The Treason of the Ghosts

Chapter 18

‘Don’t you suffer guilt?’ Corbett taunted. ‘In the early hours of the morning, or at night, do the ghosts gather round your bed? Have you no fear of God or justice?’

‘I like a good story,’ came the mocking reply.

‘Elizabeth the wheelwright’s daughter — ’ Corbett continued matter-of-factly — ‘her ghost is here. As I came into church I prayed to her. Perhaps she is the best example to use. You approached poor Peterkin, as you always did, gave him a coin, made him repeat the message. Normally Elizabeth would ignore Peterkin but she’s young, full of wayward notions. Peterkin is earnest and has been paid to deliver a message. So, on that fateful evening, she goes to her secret place in the copse of woods near Devil’s Oak. She meets her death: you, with that heinous mask across your face, the belt-bracelet you wear jingling on your wrist. You attacked, raped and murdered her. Once the bloodlust was past, you carefully removed the corpse to a hedge, near Devil’s Oak. Perhaps you intended to come back and hide it. If you had your way, maybe you would have hidden all the corpses, except for Widow Walmer’s.’

‘So, I am guilty of her death as well?’

‘Yes, five years ago, you killed at least three women. You would have killed again but something strange happened. Sir Roger Chapeleys gave the church a triptych. God knows why. A gift? An expression of guilt and remorse?’ Corbett undid the wallet on his belt and drew out the crude drawing he had found in Curate Robert’s room.

‘Do you recognise this, Burghesh? In the background, a picture of Christ crucified; in the forefront, three figures. The central one is a priest, the man on his right looks like a clerk; he might be a curate or perhaps an angel. The one on his left is this figure wearing a mask. Do you see it? Jerkin, leggings and boots and, on his face, a mask similar to a mummer’s. You thought Chapeleys was poking fun, hinting at the truth. The central figure being Parson Grimstone, the clerk Curate Robert and this mummer’s figure, your good self.’

‘True, I never liked the painting,’ Burghesh sneered. ‘I was glad when someone burnt it.’

‘No, you burnt it lest someone read the same message you did. Do you know, Burghesh, I don’t think Roger Chapeleys was hinting at anything. Such drawings are quite common in London churches. The man on the priest’s right represents the wisdom of the world and the figure on the left its foolishness. It’s a reference to a quotation from St Paul. It underlines temptations facing many priests and exhorts them to ignore both.’

Corbett could tell from Burghesh’s eyes that he had struck home.

‘You are a fool,’ Corbett continued. ‘It wasn’t an accusation levelled against anyone. You took it as a personal insult, a subtle accusation of your bloody deeds. I wager you realised that later. If Sir Roger had truly suspected you, he would have accused you in open court.’

Burghesh opened and closed his mouth.

‘Sir Roger Chapeleys had difficulty with drinking. He was well known as a lecher and a toper. He was an unpopular figure. You decided to destroy him!’ Corbett didn’t wait for an answer. ‘On that fateful night Sir Roger visited Widow Walmer. After he left, you went down. Perhaps you had visited before. You knew her house, Sir Roger’s gift of a knife. She allowed you in and then you killed her.’

‘I was in the taproom of the Golden Fleece.’

‘Oh, of course, you were, both before and after the murder. No one took careful note of your comings and goings. Like Lucifer you sidled up to Repton the reeve. He, too, knew about Sir Roger’s visits and was drowning his sorrows. Go on, you urged, confront the woman with her infidelity, tell her about your love. Repton didn’t need much encouragement. Down he went but he had the wit to realise the danger when he found her dead. He was terrified. He fled back to the Golden Fleece. He’d make excuses, say he had changed his mind. He really wanted someone to accompany him back. What an ideal opportunity for you. Good friend Burghesh accompanied him down and the rest is known.’

‘Has Repton told you this?’

‘No,’ Corbett smiled. ‘But he will do. When we fasten his hands and allow the King’s questioners to interrogate him, it’s wonderful what he will remember. You were with Repton, weren’t you? Good old Burghesh slipping in and out. I suspect it was you who attacked me near the mill on my first night in Melford. You were trying to confuse me. When I reached the Golden Fleece, you were sitting there cradling a tankard, jovial and hearty, beyond any suspicion.’

The weight on the bell rope reached the end of the ledge and fell off. Corbett ignored the jangle of the bell.

‘All was now ready. Sir Roger’s house was searched. You’d sent the keepsakes of those other victims to Sir Roger. You knew the mind of the man. He’d regard them as gifts or tokens from some of his conquests. He’d throw them in a chest and think nothing of them.’

‘And Deverell?’

‘Ah, now we come to the rest of your stratagem. I said Parson Grimstone is a toper. He is also lonely. He’s a well-meaning man but garrulous in his cups.’ Corbett tapped the side of his nose. ‘He knows all the secrets of the village, doesn’t he? Especially Molkyn’s. The death of his first wife, as well as his illicit relationship with his own daughter, Margaret. The same is true of Thorkle. How his wife was planting a pair of cuckold horns with young Ralph? And, of course, about the carpenter Deverell, in truth a monk who’d fled his monastery, enjoying an illicit marriage whilst hiding from the eyes of the Church.’

Beads of sweat glistened high on Burghesh’s forehead. ‘Those are confessional secrets!’ he spluttered.

‘Some are, some are not.’ Corbett sighed. ‘But Parson Grimstone is lonely. He’s drinking with his close friend and half-brother Burghesh, who has collected such juicy morsels over the years. You do know about such scandals?’

‘I will say nothing,’ Burghesh retorted.

‘I wonder how you approached your blackmail victims. Was it scribbled on a piece of parchment? Some quotation from the Bible? Like the one Molkyn received, quoting Leviticus, which strictly condemned incest? Was it a personal visit in the dead of night or along some alleyway? Do this, do that or face the consequences. They would all be terrified: Deverell faced ruin, Thorkle ridicule, Molkyn public anger.’

‘I didn’t choose them for the jury. Blidscote did!’

‘Blidscote?’ Corbett asked. ‘Good God, you didn’t have to be a friend of the parish priest to know about Blidscote. He’s a byword for corruption, or rather was. He’s dead now. Did you learn about his passion for little boys? What united all your victims of blackmail was not only their secret fears but their open dislike of Sir Roger. You, the Mummer’s Man, the Jesses killer, had set the stage.’

Corbett emphasised the points on his gloved fingers: ‘Chapeleys had been with Widow Walmer the night she died; the knife; his ownership of some of the dead women’s jewellery; Deverell’s testimony; popular dislike against him and, finally, a jury really controlled by you. What chance did the poor man have?’

Corbett moved on the step. He took some comfort from a sound outside, a slight footfall. He hoped it was Ranulf and not Parson Grimstone.

‘The only fly in the ointment was Furrell the poacher. He knew the comings and goings of the countryside. On the night Widow Walmer died, he saw Sir Roger leave her safe and sound. He talked of other people slipping through the darkness to that poor woman’s cottage. We know Repton went down twice. I suspect a third was you, the killer.’ Corbett leant forward and jabbed a finger. ‘And it will be Furrell who hangs you, Burghesh, and hang you shall! He became very curious about what he had seen, the lies told about Sir Roger. I am sure you had a hand in the whispering campaign.’ Corbett paused. ‘Above all, Furrell had seen that triptych: he began to wonder if the truth was as clear as a picture. So, where does a man go who is troubled?’ Corbett pointed to the floor. ‘Why, Master Burghesh, he comes to church. I warrant he spoke to Parson Grimstone, or did he approach you directly? Accuse you openly? Whatever, he never left this church alive.’

‘Nonsense! Furrell was a drunk. He fled from that woman of his and went elsewhere.’

‘I promised Furrell would hang you. Master Burghesh, the busybody around the church, the man who burnt the triptych, who cleans, rings the bells and digs graves.’

Burghesh was now clearly agitated, a hand resting on the hilt of his dagger.

‘Where do you put a corpse like Furrell’s,’ Corbett continued, ‘when you have a woman like Sorrel who knows the countryside like the back of her hand? You put him with the other corpses. I’ll go through the Book of the Dead again to trap Burghesh the grave-digger. In the evening you dig a plot for a funeral the following morning. Only sometimes, you dig it a foot deeper and bury one of your victims, someone like Furrell or one of the wandering women. I’ll get half of Melford up here with mattock and hoe and we’ll go through that Mortuary Book. We’ll dig up coffins then go deeper. The dead will convict you. The treason of the ghosts, eh, Burghesh? They’ll represent evidence you cannot challenge. After all, only you dig the graves. We’ll also question Parson Grimstone, search your house, particularly the little stable behind. We’ll look for cloths filled with straw to deaden the sound of your horse’s hoofs. And, of course,’ Corbett knocked the bell rope, ‘we’ll go back to Curate Robert.’

Corbett got to his feet. ‘We’ll hold a court here in church. I carry the King’s Seal. I’ll call on the dead to betray you. How thronged the nave will become! You are a killer, Burghesh. You deserve death.’

Burghesh leant his head back against the door, watching Corbett from under hooded eyes.

‘Sorrel called you a weasel, Burghesh. I wonder what’s the full tally of your victims. How many secret graves lie around Melford? Furrell and his woman discovered some: that poacher was your nemesis. Do you know what that means?’

His opponent simply sneered.

‘It’s God’s judgement,’ Corbett explained. ‘I suspect Furrell brought that triptych back from Ipswich for Sir Roger and remembered it after the poor knight was hanged. Furrell certainly suspected you. He made up a song, about being between the devil and an angel, he was referring to Chapeleys’ triptych.’

‘He was a drunken fool!’

‘He was a sharp fool. To quote scripture, Master Burghesh, the foolishness of man is often the wisdom of God. You also dismissed Sorrel as a vagrant but, when I arrived, you changed your mind. You realised how much she might know: that’s why you went out to Beauchamp Place to murder her. You would have murdered me as well with that piece of twine stretched across the bridge. An old poacher’s trick or, in your case, Burghesh, an old soldier’s! I’ve seen royal archers use the same trap to bring down horsemen. Oh yes,’ Corbett watched Burghesh carefully, ‘you crept out of Melford and, if I hadn’t been at Beauchamp Place, Sorrel would have disappeared. I wonder where you would have buried her? You lured some of your victims back to the woods behind your house and, as with Furrell, buried them in the graveyard.’ Corbett took a step forward. ‘Let’s go into the church, Burghesh. Its nave must be filling with ghosts, all crying to God for justice. They’ll betray you, hand you over for punishment, both in this life and the next.’

Burghesh ripped the dagger from his sheath.

‘What are you going to do?’ Corbett scoffed. ‘Kill the King’s clerk?’ He drew his own dagger. ‘My name’s not Elizabeth. I am no soft, frightened girl.’

‘No, you are not!’ Burghesh snarled. ‘You are a clever clerk. You don’t know what it’s like to have demons tapping inside your skull. You are right about one thing: Melford is so easy to leave and-’

Before Corbett could stop him, Burghesh was through the door, turning the key in the lock. Corbett heard a brief scuffle and went down the steps. The door was unlocked and swung open. Ranulf stood there, the hilt of his sword under Burghesh’s chin.

‘Where have you been?’ Corbett accused.

‘Looking for you.’

Ranulf’s eyes never left Burghesh. He pressed the point of the sword, forcing the man to look at him.

‘I couldn’t find this creature but I remembered your words about the bell tower. I have been listening for a while at the door, just catching phrases. So, look what we’ve caught!’

‘Tie his hands!’ Corbett ordered. ‘And, once you have done that, ring the bell!’

Ranulf obeyed. Corbett went and took the sanctuary chair and placed it in front of the rood screen. Parson Grimstone came waddling in, all confused. Corbett told Repton the reeve, when he arrived, to take him back to the priest’s house and lock him in. Within a short while the nave was packed with people hastening up from the marketplace. Corbett ordered the Book of the Dead to be brought. He told them what he was going to do and quelled the clamour.

‘Is it true?’ Repton shouted. ‘Master Burghesh is under arrest? He and Sir Louis Tressilyian?’

‘Yes,’ Corbett replied. ‘But I have to discover some new evidence.’ He raised his voice and shouted above the murmur. ‘Certain graves have to be reopened, coffins and corpses removed.’ He paused for the shouting to die down. ‘We will discover something evil,’ he continued. ‘I ask you to trust me.’

‘Well, we had best do as you say,’ Repton the reeve replied sardonically. He let his hand drop over his groin. ‘We don’t want to upset our royal clerk, do we?’

Corbett led a party of men out into the graveyard. He discovered when Furrell was last seen and compared dates in the Book of the Dead. One grave was opened, its mouldering coffin removed and wrapped in a sheet. Nothing else was found. The second time, however, Repton, standing in the grave, said he could feel something beneath his feet.

‘It’s not hard soil either,’ he shouted.

A short while later a grisly, decayed cadaver was brought gently out and laid on the wet grass. The flesh had shrivelled, only some hair remained. Corbett put his gloves on, turned the head over and pointed to the crack at the back of the skull.

‘It’s Furrell, all right,’ Repton murmured. ‘God have mercy on him! I recognise his belt and boots.’

A woman screamed and Sorrel, hair flying, came running across the graveyard. She took one look at the corpse and, if Corbett hadn’t caught her, she would have collapsed to the ground. He let her kneel there, sobbing, face in her hands, and moved to other graves. The day grew on. Sometimes they found nothing but, quite regularly, other unaccounted corpses were unearthed: grisly cadavers, really nothing more than skeletons.

‘What is this?’ Repton demanded.

‘Burghesh would kill,’ Corbett replied, ‘and bring the corpses in at night. He dug the graves for a funeral Mass either early in the morning or late in the evening. His victim was then buried and sealed in her grave before the consequent funeral. It’s all the evidence I need.’

By now a considerable crowd had gathered. The news had spread and Corbett became concerned. The mood of the onlookers turned ugly. Sticks and stones were thrown across the cemetery wall, a threatening group clustered under the lych-gate. Ranulf armed himself, as did Chanson. Corbett swore in Repton and others as members of his comitatus, then went down to the lych-gate and confronted the mob.

‘Will justice be done?’

Corbett recognised the burgess who had bored him last night at the Guildhall. Corbett held up his warrant so all could see the seal.

‘I am the King’s Commissioner!’ he shouted. ‘I have the authority to hear cases and pass sentence: that will be done!’

‘What about a jury?’ the burgess asked.

‘There is no need for a jury,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Burghesh threatened a King’s clerk carrying the royal warrant: that’s treason. However,’ Corbett admitted ruefully, ‘it would be better if Burghesh confessed.’

The prisoner was brought up from the crypt. He glimpsed the mob and heard their threatening cries. Corbett had him held beneath a yew tree, then brought across the sheets of leather containing Furrell’s remains and those of the others. Burghesh stared at them and glanced away.

‘Will you confess?’ Corbett demanded.

Burghesh breathed in noisily. ‘What can I say?’ he murmured, and smiled slyly at Corbett. ‘It’s true what you said, the treason of the ghosts! The dead betrayed me.’

‘The dead want you,’ Corbett retorted. ‘You have a reckoning to make. You and Parson Grimstone.’

‘Oh, is that the way this will go?’ Burghesh asked.

‘He was your accomplice,’ Corbett insisted.

‘No, he wasn’t. He’s just weak.’

‘Is that a confession?’ Corbett asked.

‘No, it’s not, master clerk. If you want one then you shall have it, but only after I have talked to Parson Grimstone.’

Corbett agreed. Ranulf and Chanson took the bound prisoner into the priest’s house. Corbett returned to the church and sat studying the carvings on the rood screen. He tried to pray but found he was tired — a sudden weariness — so he sat at the foot of a pillar and dozed for a while. He felt sickened by Burghesh and the callous cruelty of his murders. He wanted to be away from Melford.

An hour must have passed before Ranulf and Chanson brought Burghesh back into the church. The prisoner now seemed to be in a trance.

‘Grimstone’s a wreck,’ Ranulf murmured. ‘He sits there gibbering like a child. He’ll be dead drunk within the hour.’

‘And the killer?’ Corbett nodded at Burghesh.

Ranulf felt inside his jerkin and drew out a scroll. Corbett unrolled it and recognised Ranulf’s writing. The confession had been taken in the bleak, elliptical manner clerks used. Corbett asked for a candle to be lit and read it. He went cold at the list of crimes.

‘At least fifteen,’ he murmured. ‘Fifteen people killed!’ He got to his feet. ‘Bring the prisoner into the sanctuary.’

Corbett stood before the high altar. He took a small crucifix from a side table and placed it at one end, the King’s commission beside it. Burghesh stood on the other side of the altar, Ranulf and Chanson flanking him.

‘Adam Burghesh,’ Corbett began, ‘you are accused of terrible murders in and around Melford. The list,’ he tapped the confession, ‘speaks for itself.’

‘I am guilty.’ Burghesh’s mouth hardly seemed to move. ‘I have spoken to Grimstone. I thought he’d forgive me.’

‘I have the power to try you,’ Corbett declared.

‘What’s the point?’ Burghesh half smiled. ‘If it’s to be done let it be done quickly. You have the authority, you have the proof and now my confession. My only regret is I never killed you. I should have done. I recognised that the very first day you arrived here. I am guilty as Judas and I couldn’t care if I hang like him!’

‘Adam Burghesh, by the power invested in me as the King’s Commissioner of Oyer and Terminer, I do, by your own admission and the evidence offered, find you guilty of terrible homicides. You have the right to appeal. .’

Burghesh snorted with laughter.

‘You have also drawn a knife against the King’s Commissioner and that is petty treason.’

Corbett paused, he felt a deep revulsion at this cold-eyed man who had wiped out so many lives; who had lied and forced others to lie to save his own neck.

‘You are sentenced to hang on the common scaffold. You will have the opportunity to be shrived by a priest. Sentence is to be carried out before sunset!’

In the remaining hours Corbett and his men, with the assistance of Sir Maurice and others, packed their belongings. The young manor lord had now taken over proceedings, sending a messenger to bring in armed retainers from his own estate. Corbett and Sir Louis Tressilyian, guarded by Ranulf and Chanson, met Sir Maurice and the execution party at the crossroads outside Melford. A large crowd had gathered, spilling into the fields around. Burghesh was defiant to the last. He was placed on the ladder, pushed up by two of Chapeleys’ retainers and the noose placed round his neck.

Darkness was falling, a cold wind had arisen. Corbett sat hunched on his horse before the gibbet. He hated executions, the logical conclusion of the King’s justice, yet this time he felt different: no elation or joy, just a grim determination to see the matter through.

He glanced over his shoulder. Tressilyian, who had given his oath not to escape, sat on his horse, his bound hands holding the horn of his saddle. He seemed to be unaware of anything except the man on the ladder, the noose round his neck. Sir Maurice sat next to him, pale-faced, hard-eyed. Corbett glanced around. Sorrel was standing nearby, a posy of flowers in her hands. He recognised the wheelwright, Repton and others from the Golden Fleece.

‘Adam Burghesh!’ he called out. ‘Do you have anything to say before lawful sentence is passed?’

Burghesh hawked and spat in Corbett’s direction.

Corbett pulled his horse back, its hoofs skittering on the pebbled trackway. The clerk raised his hand.

‘Let the King’s justice be done!’

The ladder was pulled away but Burghesh acted quickly. He leapt and his body shuddered and jerked for a while, then hung still. Nothing broke the eerie silence except for the rustling of the wind and the creak of the scaffold rope.

‘The corpse is to remain there for a night and a day!’ Corbett ordered. ‘Then it can be buried.’

He turned and beckoned Sir Maurice forward.

‘Set a guard on the scaffold,’ he whispered. ‘Make sure that killer dangles as a warning.’

‘I’ll do that, Sir Hugh. And Sir Louis?’

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied. ‘He’s a clever lawyer: he will argue that he carried out the King’s justice. Burghesh is proof of that.’

‘Will he suffer the same fate?’

‘I doubt it,’ Corbett replied. ‘But he’ll face a very heavy fine: prison or exile for a while.’ He took off his glove. ‘I wish you well, Sir Maurice.’

The manor lord clasped Corbett’s hand. The clerk turned his horse and stared at the now silent figure swaying slightly on the end of the rope. He felt a touch on his knee and looked down. Sorrel offered the small posy of flowers. Corbett took it. She grasped his knee.

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I now have a corpse to grieve over and a grave to visit. The King’s justice has been done.’

Corbett leant down and stroked her face.

‘Aye, Mistress Sorrel, and so has God’s!’