fall in the mere.’

‘And whom did you tell? Did you ever accuse Molkyn openly?’

‘I hinted at it.’

‘You confessed, didn’t you?’ Corbett murmured. ‘You found all these burdens too heavy: your marriage with Molkyn, Margaret’s abuse, Lucy and Ralph?’

She nodded. ‘Six years ago, on Ash Wednesday, I went to the shriving pew.’

‘With Curate Robert?’

‘No, no, he was too young. He was frightened of me,’ she added with a half-laugh. ‘There was a visiting friar but he wasn’t there so I sat in church crying. Parson Grimstone came in. I told him everything: my marriage, Margaret, Molkyn, Ralph and Lucy.’

‘And would he tell anyone else?’

‘How could he? He was under the seal of confession.’

‘Did Molkyn ever accuse you of telling anyone else?’

‘No.’ She placed her hands on the table. ‘But sometimes I’d catch that murderous look in his eyes. He’d sit where you are, glaring down at me. It was a matter we never talked about and I never went back to Parson Grimstone.’

‘And the night Molkyn died?’

‘We’ve told you the truth,’ Ursula replied. ‘We were happy. Molkyn went over to the mill, finished his work and settled down like the pig he was to drench his belly in ale. Someone came in, took his head and placed it on a tray which was sent floating across the mere. I am glad he has gone. So is Margaret.’

‘And have you,’ Corbett turned back to where the girl sat listlessly, ‘ever discussed your secret, Margaret?’

‘Never!’ Her head snapped back, eyes blazing with anger. ‘Do you know something, master clerk, I feel as if I’ve come back from the tomb. Molkyn’s rotting in his grave. I want to meet a good man and marry. I don’t want my shame proclaimed throughout Melford.’

Corbett got to his feet. ‘In which case I shall not trouble you again.’

He walked round, crouched beside the bench and took Margaret’s fingers in his. ‘Your hands are cold,’ he said softly. ‘Rest assured, your secret’s safe with me. Parson Grimstone will be leaving: God’s justice is going to be done and so is the King’s.’

He let her hands go, got to his feet, kissed her on the top of the head and went out into the yard.

‘Where’s Ralph?’

‘Locked himself in the mill,’ Ranulf smiled. ‘Said he had better things to do than argue with busybody clerks.’

‘And we are busybody,’ Corbett smiled.

They mounted their horses and went back along the trackway. Corbett was about to round the bend when a figure stepped out of a thicket so swiftly, Corbett’s horse shied. Corbett talked to it quickly, patting its neck.

‘I am sorry. I am sorry. .’ Sorrel pulled back her hood. A crude bandage covered the gash on her neck.

‘You’ve been hunting?’ Corbett asked, pointing to the sack she carried.

‘Rabbit snares.’ Her weather-beaten face creased in concern. ‘Another murder, clerk? Curate Robert? They say he’s hanged himself. Did he kill my poor Furrell?’

‘No, I don’t think he did. Tell me, Sorrel,’ Corbett grasped the reins and leant down, ‘couldn’t Furrell’s corpse have been hidden in a mire or swamp? I meant to ask you this yesterday.’

‘Spoken like a townsman,’ Sorrel retorted. ‘The swamps and marshes round here aren’t all that deep. And what goes down eventually comes back. Why?’ she asked. ‘Do you know where he’s buried?’

‘Yes, yes, I do. I know the exact place.’

‘Where?’ Sorrel dropped the sack and grasped the reins, her other hand clawing at Corbett’s knee.

Corbett smoothed the hair away from her face.

‘Trust me,’ he whispered. ‘Let me play this game out. Until then, stay in Melford!’

Sorrel let go of the reins. Corbett urged his horse forward and, followed by Ranulf and Chanson, rode along the trackway back into the town. On its outskirts, just past the church, Corbett reined in.

‘Ranulf, Chanson, I’ll break my fast in the Golden Fleece. You are to go out to Sir Louis Tressilyian and Sir Maurice Chapeleys. Bring them both to me. Tell them they must come on their loyalty to the King.’

‘Chapeleys and Tressilyian!’ Ranulf exclaimed.

‘Just bring them,’ Corbett declared. ‘Tell them I have matters to discuss!’