The Treason of the Ghosts

Chapter 17

Corbett returned to the Golden Fleece where he broke his fast on salted pork, freshly baked bread, slices of cheese and a tankard of light ale. The taproom was fairly empty though, as he finished, others entered, calling in on their way to the market. The usual travellers: a relic-seller, with his tray of so-called blessed goods; tinkers selling ribbons attached to a pole; a travelling coppersmith; two hucksters with a badger, hoping to bait it against a dog. Strangers to the town, they shuffled in and kept to themselves. When Repton and others entered, Corbett decided it was time to leave. He went back up to his chamber and sat at the table, going through the conclusions he had reached earlier that morning. He’d only had a few hours’ sleep: his mind couldn’t settle but he felt pleased at the way his plan was unfolding. He was sorry for Margaret. Her pain he could not truly understand, but he might have brought her some measure of peace. Corbett thought about little Eleanor and wondered how any father could abuse his own daughter. To distract himself, he prepared the room for his visitors, ensuring both sword and dagger were within easy reach.

For a while Corbett dozed and was awoken by Ranulf’s loud tapping on the door. Chapeleys and Tressilyian entered. Both men were hurriedly dressed, unshaven, their hair tousled. Ranulf brought in stools and Corbett asked them to sit. Neither of them protested. Chapeleys looked nervous. Tressilyian had a half-smile on his face as if he knew what was to happen.

‘You have news?’ Sir Maurice began. ‘It must be urgent?’

‘No, I don’t have news,’ Corbett retorted. ‘I have reached conclusions. Your father, Sir Maurice, was guilty of no more than drinking and lechery. He didn’t murder Widow Walmer. He didn’t rape and garrotte women of this town. He was sent to the gallows by a cunning and evil assassin. You have petitioned both Court and Chancery for an investigation, even a pardon for your father. One will be issued.’

‘What is this?’ Sir Maurice whispered.

‘Now, four men knew your father was innocent,’ Corbett continued. ‘You, himself, the assassin and Sir Louis Tressilyian.’

Maurice looked startled at the justice.

‘Five years ago,’ Corbett continued in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘Sir Louis, quite rightly, was summoned to the Guildhall: he took depositions and evidence against your father. He may have had doubts but, on the basis of the evidence supplied, Sir Roger seemed guilty. Sir Louis probably hoped that a jury, as is their wont, would give the prisoner the benefit of the doubt. He was certainly surprised when they did not. He delayed your father’s execution. He wrote to the King. However, the significant aspect of a jury’s verdict is that it is also seen as the verdict of the community. If Sir Louis continued his protests, the finger of accusation would be pointed at one manor lord protecting another. I am correct, Sir Louis?’

‘I listen to what you say,’ the justice replied.

He spoke so evenly, Corbett wondered if his conclusion was truly correct: Tressilyian seemed so unperturbed.

‘Your father died,’ Corbett pressed on to Sir Maurice. ‘The murders stopped. Sir Louis must have taken comfort from this: he did his best for you, treating you like the son he never had. Perhaps he encouraged you to write to Westminster? Nevertheless, three things secretly reassured him about the rightness of the sentence. The evidence, the verdict of the jury and the fact that the murders had ceased. He would be curious, however: Furrell had disappeared and Sir Louis must have known about Molkyn’s reputation, as well as the deep dislike in the area for your father.’ Corbett paused. ‘And then the murders began again. Sir Louis’s belief in your father’s guilt was severely shaken. He may have also suspected that the real murderer could have even been responsible, God knows how, for your father’s illegal execution. Sir Louis, therefore, decided to take steps. He would carry out his own justice.’

‘What are you saying?’ Sir Maurice asked. His face had paled. He kept running his fingers round the collar of his tunic.

‘Sir Louis,’ Corbett confronted him directly, ‘you, I believe, are responsible for the murder of Molkyn the miller, Thorkle, Deverell, and, I wager, you know where Master Blidscote’s corpse can be found.’

‘You say I am a justice.’ Tressilyian spoke up. ‘And so I am. What evidence do you have for all this?’

‘You are a good man, Sir Louis,’ Corbett replied. ‘Mistaken, but basically good. You suspected a miscarriage of justice had taken place. You felt sorry for Sorrel, Furrell’s widow, so you gave her a pension, a silver coin at certain times of the year. Why should such anonymous gifts be given at specific times? Ever the lawyer, eh, Sir Louis? Those dates mark the beginning of the law terms in the courts of Westminster. It was your way of reminding yourself. You looked after Sorrel just as you looked after Sir Maurice.’

Sir Louis smiled, running a finger along his moustache.

‘Only a justice could afford such generosity,’ Corbett declared. ‘As for that attack on you in Falmer Lane, the day you rode into Melford to meet me, it was curious! Why did you come alone? Why did you make an excuse to arrive late? You didn’t want Sir Maurice riding with you, did you? You wanted to depict yourself as under the knife, fearing attack because of that dreadful miscarriage of justice. You stopped on the trackway. You looked around. No one was in sight. You cut down that sapling to block the trackway. You walked into the trees, took off your boots and fired those arrows. You then continued your journey.’

‘I could have been seen,’ Tressilyian pointed out.

‘No, it’s a lonely place. Two things puzzled me about that assault. First, who was this bare-footed bowman? He struck once but never struck again. Sorrel, who knows those woods like the back of her hand, failed to see any mysterious archer. Secondly, if this bowman had gone to such trouble, why wasn’t he successful? Molkyn, Thorkle, Deverell and probably Blidscote are all dead. All you received were cuts which, of course, were self-inflicted. You got rid of the bow and quiver, ensured all the signs of an attack were visible. You then continued on your way. You muddied the waters. You also left that crude sign pinned to the gibbet and daubed a similar message on the headstone over Sir Roger’s grave. All your actions that day would have been easy. A heavy mist had swirled in. The graveyard is a lonely place and, once you were ready, you burst into the crypt as the frightened, aggrieved justice.’

‘And the executions?’ Sir Maurice asked.

Corbett could tell how the young manor lord half accepted the truth of what he was saying.

‘Oh, those were quite easy. Molkyn was well known for his drunken habits on a Saturday evening. Sir Louis went into the mill, he sheared Molkyn’s head off like one would snip a flower. Thorkle was the same. Melford, particularly in autumn time, with the mists shrouding a desolate countryside, is ideal for such attacks. Deverell the carpenter was also studied. Sir Louis knew about the Judas squint-’

‘Where’s the evidence for all this?’ Sir Louis demanded.

Corbett hid his surprise at Tressilyian’s calm demeanour. He wants to be caught, Corbett thought; he expected to be trapped.

‘The evidence, Sir Louis, is tenuous. First, that note left at Deverell’s house. Do you remember the quotation: “Thou shalt not bear false testimony against your neighbour”? Most people translate that verse as “You must not bear false witness. .” You used “testimony” about the statements of witnesses at Sir Roger’s trial. You said, in effect: “If they gave false testimony, upon their heads.” What a coincidence! Molkyn lost his head, Thorkle’s brains were dashed out. The crossbow bolt hit Deverell in the face, piercing the brain. When Blidscote’s corpse is found, his death blow will be to the head.’

The justice sat, hands on his knees, staring down at the floor.

‘I am going to ask you one question, Sir Hugh.’ He lifted his head. ‘Have you trapped the real murderer?’

‘I know who it is,’ Corbett replied.

‘Do I have your oath on that?’

‘You have my oath.’

Sir Louis took up the edge of his cloak and picked at the threads.

‘If I am going to be put on trial, I demand to be taken to Westminster.’

Corbett ignored Sir Maurice’s sharp intake of breath. ‘Agreed.’

‘I am a justice,’ Sir Louis continued. He sucked on his upper lip. ‘I took an oath to uphold the truth and see that the King’s laws were executed. I’ve told you this before, Sir Maurice. I had little love for your father: he was a lecher, a philanderer. Thank God you are different. Even my late wife. .’ He paused. ‘No woman was safe when Sir Roger was around, but I never believed he was a murderer. Why should he kill Widow Walmer, whose favours he enjoyed? Yet the evidence was there, particularly Master Deverell’s, not to mention the bracelets and the knife. Nevertheless, I thought the jury would return a “Not Proven” verdict. Sir Roger would be acquitted, but disgraced and be forced to leave the shire. I was surprised when Molkyn returned the hanging verse: “Guilty with no plea for mercy.” Justice followed its cruel course.’

He smiled. ‘Sir Hugh is correct. I hid my doubts; I recalled the evidence: the jury was responsible. Above all, the murders had ended.’ He paused, wetting his lips.

Corbett went over, half filled a cup of wine and brought it back. Sir Louis thanked him with his eyes.

‘Oh, I made my own enquiries. I found out how Molkyn had acted the bully in the jury room. I was deeply suspicious about Furrell’s disappearance. I felt sorry for Sorrel and for you, Maurice. I did my best. I tried to be the father I had so brusquely removed from your life.’ He cradled the cup. ‘But when those murders began again I knew I was wrong. Somebody had come into my courtroom. I was no more than a puppet, a seal for the real killer’s wickedness. He and the rest had used the law to send an innocent man to the gallows.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘I felt a fool. I realised why Molkyn would sometimes leer at me or Deverell scurry away like the rat he was. I knew the King would have to intervene. I encouraged Sir Maurice to write those letters but I wondered what would happen if they escaped justice. The rest, Sir Hugh, is as you’ve said. In my view I carried out lawful execution: Molkyn, Thorkle and Deverell were the ones I held responsible. I might not trap the true killer but I am a King’s justice: perjury and bribery are capital offences. I learnt about all their habits: Molkyn’s drinking, Thorkle in the threshing shed away from his hot-eyed wife and furtive Deverell, with his Judas squint.’

‘And Blidscote?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh yes, our fat, corrupt bailiff. It was no coincidence that Molkyn and Thorkle were selected. He was as guilty as they were. I invited him to meet me near the river Swaile. I wanted to see his fat face crease in terror. I didn’t want him scurrying away: his body, weighted with rocks, still lies there.’ Tressilyian put the wine cup down on the floor. ‘I have no regrets, Corbett. None whatsoever.’

‘Why didn’t you wait for me?’ Corbett asked.

‘To be honest, Sir Hugh, I didn’t know how keen-witted you were. I didn’t want them to escape with their lies. It was my court they had mocked, not yours. I couldn’t see them escape. I am sorry about the lies but I wanted to muddy the waters so as to have time to finish the task. Deverell in particular, was difficult to hunt. Despite his protestations in court, he was not a man to go wandering around at night.’ He shrugged. ‘What more can I say? What is there to say?’

Sir Hugh rose and touched him on the shoulder. ‘Sir Louis Tressilyian, I arrest you in the name of the King for murder! You will be taken to London and lodged at a suitable place and, at a time appointed by the Crown, tried for your life.’ Corbett held his gaze. ‘You expected this, didn’t you?’

‘I had heard of you.’ Tressilyian smiled faintly. ‘As the days went on, I knew it would only be a matter of time, but the real assassin. .?’ He spat the words out.

‘Oh, he’ll be caught. The souls of those he murdered stand before God’s court and demand justice.’

‘You see yourself as one of the Children of the Light?’ Sir Louis taunted.

‘No, sir, I don’t.’ Corbett fastened his sword belt around him. ‘But I work for them. Ranulf, Chapeleys can stay with Sir Louis: he is to be lodged in one of the tavern chambers. The door is to be locked and guarded by Chanson.’

‘I won’t escape,’ Sir Louis declared. ‘You have my word. Nor will I do anything feckless. You can suspect what my defence is going to be, Corbett? I am a royal judge. Perjury and murder were committed in my court. I carried out the King’s justice.’

Corbett paused at the door.

‘Not even the King’s justice, Sir Louis, is above the law.’

‘Where are you going?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Why, to the church. Join me there, Ranulf. I have a passion for bell ropes and how they work.’

Corbett closed the door behind him and went down the stairs. The market square was now busy, the noise raucous. Chapmen and apprentices roared their prices, enticing customers with Bruges cloth, Spanish leather, fruits brought in by the traders from London, jewellery and ornaments from Ipswich. The relic-seller joined in the shouting, offering a sealed cup which he maintained contained the last breath of St George. Corbett pushed his way through, knocking aside hands and shaking his head as traders blocked his path, offering him a new belt, riding boots or gilt spurs. At last he was free. Grasping the hilt of his sword, he made his way up to the church. He paused at Elizabeth’s grave and noticed the white rose laid on the freshly dug earth.

‘Help me,’ Corbett whispered.

He walked through the coffin door. Candles were lit in the sanctuary but the place was empty. Swirls of incense from the morning Mass curled and sweetened the air. He went down to the belfry, opened the door and went in. For a while he stood examining the heavy ropes and the weights placed on the end.

‘If I knew who the patron saint of bell-ringers was,’ Corbett murmured, ‘I’d pray to him.’

He took one bell rope, placed it deep into the sloping windowledge and walked back into the church, closing the door behind him. He sat for a while and prayed. He didn’t want to do anything but wait to see if his theory worked. He went up to the Lady Chapel, lit a candle and knelt on the cushioned prie-dieu, staring up at the face of the statue.

‘You remind me of Maeve,’ Corbett whispered.

He felt guilty at such distraction, crossed himself and returned to the back of the church. The coffin door opened. A parishioner came in, an old woman who lit a candle, said a prayer and left. Corbett grew anxious. He was about to return to the belfry when the bell clanged and his heart leapt.

‘I thought as much,’ he murmured and flung the door open.

The rope bearing the lead weight had slipped off the window recess and, falling, had created a slight tremor, which sent the bells clanging. Corbett lifted the rope up again and placed it further up the windowsill. He stood and watched. The weight, made of copper or brass, was shiny and smooth. He noticed how it began to slip very slowly along the ledge.

‘And the further up I put it,’ Corbett told himself, ‘the more time it will take.’ Now, he thought, all I’ve got to do is wait.

He sat on the belfry steps and wondered where Ranulf was. The coffin door opened. Footsteps echoed along the nave. The door was flung open and Burghesh came in.

‘What on earth is happening?’ he exclaimed. ‘Why is the bell ringing?’

He glimpsed the bell rope and its weight in the window recess. He opened his mouth and stepped back.

‘What are you doing, Sir Hugh?’

‘I wondered,’ Corbett replied, ‘how the church bells could be rung when no one was up here? Last night when Curate Robert died, nobody was in this church. Do you remember? We all were sitting at the Guildhall feeding our faces, revelling in the civic wealth of Melford. Then the church bell rang. Up you jumped, Master Burghesh, like a hare in spring, and off you ran to discover what caused it. Some time later you come hastening back, all a-bother: Curate Robert has hanged himself for all to see. No sign of violence, no evidence that someone had hanged him. Moreover, up the cuff of his sleeve was a scrap of parchment, a quotation from the Psalms about his sin always being before him. To all intents and purposes, Curate Robert must have been the slayer of those young women. Unable to confront his guilt, or fearful of being caught, he seized the opportunity, when the church was deserted, to come into this belfry and hang himself.’

‘That’s what happened,’ Burghesh stammered.

Corbett leant his elbows on his knees and smiled back.

‘That’s not true, Master Burghesh. First, why did you leave the Guildhall? Because a bell tolled? Couldn’t Curate Robert deal with that and, if there was anything wrong, travel the short distance to the Guildhall to inform Parson Grimstone or yourself?’

‘Curate Robert liked his wine,’ Burghesh declared sourly. ‘It was one thing or the other: whipping himself for his sins, praying prostrate on the cold flagstones or drowning his woes in copious wine.’

‘No doubt he did, Master Burghesh. Last night, however, he came here to pray and think whilst you and Parson Grimstone prepared for the banquet. You joined him, all solicitous, bearing a big bowled cup of wine mingled with a very strong sleeping potion. You grow such herbs in your garden. Curate Robert wasn’t invited to the celebrations and he probably would have avoided them. He wanted to sit here in the dark feeling sorry for himself. If the wine didn’t put him to sleep, the potion certainly did. Whilst he drank, you busied yourself around the church like you always do. You came into the belfry, took one of the ropes and placed it very, very high, as far as you could into a window recess: something you learnt as a boy or noticed over the years. The recess has a slight slope. Eventually, the rope, pulled by its weight, slides off just like a man being hanged. The weight falls and the tremor sets the bells ringing. I’ve just proved it myself. I suspect it would take,’ Corbett pulled a face, ‘if pulled right back into the recess, a considerable time before the weight actually fell.’

‘Nonsense!’ Burghesh exclaimed.

‘I can prove it,’ Corbett murmured. ‘I didn’t study the mechanical sciences in Oxford but I know a little bit about weights and measures. Anyway, you had your signal to come hurrying back to the church. The house was all locked up. Poor Curate Robert had drunk the wine and was fast asleep. You then took him into the belfry, up the steps, tied the rope round his neck and released his body. Curate Robert never regained consciousness. Perhaps you tugged on his feet to hasten his death? That’s what caused the second peal of bells that night. You hid the cup, an easy thing in a place like this. You wiped poor Robert’s mouth with a cloth and gazed around: all was well so you hastened back to the Guildhall to proclaim the sad news.’

‘What about the letter?’

‘What letter?’

‘The piece of parchment found hidden in Robert’s cuff?’

‘Oh, you put that there. You brought the wine down to Curate Robert. Before you left the priest’s house with Parson Grimstone, you searched Bellen’s chamber, while he was in the church, and took away anything which might provoke suspicion. You were also looking for such a scrap of parchment. I wager Curate Robert was well known for writing out verses, quotations from the Bible on which to meditate. The one you took suited your purpose though any of them would have done. You put it into your wallet and went along to the Guildhall.’

Burghesh had now recovered his poise. He crossed his arms as if to show Corbett his hand was nowhere near his dagger.

‘But what if the weight hadn’t fallen? What if something had happened?’

‘In which case Curate Robert would have woken up with a sore head, feeling guilty as usual. You would have enjoyed a splendid banquet at the Guildhall and waited for another opportunity. True, you had been through Curate Robert’s chamber. Perhaps he would notice a few papers missing, some disturbance. But, there again, he might blame himself. He wouldn’t be able to remember very clearly, would he? Or he might blame Parson Grimstone who, in his cups, is forgetful and wanders where he shouldn’t.’

‘And why should I kill Curate Robert?’

‘Because you are an assassin, Master Burghesh. You like killing. You particularly like to watch some young woman’s terror as you rape, then garrotte her.’

Burghesh swallowed hard. ‘I don’t have to listen to this web of lies!’

‘Where can you go?’ Corbett lied. ‘My men are outside the church. They’ll arrest you as soon as you leave. Do you want to know why you killed Curate Robert?’

‘You have your theories,’ Burghesh scoffed. ‘Why should I kill a man whom I have lived with for so many years? He was my friend.’

‘He was also curate of this church,’ Corbett retorted, ‘and you were growing very concerned. Parson Grimstone drank a lot, he was becoming forgetful. What really concerned Curate Robert — and I admit I have no real evidence for this — was that someone told him, God knows who, why or how, that sins confessed in the shriving pew were known to others.’

‘So, you have no proof?’

‘I have proof of sorts. Curate Robert would be mystified by this, deeply alarmed. Did he discuss it with Parson Grimstone who, of course, would tell you? Or, did you go through the curate’s chamber and discover that he might be writing to his bishop? Bellen was becoming dangerous, that’s why you killed him! At the same time, he could be cast as a possible assassin. In truth, Curate Robert knew little about the murders. However, any priest with a spark of conscience would grow concerned if the seal of the confessional was being violated. I’ll wonder to my dying day and so will you,’ Corbett added, ‘just who this person was. Loud-mouthed Molkyn? His daughter? Or Deverell, our furtive carpenter? Even Blidscote?’

‘Are you also going to accuse me of Molkyn’s and Deverell’s deaths?’

‘Of course not,’ Corbett replied. ‘They were executed, or murdered, by Sir Louis Tressilyian, who realised that, due to their false testimony, an innocent man had been hanged.’

Burghesh started, his agitation obvious.

‘Oh yes, Sir Roger was innocent! You killed, Burghesh, and, because of you, others lied, perjured themselves and were finally murdered to protect your sin.’

Corbett got to his feet and moved further up the steps, lengthening the gap between himself and this bloody-handed assassin.

‘You’ve always been an assassin, Burghesh: you will stand there and hear the truth. You became a soldier to kill. You revel in hot, splashing blood, the stink of death, have done ever since you were a young man on a farm near Melford. How many years ago would that be? Forty? Going back to the reign of our King’s father? I have studied the Book of the Dead. It makes mention of two, three young women being murdered decades ago, as well as elliptical references to the corpses of “Unknown”. Who were these Unknowns? Poor travellers? Whores? Prostitutes? Runaways with the misfortune to come to Melford? You preyed along those country lanes like a weasel hunting rabbits. No one was ever caught for these murders, perhaps no one even cared. You were safe. To all appearances you were the honest, bluff Burghesh, half-brother to young Grimstone, who was destined for the Church. I wonder if you ever opened that book and looked at your victims’ names? Do you ever feel a pang of guilt?’

Burghesh just stared back.

‘You trained as a mason but eventually the lure of wars drew you away: an opportunity to exploit your bloodlust. God knows how many deaths you have been responsible for up and down this kingdom. Along the Scottish and Welsh marches, when whole villages and towns were put to the sword, who’d care about corpses?’

‘I was a good soldier,’ Burghesh sneered. ‘Never once did the King’s marshals lay charges against me.’

‘Oh, of course, they didn’t. Armies move quickly. No one would notice. I have met soldiers like you, Burghesh, bluff and hearty, but killers to the bone. You also earned yourself a pretty penny. You plundered the victims of war, didn’t you? Not only those you murdered but anyone else you could lay your hands on.’

‘The fortunes of war,’ came the cool reply.

‘And you brought your fortune back to Melford to show everyone how well you had done. You purchased the old forester’s house and, once again, became the half-brother and prudent friend of Parson Grimstone.’

‘He needed my help.’

‘Of course he did! The years haven’t been kind to Parson Grimstone, have they? The idealism, the dreams have faded. Lonely, a lover of red wine, Grimstone would have welcomed you with open arms.’

‘I told you. We are half-brothers and he was a good priest.’

‘Oh, I am sure you did your best to hide your bloodlust. You may have even struggled against the different demons which ravage your cruel soul. But old habits die hard, eh, Burghesh? You are a clever soldier. You know how to muffle the hoofs of a horse. Melford had also grown, become even more prosperous, the countryside more lonely: copses, woods, forests, grass-filled meadows and hedgerows, which turn the narrow lanes into little more than trenches, a place crisscrossed by old footpaths and trackways. Melford is so easy to slip in and out of, no walls or barred gates. So you go hunting again, dressed in your mummer’s mask.’

‘Mummer’s mask?’

‘Yes, a mummer’s mask. Something you had picked up on your travels or found here in Melford. Usually you would carry it in your saddle horn, perhaps in a bag or under a cloth. It was your disguise, just in case any of your victims ever escaped. At first you were careful. You preyed on the vulnerable, the weak, the traveller’s girl, the tinker’s wife or daughter, the occasional itinerant whore. You attacked, raped and murdered. God knows where some of their poor corpses lie, though I’ll come to that in a while.’

‘If you have no corpses, you have no proof!’ Burghesh retorted. ‘Sir Hugh, you are supposed to be a King’s clerk. All I hear are empty theories, hollow threats. What you say about me could be said about many a man in Melford.’

‘True.’

Corbett spread his hands and wondered where on earth Ranulf was. Burghesh had closed the thick heavy oaken door. Corbett hid his disquiet. If Ranulf came into this church he would think it empty, perhaps go looking for him elsewhere?

‘You are a hunter, Burghesh, of the soft flesh of innocents. You strut around Melford as the friend and confidant of the parish priest. You sit here in church and study the congregation like a fox eyes chickens in a farmyard. Melford has changed, hasn’t it? The young women are better fed, better clothed, have more time on their hands. The market draws them in. You see them there with their pretty faces, swelling bosoms. Your lust grows: no more the tattered traveller, the dirty slattern. But how do you trap them?’

Corbett paused. He watched the weight on the bell rope slide a little further down the recess.

‘So you chose Peterkin the simpleton. You lured him into taking messages to this woman or that. Peterkin was used to doing that. You taught him a simple doggerel verse which few young women could resist, especially if Peterkin was so urging, and showed that he had been paid to carry such a message. How could any young woman not be curious? Yet, she’d keep quiet, wouldn’t she, lest others find out or the message proved false? She would not wish to be made a fool of. After all, who would blame poor Peterkin? Your first victim rose to the bait. She went to some lonely spot and you were waiting. Most of the murders apparently occurred in the early evening. You raped, you murdered with that damnable mask over your face. You hid the corpse and then slipped back into Melford.’ Corbett shrugged.

‘The nightmare had begun!’