The Treason of the Ghosts

Chapter 6

Corbett, leading his horse, followed Sorrel across the ditch and into the water meadow. The ground was wet but still firm. Corbett felt as if he was walking along a dreamlike landscape: the surrounding trees and bushes were bathed in moonlight; Sorrel was striding in front of him, swinging her cane, singing softly under her breath. A hunting owl flew like a white shadow above them. Corbett’s horse started and he paused to let it nuzzle his hand. He couldn’t help thinking of Maeve watching her husband, a royal clerk and manor lord, going across night-wrapped fields with this mysterious woman. The owl, which had reached the far trees, now began to hoot, low, mournful but clear on the night air.

‘My man,’ Sorrel said over her shoulder, ‘always claimed owls were the souls of priests who never sung their Masses.’

‘In which case,’ Corbett replied, ‘the woods should be full of such birds!’

Sorrel laughed and walked on.

‘What can you tell me about the people of Melford?’

‘Oh, I could tell you a lot, clerk, but then they’d realise you’d been talking to me. I think it’s best if you found out yourself. I’ll show you what I have and let you think. However,’ she paused and waited for Corbett to draw level with her, ‘you said you were in a maze so let me help you. Blidscote is fat and corrupt. Deverell the carpenter has a lot to hide and Repton the reeve is cold and hard. That’s the problem, master clerk, isn’t it? If these men were here, or their wives or sweethearts, they’d tell similar tales about me.’

‘Old Mother Crauford?’ Corbett asked. ‘Melford’s Jeremiah?’

‘Oh, she and that Peterkin! Let me put it this way, clerk: there may be a Mummer’s Man who wears a mask but the likes of Crauford and Peterkin also wear masks. They are not what they seem to be, but what they truly are escapes me. She mutters and moans. He acts fey-witted, runs errands for this person or that and spends his coins on sweetmeats.’

‘And Melford’s history?’

The woman stopped and tapped her stick on the ground. ‘As you can guess, I am not from Melford. I wandered here twelve years ago and met Furrell. He was kind and taught me the ways of the countryside. I thought, what’s so bad about this? Better God’s trees and meadows than the piss-washed alleyways of-’

Corbett was sure she was about to add ‘Norwich’ but she bit her lip.

‘Furrell claimed Melford was a strange place. A settlement stood here even before the Romans came. Do you know who they were, clerk? Weren’t they led by William the King?’

Corbett laughed and shook his head. ‘No, no, different people, different times.’

‘Anyway,’ Sorrel continued, eager to show her knowledge, ‘Furrell believed wild tribes lived here: they sacrificed people — ’ she pointed to a distant copse — ‘on great slabs of stone or hanged them from the oak trees.’

‘Do you think that’s why Old Mother Crauford believes Melford is a place of blood?’

‘Perhaps,’ Sorrel murmured. ‘I’ll show you something tonight. You can also meet my friends.’

‘Friends?’ Corbett queried.

‘Moon People,’ she explained. ‘They have tales which might interest you. But I want to show you something, clerk, something which intrigues me.’

She walked on more purposefully. They were now going downhill. Corbett glimpsed the river and the dark mass of Beauchamp Place, its jagged walls and empty windows clear against a patch of starlit sky. Corbett recalled memories of a haunted house near his own village when he was a boy. He remembered being challenged to spend a night there and his mother’s anger when she found his empty bed.

At last they reached a makeshift bridge which crossed a narrow, evil-smelling moat.

‘Sometimes, when the river becomes full, it’s drained,’ Sorrel explained.

Corbett was more concerned with his horse, nervous and skittish as its hoofs clattered on the wooden slats. At last they were across under the old gatehouse and into the cobbled inner bailey. By some coincidence — perhaps the builder had planned it — the bailey seemed to trap the moonlight, increasing the manor’s ghostly appearance.

‘A haunted place!’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘Don’t its ghosts trouble you?’

‘Oh, people say there are ghosts,’ Sorrel grinned. ‘And I embroider the stories to keep them away.’

‘Aren’t you nervous?’

‘Of the ghosts!’ she exclaimed. ‘True, strange sounds can be heard at night. I often wonder if Furrell comes looking for me but it’s the living who concern me. And, before you ask, clerk, I am not really frightened of strangers or outlaws. Why should they hurt the likes of me? Especially,’ she called out as she crossed the yard, ‘as I have a cudgel, a dagger, not to mention a crossbow and bolts.’

She led Corbett into the ruined hall. Most of its roof had gone, leaving the beams open to the elements. Sorrel lit sconce torches and, in their flickering dance, Corbett glimpsed faded paintings on the far wall. The dais at the top had once been tiled but most of the stone had been ripped away.

‘You can hobble your horse here,’ Sorrel explained.

Corbett did so and followed her across the dais. The door in the wall at the back had been repaired and rehung on leather hinges. The large room inside must have once been the solar, or family room, for the manor lord and family. Its roof was still sound; the plaster had been refurbished. Corbett was surprised how clean and neat it was. There were stools, a bench, trestle table, two large chests, an aumbry and, in the far corner, a four-poster bed shrouded by faded red curtains. Candlesticks in iron spigots were placed round the room as well as sconce torches which Sorrel immediately lit.

‘Take your ease,’ Sorrel offered.

Corbett looked around and whistled under his breath. ‘It’s very comfortable.’

‘Of course it is,’ Sorrel called.

She went into a small adjoining room and wheeled back a metal-capped brazier. Corbett watched as she expertly fired the coals and, taking a small pouch of ground herbs, sprinkled some powder across the top. A warm sweet perfume pervaded the room.

‘Who did all this?’ Corbett asked.

‘Why, Furrell. You see, sir, no one owns Beauchamp Place. People are terrified of the ghosts and, if the river spills, it can be dangerous but, the hall, solar and my buttery are safe.’ She added proudly, ‘Furrell was a good poacher. I was in Melford earlier with three pheasants for the Golden Fleece. People pay well for good, fresh meat, finely gutted and cleaned. Furrell bought the bed from a merchant who was leaving for London. The other sticks of furniture came from the likes of Deverell. That’s how people paid him.’

Corbett noticed the paintings on the far wall. He got up and went across. They had been done in charcoal, filled in with rough paints, small scenes from country life; most of them depicted a man or woman netting a hare or catching conys in the hay. Others were more vigorous: a pheasant burst up from the gorse, its head going back as it was hit by a slingshot; a roe deer, antlers high, knees buckling as an arrow dug deep into its neck.

‘Who did these?’ Corbett asked.

‘Furrell. Don’t forget, you may work by day but my man worked at night.’

Corbett continued to study the rough paintings. Sorrel brought in two pewter cups. She filled these with wine and, grasping a small poker, thrust it into a now fiery brazier. She then took it out, warmed the wine and sprinkled each with nutmeg. She wrapped a rag round one cup and handed it to Corbett.

‘It’s good wine, isn’t it?’ she said, sitting down on the bench opposite, her eyes bright and expectant.

Corbett felt a little uncomfortable.

‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Do you really believe that I can discover the truth?’

‘You must do.’ Sorrel pointed across to a small niche containing a statue of the Virgin, a candle fixed in wax before it. ‘Every day I pray to her. You’re God’s answer.’

Corbett sipped at the wine. It was warm and mellow. He felt relaxed, slightly flattered. Most strangers couldn’t stand the sight of him. A royal clerk, particularly the keeper of the Secret Seal, was regarded as dangerous: a man who had the ear of the King.

‘Right.’ Corbett sipped again. ‘Five years ago Sir Roger Chapeleys was hanged. Furrell went before the justices and pleaded on his behalf?’

‘I’ve told you all that.’

‘And then what happened?’

‘Well,’ Sorrel pulled a face, ‘Sir Roger was in prison for a while. Sir Louis dispatched pleas to London but the King sent the order back. Sir Roger had been found guilty by a jury.’ Sorrel sipped at her own wine. ‘The poor man even offered to purge himself by trial by combat but that was refused. Sentence of death was confirmed and he was hanged.’

‘Did you attend the execution?’

‘Oh no, nor did Furrell.’

‘And when did your husband disappear?’

Sorrel narrowed her eyes. ‘About a month after Sir Roger’s execution. Furrell was a strange one. He had many faults. I wondered if he did lie with other women but, in his own way, he was loyal. As I said, we took a vow under the yew tree and he looked after me. He was kind and tender, never raising his hands to me, even in his cups. He could be garrulous, at other times he would sit and brood, barking out short statements like when he mentioned the Mummer’s Man.’ She pointed to the wall. ‘I think that’s why he liked painting. He always had a great fear, did Furrell, that his wits would wander, that the loneliness would darken his mind.’

‘And Sir Roger’s execution?’ Corbett brought her gently back to the matter in hand.

‘Ah yes.’ She shifted her hair away from her face with her wrist then held the cup against her chapped cheek. ‘After the hanging my man was not the most popular person in Melford: dark looks at the Golden Fleece, cold shoulders in the marketplace. Furrell, however, was a ferret of a man: he had his mind set on Sir Roger’s innocence. He became obsessed with it. I wish,’ she sighed, ‘I had listened more carefully to his rantings and ravings. He never changed the song he sang: Sir Roger did not attack Widow Walmer. He left her cottage peaceably, full of wine and love whilst she was alive and hearty.’

‘And?’ Corbett asked.

‘Furrell went back to the widow’s cottage. Now, you can imagine what happened after her death. The town council seized her property as tax. It’s now been sold to another so you won’t find anything interesting. Anyway, Furrell went back there. From the night of her death, the council put guards and bailiffs on her property. You know the way it is: windows and doors were sealed though that didn’t stop people rifling her hen coops and taking what livestock they could filch. There’s nothing like a funeral,’ she added wistfully, ‘to bring the greed out in people. Now Furrell made very careful enquiries.’ She pointed to the door of her own chamber. ‘Much as I boast about my crossbow and dagger, when I sleep at night I draw the bolts across. Wouldn’t you, master clerk?’

Corbett agreed.

‘Well,’ Sorrel continued eagerly, putting the cup on the floor and using her hands to illustrate what she was saying, ‘on the night she died Widow Walmer entertained Sir Roger, yes?’

Corbett nodded.

‘And when he went, what would she do? She’s drunk wine, she’s made love, she’s tired. If I were her, I would douse the fire and lamps. .’

‘Fasten the shutters and bolt the door,’ Corbett finished the sentence for her.

‘Exactly! Especially if she was alone. Now, if someone had come to attack, ravish and slay her?’

‘They’d force the door,’ Corbett declared.

‘Furrell found this hadn’t happened. No damage to the doors or shutters. So our widow must have known her visitor.’

‘I am not a lawyer,’ Corbett replied, ‘but I would argue that perhaps Sir Roger paid a second visit. Widow Walmer would let him in.’

‘True,’ she agreed. ‘But why leave in the first place? And, if he was going to kill her, why return, why not do it earlier?’

Corbett cradled the cup in his hands. ‘Then let me act the lawyer, Mistress. For the sake of argument let’s assume that Sir Roger left and did not return. The killer comes tripping down the lane.’ He paused. ‘So what would happen? The murderer tapped on the door, Widow Walmer must have been so assured that she opened it and let her assassin in. So sure of him, she probably turned her back and that’s when he slipped the garrotte string around her throat. I have seen similar murders in London. It doesn’t take someone long to learn how to use the garrotte: it’s silent and very quick. I don’t know,’ he rubbed his face, ‘whether he first made her lose consciousness, then raped her, or just defiled her dead body. What I am sure of is that he didn’t wear a mummer’s mask. Widow Walmer would never have let such a creature into her house. So, whom would she allow in?’

‘The list is endless,’ Sorrel replied. ‘Sir Louis, Taverner Matthew, Repton the reeve, who was sweet on her. Parson Grimstone, Burghesh, Curate Bellen. Even Molkyn and Thorkle can’t be ignored.’

Corbett rocked himself backwards and forwards on the stool. Why would a widow, he wondered, open her door at the dead of night? There again, she was respectable. She had the protection of a man like Sir Roger. If her visitor was a worthy burgess or priest from Melford. .?

‘The killer,’ he declared, ‘must have used some pretext to get into her house.’

‘That would be easy,’ Sorrel smiled. ‘Widow Walmer was full of wine and happiness. Perhaps the visitor posed as a messenger from Sir Roger?’ She caught Corbett’s sideways glance. ‘I know what you are thinking, clerk!’

‘What am I thinking, Mistress?’

‘Furrell, he was a poacher, wasn’t he? Well liked by Widow Walmer. He was near her cottage that night. Widow Walmer would see him as no threat. Furrell had squeezed the life out of many a pheasant or partridge.’

‘I am thinking that,’ Corbett agreed. ‘And you must have thought the same in the days following Sir Roger’s execution.’

‘That’s why I told Furrell to keep his mouth shut. I pointed out how people might begin to think, perhaps regret Sir Roger’s death and point the finger at him. I told him I didn’t want to hear any more about the business so he kept it to himself.’

‘Did he ever hint that he knew the truth?’

‘Sometimes. Once he mentioned Repton the reeve but, as I have said, he’d grown secretive.’

‘Did he go anywhere? Meet anyone?’

‘If he did, he didn’t tell me.’

Corbett started as he heard a sound from the hall beyond. His horse whinnied. Corbett’s hand went to the dagger in his belt.

‘Oh, you are safe,’ Sorrel reassured him. ‘I’ve sat here many a night, clerk. I can tell one sound from another. We are alone.’ She grinned impishly. ‘Apart from the ghosts.’

‘And the night Furrell disappeared. You said he left one night?’

‘Furrell had stopped talking to me. Oh, we’d discuss the weather, what he’d poached, what goods we should buy. He also avoided the Golden Fleece and drank in other taverns. He’d grown very tense and watchful. He mumbled more and more about the devil. One night he left, all cloaked and hooded.’

‘Was he armed?’

‘Like me, a dagger and a cudgel. He never returned the next morning. I wondered if he had got drunk and was sleeping it off somewhere. Or had he been caught? I went out into Melford but no one had seen him. A week passed. One night I was praying before that statue. Autumn had come early. I remember a mist sweeping through the hall. Do you know, clerk,’ her eyes filled with tears, ‘I just knew Furrell was dead and buried somewhere so I began to wander the countryside. I didn’t believe the rumours. Furrell wouldn’t run away; he wouldn’t leave me or his house.’ She blinked quickly. ‘I am not fey-witted. I don’t really believe in visions or dreams but I used to have nightmares of Furrell’s corpse lying in some shallow, muddy grave all scarred and unhallowed. I remembered what he used to say. How, when he died, he wanted his body churched and blessed; a Mass sung for his soul.’

‘Did you go to see Parson Grimstone?’

‘Yes I did. Him and Master Burghesh were very kind. The parson said he’d sing a Mass for him and refused the coin I offered. I still want to find his grave. I’ve discovered many things — that’s what I want to show you — but not Furrell.’

‘Many things?’ Corbett queried.

‘Come with me.’

Sorrel put her cup down. She took a torch from the wall, handed it to Corbett and grasped one herself. She led him back into the hall, across the courtyard and in through a small stone-fretted door.

‘Take care,’ she warned as she led him up some weather-worn steps.

Corbett followed warily. The steps were narrow, steep and slippery. They reached a stairwell. Corbett steeled his nerves against the scampering rats. At last they reached a long, narrow room very similar to the hall. The roof was gone, the plaster walls soaked by the wind and rain. Corbett could tell by the shape of the empty windows, the small platform at the far end and the recesses in the walls, that this must have been the manor chapel.

‘I want to show you something.’

A bird, disturbed by their arrival, abruptly burst from where it was nesting in the rafters and flew up into the night sky. Corbett closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. He fought back the waves of weariness. He should be back at the Golden Fleece but, on their journey into Melford, Corbett had repeated to Ranulf and Chanson, time and again, how quickly they must act.

‘We must take people by surprise,’ he’d told them, ‘not give them time to concoct stories.’

‘Master clerk, are you asleep?’

Corbett opened his eyes. The torch felt heavy, he lowered it and smiled in apology.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

Sorrel was now taking away bricks from the wall. Corbett joined her; he realised that a recess lay beyond. Sorrel told him to stand back and pulled out a makeshift platter.

‘Part of a doorway,’ she explained.

She threw back the dirty linen sheet. Corbett stared in disbelief at the skeleton which sprawled there. He lowered the torch. The bones were yellowing with age. The jaw sagged, the blackened teeth had crumbled, faint tufts of hair still clung to the skull. He muttered a prayer, moved the bones and glimpsed the tawdry, green-tinted bracelet lying beneath.

‘What is this?’ he murmured. ‘A former inhabitant of Beauchamp Place?’

‘No, no,’ she replied. ‘All its owners were buried in the parish graveyard. I put this here.’

‘Why didn’t you tell anyone?’

‘Oh come, master clerk.’ Sorrel took the bracelet from his fingers. ‘You know the old law. Whoever finds the corpse falls immediately under suspicion. You know what they’d say? “Were you involved in this, Sorrel? Is this the work of your man, Furrell? Is that why he fled?”

‘They’ll say the same if they come here.’

Sorrel shook her head. ‘I’ll be sly. I’ll say I never knew the bones were here. I know nothing of them. Perhaps they belonged to a lady or maid who once lived here.’

‘So, you know it’s a woman?’

Sorrel closed her eyes. ‘Of course it’s a woman, hence the bracelet. I also found a cheap ring, the remnants of a girdle. I kept them as treasure.’

Corbett, still holding the torch, sat down on the cold damp floor.

‘But why, Sorrel? What is this skeleton doing here?’

She took the torch out of his hand and stuck it into a niche in the wall; she did the same with hers, then she made herself comfortable before him.

‘You’ll tell no one,’ she warned. ‘I won’t be troubled because of this. I am as innocent as a child.’

‘Tell me,’ Corbett insisted.

Sorrel rubbed her face in her hands. ‘Furrell was a very good poacher. He knew all the trackways and wood lore. When I used to go hunting with him, he’d always tell me to stay away from this place or that. I asked him why. That’s when he told me how Melford used to be, about the sacrifices. He tried to frighten me with stories of the dead wandering the woods.’ She laughed abruptly. ‘He just wanted me to be safe on dark nights, indoors by the fire.’

Corbett watched her curiously. Here he was in this haunted, unhallowed place, the sky visible through the beams above, the cold wind sending the flames dancing. Before him the remains of some poor woman and this widow telling eerie stories about Melford’s dark past.

‘Anyway,’ Sorrel continued, ‘I paid him no heed. I told you people talk about the murders, other women disappearing. I saw it as no business of mine.’

‘Until after Furrell disappeared?’

‘Yes. Now I reasoned that Furrell would never enter someone’s house. The night he disappeared he didn’t visit the Golden Fleece or any tavern or alehouse in or around Melford. I reasoned that if he had been killed, it must have been out in the countryside and his corpse secretly buried. I began to search.’ She bit her lip. ‘Shall we put the remains back?’

‘In a while,’ Corbett replied softly. ‘Continue your story, Mistress.’

‘I won’t be held responsible?’

‘You will not be held responsible,’ Corbett confirmed. ‘But,’ he added wryly, ‘I wish you to add flesh to the bones.’

She laughed at the macabre joke. ‘Furrell was once an outlaw. He knew all about Sherwood and the other great forests north of the Trent. He told me how outlaws, if they killed a traveller, would never take the body far but bury it near the road or trackway where they’d planned their ambush. The places Furrell told me to stay away from were always near a trackway or path. Now, you have seen Devil’s Oak and Falmer Lane. If you were a bird, master clerk, yes. .’ She closed her eyes. ‘Imagine yourself a falcon flying above the meadows and fields around Melford. Go on, close your eyes!’

Corbett did so. ‘Strange,’ he murmured. ‘The day is not clear but grey and overcast.’

‘Good,’ Sorrel agreed. ‘Now, remember the fields on either side of Falmer Lane — they roll and dip, don’t they? The lanes and trackways are deep, more like trenches through the countryside. That’s what Furrell called them.’

‘Yes, yes, I’ve thought of that,’ Corbett agreed. ‘It’s a vision enhanced by the high hedgerows.’

‘That’s the work of the sheep farmers-’

Corbett opened his eyes. ‘What are you implying?’ he interrupted.

‘A poacher,’ she replied, ‘always stays within cover. He will, where possible, always scurry along a ditch or a hedgerow. It’s common sense. One side is protected and he does not want to be caught out in the open. Rabbits and pheasants do the same. The night Furrell disappeared, he must have followed the hedgerows down to a certain place to meet someone. He was probably killed there.’ She kept her voice steady. ‘And his poor corpse buried. Good, I thought, that’s where I’ll begin.’

‘But I saw you in a copse well away from Devil’s Oak?’

‘Patience,’ Sorrel murmured. ‘I mentioned one path Furrell would take but he also favoured the secret copse, the hidden clump of trees. I searched both places. In my first week, Sir Hugh,’ she tapped the skull, ‘I found this. It was behind a hedgerow down near Hamden Mere, a place Furrell had warned me to keep well clear of. I was curious. I dug, no more than a foot, and came across the grave, just a shallow in the ground, the remains tossed in. I noticed the ring, bracelet and piece of girdle. I was going to leave it there but my conscience pricked me. Here was I, searching for poor Furrell’s corpse yet I couldn’t give these pathetic remains proper burial. I don’t trust Blidscote, or any of those wealthy burgesses. I thought of going to see Parson Grimstone, but who’d believe me? I took the ring as payment, wrapped the skeleton in a leather sheet and brought it here.’

‘This was once the chapel, wasn’t it?’ Corbett asked. ‘In your eyes, a holy place?’

‘Yes. I later regretted my charity.’

‘Why?’ Corbett asked.

‘I found two more graves,’ she confessed.

‘What!’

‘I tell you, I found two more graves. That’s why I called the killer of those young women a weasel but. .’ She paused.

‘What?’ Corbett asked.

‘How do we know these poor women were murdered? I’ve examined these bones. There’s no blow to the head. No mark to the ribs. Nothing!’

Corbett got to his feet. His fingers felt cold and he stretched out towards the warmth from the sconce torch. What do we have here? he thought, staring into the heart of the flame. Sorrel was an expert poacher. She knew the land around Melford. He’d met similar people on his own estates. They could tell if the ground had been disturbed, what animals had passed along which trackways. Furrell must have discovered these graves scattered around the countryside. Being shrewd and clever, he must have disturbed them, realised what he had found, covered them over and, because of superstition, kept Sorrel well away from them. She, in turn, when looking for his grave, sharp-eyed and remembering what she had learnt, had found one grave: out of respect or superstition, she’d then moved the pathetic remains to this ruined chapel. But were they murder victims?

‘What do you think, master clerk?’

‘They could be murder victims.’ Corbett spoke his own thoughts. ‘They could be the prey of the slayer of Elizabeth Wheelwright and the others but, there again, another killer could be responsible, years earlier. Look at the skeleton. The flesh and clothes have all decayed — nothing but brittle, yellowing bone. Indeed, these graves may have nothing to do with murder.’ He sat back on the floor. ‘In London, Mistress Sorrel, beggars die every night on the streets, particularly during wintertime. Their bodies are buried in the mud flats along the Thames, out on the moorlands or even in someone’s garden. Melford is a prosperous place,’ he continued. ‘Think of the young girls from Norwich and Ipswich, the Moon People and the travellers. A woman sickens and dies of the fever or, frail with age, suffers an accident. What do these people do? They leave the trackway. They don’t go very far but dig a shallow grave, place the woman’s corpse there in some lonely copse or wood. A skeleton does not mean a murder,’ he concluded. ‘We don’t even know when this poor woman died. Do you still have the ring?’

She shook her head. ‘I traded it with a pedlar for needles and thread.’

Corbett examined the bracelet. ‘It’s certainly copper, the damp earth has turned it green.’ He held it up against the flame. ‘But I would say. .’

‘What, clerk?’

Corbett took out his dagger and tapped it against the bracelet.

‘It’s not pure copper,’ he confirmed. ‘But some cheap tawdry ornament. The same probably goes for the clothes and the girdle.’

He crouched down beside the skeleton and examined it carefully. Sorrel was correct. None of the ribs was broken, nor could Corbett detect any fracture of the skull, arms or legs. He examined the chest, the line of the spine: no mark or contusion.

‘The effects of the garrotte string,’ he murmured,

‘would disappear with decay. How many more of these graves did you say?’

‘Two more and the bodies are no less decayed than this.’

Corbett, mystified, replaced the bracelet. He rearranged the bones back on to the board, covered them with the cloth and slid them back into the recess. Sorrel replaced the bricks; Corbett helped her. He tried to recall his conversations with his friend, a physician at St Bartholomew’s Hospital in London.

‘You found no string? Nothing round the throat?’ he asked.

‘No, I didn’t.’

Corbett was about to continue his questioning when he heard a sound. He got to his feet and moved to the window.

‘You have sharp ears, clerk.’ Sorrel remained composed.

‘I thought I heard a horse or pony, a rider. .’

‘I told you, someone I wished you to meet,’ she explained.

Corbett, one hand on his dagger, stood by the window. He heard the jingle of a harness. Whoever had arrived had already crossed the bridge. An owl hooted but the sound came from below. Sorrel went to the window and imitated the same call. She grasped Corbett’s hand.

‘Our visitor has arrived.’

‘The Moon People?’

‘They got tired of waiting,’ Sorrel explained. ‘They watch the hours as regularly as a monk does his office.’

Corbett stared up at the night sky. Aye, he reflected, and I watch mine. What time was it? He had left the church with Sir Louis and Sir Maurice about an hour before nightfall. It must be at least, he reckoned, three hours before midnight and he still had other business to do: Molkyn’s widow to speak to for a start! He heard a sound. Sorrel, holding the sconce torch, was standing in the doorway.

‘Come on!’ she urged.

They reached the cobbled yard. Sorrel’s visitor was standing in the middle. Corbett made out his shadowy outline.

‘I stood here deliberately.’ The voice had a strong country burr. Corbett recognised the tongue of the south-west. ‘I didn’t want to startle you.’

The man stepped into the pool of light. He was tall. Raven-black hair, parted down the middle, fell to his shoulders; sharp eyes like a bird, crooked nose, his mouth and chin hidden by a black bushy moustache and beard. He was swarthy-skinned and Corbett glimpsed the silver earrings in each earlobe. He smelt of wood smoke and tanned leather. The stranger was dressed from head to toe in animal skins: the jacket sleeves were of leather, the front being of mole’s fur, with leggings of tanned deerskin pushed into sturdy black boots. He wore a war belt which carried a stabbing dirk and a dagger. Bracelets winked at his wrists, rings on his fingers.

The stranger studied Corbett from head to toe. ‘So, you’re the King’s clerk?’

‘You should have waited,’ Sorrel accused. ‘I would have brought him.’

The man’s gaze held Corbett’s.

‘I did not want to meet him,’ he replied insolently. ‘I don’t like King’s officers, I don’t like clerks. I only said I would see him because you asked. What I’ve got to say isn’t much. You said you’d bring him to see me if you could.’

Corbett glanced at Sorrel and smiled. He was intrigued by how much this woman had planned what had happened this evening.

‘You find me amusing?’ the man asked dangerously.

‘No, sir,’ Corbett replied wearily. ‘I do not find you amusing. You are the leader of the Moon People, aren’t you?’

‘One of its clans.’

‘You came here, not because you’re tired of waiting, but because you did not want me in your encampment?’

The man’s eyes flickered.

‘You don’t like court officials,’ Corbett continued, ‘because they stride amongst your wagons like the Lord Almighty. They steal your goods, bully your men, harass your women. They take your horses and accuse you of crimes you did not commit. They will only go away if you offer silver and gold. Do you think I am like that, sir? I tell you, I’m not!’ Corbett undid his purse and took out two silver coins. ‘You come here out of friendship to Sorrel. Go on, take these for your pains!’

The man took the coins.

‘You are an ill-mannered lout!’ Sorrel exclaimed. ‘This clerk’s no Blidscote.’

The Moon man extended a hand. ‘My name is Branway. I’ve come to tell you something.’

Corbett grasped his hand.

‘I’ll tell you what I want, here under God’s sky. In that way you know I am telling the truth. I belong to the Moon People. We travel from Cornwall to the old Roman wall in the north. We have our carts and our ponies. We have coppersmiths, seamstresses, carpenters and painters. We buy and sell and, yes, when our children go hungry, we steal. We know the King’s kingdom better than he does. We arrived here two days ago and we’ll be gone tomorrow morning.’

‘What do you mean?’ Corbett asked.

‘We have to use these roads,’ Branway explained, ‘and we can’t help passing by Melford on our way to the coast. But you’ll find none of our women wandering the lanes. Over the years some have disappeared.’

Corbett took a step closer. ‘You mean disappeared, not run away?’

‘Oh, I know what you are thinking, clerk. We have taken into our care some of the poor wenches who flee from your cities and towns. Our women do not run away. It’s common talk amongst the Moon People how, over the years, six or seven of our women have disappeared: in the main, young girls stupid enough to wander out, intrigued by what the market holds. They left and never came back. We searched but did not find. I’ve heard the same amongst other travelling people. That’s all I can tell you.’

‘But surely you’ve gone to the Guildhall?’

Branway threw his head back and laughed. ‘And get beaten for our pains! No, master clerk, we just avoid Melford, whilst our women are kept within the encampment.’

‘And have you seen anything amiss?’

‘I’ve told you what I know: no more no less.’

The man nodded at Corbett, kissed Sorrel on each cheek and walked off into the darkness.

Corbett watched him go.

‘I must leave too. I thank you for what you’ve told me.’

Corbett nodded at Sorrel, bade her good night, collected his horse and crossed into the water meadow. For a while he paused and looked up at the sky, reflecting on what he’d learnt.

‘True,’ he whispered into the darkness, ‘this is a place of hideous murder!’