The Treason of the Ghosts

Chapter 3

The crypt under the church of St Edmund’s, Melford, was cavernous and sombre. Rush lights and oil lamps sent the shadows dancing, turning the atmosphere even more ominous. Sir Hugh Corbett stared at the funeral ledges built at eyelevel around the chamber. Some of the coffins were rotting and decayed, displaying fragments of bone. One entire casket had fallen away and its yellowing skeleton lay on its side, jaw sagging. Corbett thought it was grinning at him like some figure of death, ready to pounce. He waited while Parson Grimstone loosened the lid of the coffin which lay on trestles in the centre of the room. The priest took the lid off and removed the purple cloth beneath. Corbett stared down at the waxen face of the corpse within. Those who had dressed the young woman for burial had done their best. Corbett moved the head with one finger. He stared at the mottled bruises which ringed her throat like some grisly necklace.

‘It looks like a garrotte,’ he remarked. ‘Where was she found?’

‘Near Devil’s Oak. Her body was tucked away beneath a hedge. Two boys collecting firewood found it and raised the alarm.’

Corbett stared at the priest. Parson Grimstone was undoubtedly nervous — his eyes puffy with lack of sleep, hands trembling. He looked as if he hadn’t shaved and his black gown was marked with food stains. The parson placed the lid back on the coffin and walked over to the stone chair built into the wall. He sat down next to his friend Adam Burghesh and put his face in his hands.

‘You are very upset.’

Sir Hugh Corbett went to stand over him. The priest looked up and swallowed quickly. He was frightened, not just by the terrible murders which had occurred but by the presence of this royal emissary, with his black hair tied in a queue behind him, the long thoughtful face tense and watchful. Corbett would have been called swarthy except for the peculiar strikingness of his high cheekbones and those brooding dark eyes which never seemed to blink. They stared and searched as if eager to remember every detail. Parson Grimstone didn’t like the look of the King’s principal clerk of the Secret Seal. Sir Hugh was dressed in a dark grey military cloak fastened at the neck; a brown leather sleeveless jerkin beneath, leggings of the same colour, pushed into black, mud-spattered riding boots on which the spurs still clinked.

Corbett took his gauntlets off and thrust them into his sword belt. Yes, I’m frightened of you, Grimstone thought. Even more so of his companion — what was his name? Ah yes, Ranulf-atte-Newgate: tall, red-haired, dressed like his master. A fighting man despite his status as a clerk in the Chancery of the Green Wax. Burghesh had whispered that he was Corbett’s bullyboy. Grimstone glanced quickly at Ranulf’s white, clean-shaven face, those lazy, heavy-lidded green eyes. He reminded Grimstone of a feral cat which stalked the graveyard. A brooding man, Ranulf stood with his back to the door, watching his master, who, in turn, seemed fascinated by this rib-vaulted crypt.

‘A strange place to gather.’ Burghesh broke the silence. ‘Couldn’t we have met elsewhere?’

‘It’s cold,’ Robert Bellen complained.

The curate sat hunched in one of the chairs almost obscured by the great central pillar which supported the roof.

‘The place reeks of death.’ Walter Blidscote, the plump, red-faced, balding bailiff of Melford shook his head so vigorously his jowls quivered: his numerous chins pressed down against the military cloak which swaddled him like a blanket does a baby.

‘A good place for justice.’ The young, blond-haired Sir Maurice spoke up. He had thrown his cloak on to the ground and sat slightly forward, tapping his gloves against his knee. He shuffled his feet impatiently as if he expected the royal emissary to hold court there, and then declare his dead father innocent.

‘Who built it?’ Corbett asked. He walked round the circular-shaped crypt, stooping to look into the coffin ledges. ‘I have never seen the like of this.’

‘There used to be an old Saxon church here,’ Grimstone explained. ‘It was pulled down in the reign of the second Henry. This used to be a burial place. They built the present church over it. The coffins are those of the previous parsons though the practice of burying them here has now stopped.’ He laughed abruptly. ‘I will join the rest out in the cemetery.’

‘Why did you ask to meet here?’ Burghesh demanded. ‘You can see Parson Grimstone is not well.’

‘For two reasons.’ Corbett sat down on a chair. He moved an oil lamp on the ledge behind him and placed his gloves beside it. ‘As you know, I am lodged at the Golden Fleece where, I suspect, the walls have ears.’ He smiled with his lips though his eyes remained hard. ‘Secondly, I wanted to view the corpse. By the way, why is that placed here and not in the church?’

‘It’s the custom,’ Grimstone sighed. ‘This is our death house. The poor girl was found last Monday. Her corpse was brought into the church yesterday evening. Tomorrow morning it will be placed before the rood screen. I will sing the Requiem Mass and the burial will take place immediately afterwards.’

‘It’s certainly a dour place.’

Corbett scratched his head. He licked dry lips. He would have preferred to be back at the Golden Fleece. He, Ranulf and their groom, Chanson, had arrived mid-morning, just as the church bells were tolling the Angelus. Blidscote had been waiting in the taproom. Corbett suspected he had drunk more than was good for him. The clerk had insisted on viewing the corpse as well as questioning certain people more closely. He would have preferred Burghesh to be elsewhere but Parson Grimstone was in a dither. He’d insisted that his friend accompany him from the spacious, well-furnished priest’s house behind the church.

‘Why has a King’s clerk, the keeper of the Secret Seal,’ Blidscote now spoke carefully, trying to remove the drunken slur from his words, ‘decided to grace this market town?’

‘Because the King wants it!’ Corbett snapped. ‘Melford may be a market town, master bailiff, it’s also the haunt of murder — brutal deaths which go back years. What is it today?’ He squinted across the chamber. ‘The Feast of St Edward the Confessor, October the thirteenth, the year of Our Lord 1303. Five years ago,’ he pointed across at Sir Maurice, ‘his father, Lord Roger Chapeleys, was hanged on the common scaffold outside Melford for the murder of those maidens and a rather rich young widow. What was her name?’

‘Goodwoman Walmer,’ Sir Maurice replied.

‘Ah yes, Goodwoman Walmer. Sir Maurice was only fourteen years of age but, since he reached his sixteenth year,’ Corbett smiled at the young manor lord, ‘he has sent letter after letter into the royal chancery, stoutly maintaining his father’s innocence, that a terrible miscarriage of justice has taken place. Now the King could do little. Lord Roger was tried by a jury before Louis Tressilyian. Evidence was produced, a verdict of guilty brought. The King could see no grounds for a pardon so sentence was carried out.’

‘My father was innocent!’ Sir Maurice shouted. ‘You know that.’ He pointed threateningly at Grimstone.

‘How do I know that?’ the parson retorted.

‘Before he was hanged,’ Sir Maurice found it difficult to speak, ‘you shrived him. You heard his last confession. Did he confess his sin?’

‘I cannot tell you what was said under the seal of confession.’

‘You can tell us what wasn’t said,’ Corbett declared.

‘You told me!’ Sir Maurice shouted.

‘It’s true. It’s true.’ Grimstone rubbed his hands together. ‘Sir Roger did not confess to any murder.’

‘He was held here, wasn’t he?’ Corbett asked, staring round the crypt.

‘Yes,’ Grimstone confirmed. ‘This sometimes serves as a prison. There is only one entrance, which can be heavily guarded. I did hear Sir Roger’s confession but, you must remember, he was held here for two weeks pending his plea for a pardon from the King. He was also visited by an itinerant friar. He may have confessed-’

‘Enough,’ Corbett declared. ‘Let us move to the present, to October 1303. In the summer of this year, a young peasant woman was found murdered. Three days ago,’ he gestured at the coffin, ‘another victim was slain in the same way by a garrotte, as were Goodwoman Walmer and the other victims five years ago.’ He gestured to the bailiff. ‘What did the locals call the assassin?’

‘The Jesses killer,’ Blidscote replied. ‘When one of the victims was killed, a local poacher, Furrell, was in the vicinity. He was frightened and hid, said it was pitch-dark. He heard the girl scream followed by the tinkling of bells, like those attached to the claws of a falcon or hawk.’

‘And where is this Furrell?’ Corbett asked.

‘Disappeared,’ Blidscote replied. ‘No one knows where he went. Some people claim he ran away. Others that, drunk as usual, he stumbled into one of the mires or swamps. There are enough of those in the woods around Melford.’

‘He was probably murdered!’ Sir Maurice explained. ‘He was the only one who claimed my father was innocent.’

‘Now, why should he do that?’ Corbett asked.

‘I don’t know. He disappeared shortly after the trial.’

‘Did he speak on your father’s behalf in court?’

Sir Maurice flailed his hand. ‘Furrell was a vagabond, more drunk than sober. He slept out in the ruins at Beauchamp Place. Who’d give credence to his story? He proclaimed his views in court and the Golden Fleece. He said my father never fled along Gully Lane the night Goodwoman Walmer was murdered.’

‘Yes, but your father,’ Blidscote spoke up, ‘did admit to visiting Goodwoman Walmer that evening. Sir Roger must have passed Gully Lane on his way home.’

‘Are you saying my father is guilty?’ Sir Maurice sprang to his feet.

‘Hush now!’ Corbett ordered.

‘Well, are you?’ Sir Maurice advanced threateningly on the bailiff.

Ranulf-atte-Newgate slipped quietly across the room and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.

‘I suggest you sit down,’ he smiled. ‘If my master says something, it’s best if you obey.’ He pressed hard. Maurice’s fingers went to the hilt of his dagger. ‘Don’t do that.’ Ranulf shook his head. ‘I beg you, sir, please!’

Sir Maurice stared into those slightly slanted green eyes and swallowed hard. Corbett he found daunting but this fighting man, smelling of a slight fragrance, mixed with horse sweat and leather, and those green eyes which smiled yet held his unblinkingly. . Sir Maurice breathed in deeply and retook his seat. Only then did he notice Ranulf pushing the throwing dirk back into the leather sheath beneath his wrist.

Ranulf leant against the door and grinned. Old Master Long Face, he thought, was up to his tricks again. Corbett had gathered them all here for a purpose. Not just to view the corpse or be away from the Golden Fleece. He wanted them to feel free to be at each other’s throats. To say things they’d later regret. Old Master Long Face would scoop their words up, write them down and concentrate as if he was playing a game of chess. Corbett ignored Ranulf and stared up at the vaulted ceiling.

‘What we have here,’ he measured his words, ‘are three sets of murders. The young women killed five years ago, this year’s victims and, of course, the others. Molkyn the miller, whose head was sent floating across his millpond. Someone struck him a silent, deadly blow. A difficult task, eh? Molkyn, I understand, was a burly oaf: that’s how Matthew the taverner, mine host at the Golden Fleece, described him. Strong as an ox with a nasty temper. I would have liked to have seen his corpse but it’s beneath the ground now.’ Corbett paused to chew the corner of his lip. ‘He was killed a fortnight ago. A few days later, Thorkle the farmer was slain.’

‘Are you saying all these deaths are linked?’ Adam Burghesh asked.

Corbett pulled a face as he studied this veteran of the King’s wars. Burghesh looked sickly, skin the colour of parchment but the large sea-grey eyes were steady enough. A soldier’s face with a crisscross of scars on the right cheek, thick bushy eyebrows, clipped greying hair, moustache and beard. A good swordsman, Corbett thought, with long arms and broad chest. He would also have been a good master bowman, especially with the yew bow the English troops had brought back from the war in Wales. A captain of the royal levies, Burghesh had been warmly spoken of by the King when he and Corbett had met in the Chamber of the White Wax at Westminster.

‘Do you think the deaths are related?’ Corbett asked. ‘After all, you were all here when Sir Roger was executed.’

‘Adam has been my mainstay and strength.’

Parson Grimstone spoke up so abruptly Corbett idly wondered if the priest’s wits were wandering. Had the shock and sudden turmoil broken his mind? Corbett ignored the interruption.

‘Well?’ he repeated. ‘Are the deaths related? True, Thorkle and Molkyn weren’t maidens. They were not garrotted.’ Corbett ran his thumbnail round his lips. ‘They were not ravished. But, both were local men and served on the jury which convicted Sir Roger. Isn’t this strange: the murders of young women begin again whilst two of the men who convicted the supposed killer meet a very grisly fate?’

‘Why the King’s interest?’ Blidscote spoke up.

‘I think you’ve asked that before.’

‘But you only half answered.’

‘Then listen now.’

Corbett got to his feet. He grasped his gloves and slapped them against his leg.

‘Sir Roger Chapeleys may have been a murderer,’ he waved the gloves as a sign for Sir Maurice to be silent, ‘but he was also one of the King’s companions, a good soldier. True, a man who liked his drink and a pretty face but that’s not a hanging crime. Otherwise my good friend Ranulf-atte-Newgate would have been hanged a hundred times.’ Corbett tapped his fingers on the coffin lid. ‘But what happens if Sir Roger was totally innocent? After all, the murderer has returned. Not only to rape and strangle young women but even to carry out dreadful murders on those involved in the unlawful execution of Sir Roger Chapeleys? These are serious crimes, sir: not only gruesome killings but a total mockery of the King’s justice. Molkyn the miller and Thorkle were the members, even leaders, of the jury against Sir Roger.’

‘As you said,’ Blidscote growled, ‘they led the jury.’

‘But,’ Corbett continued, ‘why those two? Why not any of the other ten? Or has the assassin only begun? Does he, before long, plan to kill all those involved in Sir Roger’s death?’

‘In which case,’ Sir Maurice Chapeleys scoffed, ‘I will follow my father to the scaffold. The finger of accusation has already been pointed at me for carrying out revenge.’

‘Yes, that’s possible. I’m glad you mentioned it, rather than me.’ Corbett retook his seat. ‘Can you tell me where you were in the early hours of Sunday morning a fortnight ago? Or the night Thorkle died?’

‘I was in church with the rest,’ Sir Maurice stammered. ‘And, as for the following Wednesday evening,’ he swallowed hard, ‘I was in my manor house: my retainers will swear to that.’ He coloured slightly and shifted uneasily. ‘It’s cold down here,’ he added. ‘How long do you intend this to go on?’

‘One person is missing.’ Ranulf-atte-Newgate swaggered into the pool of light, thumbs stuck in his sword belt. ‘Blidscote, you received my master’s message. Where is the justice?’

‘I asked Sir Louis to be here.’ The bailiff shrugged. ‘I am not my brother’s keeper, certainly not Sir Louis’s!’

‘Master Blidscote!’ Corbett called across. ‘For the time being, let us concentrate on the murder of these young women. In the last five years or so there have been six such victims? And that includes Goodwoman Walmer?’

‘There’s neither rhyme nor reason to it,’ the bailiff replied. ‘Local women, usually pretty, coming or going to the market or town.’

‘Isn’t that dangerous?’ Ranulf asked. ‘The trackways and lanes here are lonely. Copses of woods, dark forests, hiding places for outlaws and wolfs-heads.’

Blidscote stared blearily back.

‘That’s a good question,’ Corbett insisted. ‘Why should five young women, not including Walmer, go out by themselves? If I understand correctly from the court record, and the same applies to the two most recent deaths, all five were killed outside the town. Now, if I follow the accepted story, Sir Roger was judged guilty of four of the murders but he can’t very well have killed the last two, can he?’ Corbett pointed to the coffin. ‘Take this poor woman. What’s her name?’

‘Elizabeth the wheelwright’s daughter.’

‘And her corpse was found under a hedge?’

‘Yes, she disappeared two nights ago.’

‘And when was she last seen?’

‘I have the father upstairs in the church,’ the bailiff replied.

‘Then you’d best fetch him!’

Blidscote, breathing heavily through his nose, stamped off. They heard the sound of voices and the bailiff returned, the wheelwright trailing behind him. A burly, fat-faced man, his sallow skin discoloured with warts, he stood in the doorway shuffling his feet, passing the staff he carried from hand to hand.

‘Come in, Master Wheelwright!’ Corbett invited.

The man wasn’t listening. He was staring at the coffin. His shoulders began to shake, tears raining silently down his weather-worn cheeks. He stretched out one great red chapped hand as if he could draw his poor daughter back to life.

‘Come in, Master Wheelwright.’

Corbett got to his feet and walked across. He opened his purse and put a silver coin into the man’s outstretched hand.

‘I know that’s little comfort,’ he said, ‘but I am sorry for your pain. Master Wheelwright, my name is Sir Hugh Corbett. I am the King’s clerk-’

‘I know who you are.’ The man lifted his head and glared balefully at Corbett. ‘And I am an earthworm, sir-’

‘No, you are not,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘Master Wheelwright, you are a citizen of this town and the King’s loyal subject. I swear on everything holy,’ Corbett’s voice rose, ‘I am here to trap the murderer of your daughter. Then I will personally supervise his execution.’

‘They said that before,’ the wheelwright murmured. ‘They said there would be no more deaths after they hanged Sir Roger.’

‘Well, they were wrong. But,’ Corbett touched the man’s arm, ‘if God gives me strength, I shall be right and your daughter’s death will be avenged. Now, come in!’

He made the wheelwright sit down next to him in one of the strange carved sedilia. The wheelwright now became aware of his surroundings and looked nervously about.

‘How many children do you have?’

‘Elizabeth and two boys; she was the eldest.’

‘And the day she died?’

Corbett waited patiently. The wheelwright’s shoulders hunched and he began to sob again. At last he coughed and wiped his eyes on the back of his hand.

‘I have a house and yard on the edge of Melford. Elizabeth was a pretty young thing. It was market day. She wanted to go into town to buy something. It was her birthday last Michaelmas. She had two pennies. You know the way it is with young women? A ribbon, some gewgaw or perhaps to meet a local swain?’

‘Did she have one?’ Corbett asked.

‘No.’ The wheelwright smiled. ‘She was fifteen, but flighty in her fancy. She went to market.’

‘And?’

‘I made enquiries. She met the other young men and women on the edge of the square where the maypole is set up. Her good friend, Adela, who works as a slattern in the Golden Fleece, saw her last. She said Elizabeth was, well, rosy-cheeked with excitement. “Where are you off to?” Adela asked. “I must hurry home,” Elizabeth replied. This was between four and five o’clock. She wasn’t seen afterwards.’

‘And did Adela know where Elizabeth was going?’

‘She crossed the square in the direction of a lane out of Melford.’

‘Did this Adela say Elizabeth was rosy-cheeked, happy, as if she had some secret assignation?’

The wheelwright looked puzzled.

‘A lovers’ meeting,’ Corbett explained. ‘Was she a secretive girl?’

The wheelwright closed his eyes. ‘No. She had her airs and graces. She wanted to make a good marriage. “I don’t want to be a farmer’s wife,” she would often say, “but marry a man with a skill or trade.”

‘And the days before her death? Did she change?’

‘At first, when Blidscote asked me,’ the wheelwright flicked his fingers contemptuously at the bailiff, ‘I said no but, now, yes there was something.’ He paused. ‘I wouldn’t say sly but as if she had a secret, something she treasured. There again, she was always falling in and out of love.’ The wheelwright fought to keep his voice steady. ‘I never thought it would come to this.’

‘Master Blidscote,’ Corbett turned to the bailiff, ‘when the young woman’s corpse was found, you went out?’

‘I took the cart. I put the corpse in, brought it back and sent one of my men for the wheelwright.’

‘And the corpse?’ Corbett insisted. He patted the wheelwright gently on the shoulder as the man began to sob. ‘There was no sign of the killer, or the garrotte he used?’

Blidscote shook his head.

‘And did you see anything untoward around the corpse?’

Corbett hid his anger: Blidscote’s bleary glance told him he hadn’t even looked.

‘Where is this spot?’ Corbett demanded testily.

‘At Devil’s Oak. It’s a big, ancient tree on Falmer Lane.’

‘But that doesn’t lead to her father’s house?’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

‘So, Elizabeth was found in a place she shouldn’t have been. Out in the countryside?’

‘Yes, yes, that’s right.’

‘In which case,’ Corbett concluded, ‘either she went out to meet somebody or was taken there, either before she was killed or after. Correct?’

Blidscote burped and nodded.

‘And the corpse itself?’ the clerk continued.

‘The young woman’s kirtle and smock were pushed well above her stomach,’ the bailiff mumbled. ‘I think she was killed very near where her corpse was found.’

‘And the other murder?’ Corbett asked.

‘Down near Brackham Mere.’

‘And her killing?’

‘The same.’

Blidscote was now wiping his sweaty palms on his thick, stained hose. He felt distinctly uncomfortable sitting in a cold crypt before this royal clerk with his remorseless list of questions. All he found were corpses: he’d brought them back but now he realised he had made mistakes: he should have been more careful.

‘And that victim?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Her name was Johanna,’ Blidscote declared. ‘She was the same age as Elizabeth. They were friends. She was on an errand for her mother to buy something in the market. People saw her, talked to her, then she disappeared until her corpse was found near Brackham Mere.’

Corbett patted the wheelwright on the shoulder and slipped another coin into his hand.

‘Go back into the church,’ he urged. ‘Light a candle for yourself and Elizabeth in the Lady Chapel. When you wish, you may go.’

The wheelwright shuffled out. Corbett stared down at his hands. He waited until the door at the top of the steps closed.

‘Parson Grimstone, these two young women — they were decent girls?’

‘Yes, of good families. Oh, they flirted and they laughed, but they came to church. Minds full of dreams, of falling in love with some handsome knight. Ever ready to dance and celebrate, whisper secrets to each other. Even,’ the parson smiled to himself, ‘when they should have been listening to me.’

Corbett got to his feet and stretched. ‘Both of these last victims,’ he declared, ‘were found in places they did not usually go. I suspect they knew their killer. But what would lure a woman out to some desolate spot?’

‘Money,’ Ranulf replied.

‘Are you saying they were strumpets?’ Burghesh asked sharply.

‘No, sir, they were like you and I, greedy! Acquisitive! They were good country lasses, red-cheeked wenches.’ Ranulf tapped his fingers on the hilt of his dagger.

‘But they were poor. You heard the wheelwright. To buy a ribbon or a gewgaw. .’

‘And they were prepared to sell their favours.’ The curate’s thin, pallid face flushed, red spots of anger appeared high on his cheeks.

‘I don’t mean to insult their memory,’ Ranulf retorted, ‘but they were country girls. Such as they share the same bedchamber as their parents and their brothers. They know what pleasure the love act gives. It doesn’t mean they are strumpets. God forgive us all. It only means they could be easily gulled or tricked.’

‘I don’t believe this!’ The curate sprang to his feet.

‘Don’t you?’ Ranulf snapped. ‘You’re a priest, aren’t you? You should know your own people.’

‘Sit down! Sit down!’ Grimstone got up, tugging at his curate’s robe. ‘Our guest,’ Grimstone emphasised the word sardonically, ‘speaks the truth.’

‘Just what are you saying, Ranulf?’ Corbett asked.

‘Here we have two young women, Master. They come from poor families; their little noddles are stuffed with dreams and fancies. They go round the market buying bread and cheese, the necessities of life. Then they pass some chapman’s tray or pedlar’s stall, with blue and red ribbons, perhaps a brooch, a ring, a bracelet? To us they are trifles, but to them, more precious than the King’s jewels. Perhaps the killer lured the bait? A free gift? Buy this, buy that. In return for a kiss? The token is given. The young woman, of course, is sworn to secrecy and so the second trap is laid. Only this time in some lonely, desolate place. The young woman thinks why not? She has never earned such money so easily and so lightly, so off she goes to meet her death.’

Corbett stared at his manservant. ‘But where is this money?’

‘If our master bailiff,’ Ranulf went over and squeezed Blidscote’s shoulders, ‘went to the houses of both victims and searched from floor to ceiling, I wager a silver coin to a silver coin, that the girls’ hiding places would be found as well as the money they were given or what they bought with it.’

‘Do that, Blidscote,’ Corbett ordered. ‘If Master Ranulf is telling the truth, you will find me in the Golden Fleece. And where are you going, sir?’ Sir Maurice Chapeleys had got to his feet.

‘I have answered your questions, sir,’ the young knight replied. ‘My father’s grave.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I wasn’t given leave to take his body back to our manor but, Parson Grimstone was gracious enough. .’

Corbett didn’t know whether the young knight was being sardonic or not.

‘You wish to visit your father’s grave?’

Sir Maurice nodded. ‘This has provoked memories. If you have further questions, our good parson knows where I am.’

Corbett let him go. He briefly recapped on the meeting’s progress and was about to adjourn when the door at the top of the crypt opened and shut with a crash, followed by the sound of running footsteps.

‘In God’s name!’

Ranulf stepped hurriedly aside as a tall, white-haired knight, swathed in a dark blue cloak, flung himself into the crypt. His face was cut and bleeding, clothes mud-stained.

‘I have been attacked!’

‘Sir Louis!’ Parson Grimstone sprang to his feet.

The newcomer took off his remaining glove and threw it on the ground.

‘I was attacked!’ he repeated.

‘Outlaws?’ Corbett asked.

‘I don’t know.’ Tressilyian sat down on a chair, mopping his face with the hem of his gown. ‘Thank God Chapeleys isn’t here.’

‘Why’s that?’ Corbett asked.

‘I’d swear it was his father’s ghost!’