The Treason of the Ghosts

Chapter 8

The church of St Edmund’s lay in darkness. Only a red sanctuary lamp glowed, a small pool of light against the encroaching night. The carved face of the crucified Christ stared down whilst those of His mother and St John gazed up in anguish. The mist had seeped through crevices in the windows, under the door, slipping like steam into the church, turning the paving stones ice-cold. Mice scampered in the transept searching for morsels of food or pieces of candle wax. No one was there to witness the anguish and agony of Curate Bellen as he knelt on the prie-dieu in the chancery chapel. He had taken his robe off, his hose, his boots. He knelt in the cold as an act of mortification. He gazed up at the statue of the martyred King of East Anglia. Bellen’s hands were clenched so tight his knuckles hurt. He prayed for protection, wisdom and forgiveness.

‘So many sins,’ he murmured. Evil he’d never imagined! Ordained by the Bishop of Norwich, Curate Robert Bellen was unused to the wickedness and wiles of this world. He only coped by keeping his eyes firmly on the next. He, too, was sure Satan had come to Melford, and wasn’t he as guilty as the rest?

Bellen sighed and, muttering under his breath, got to his feet. He took off his shift and stretched out on the cold paving stones. Better this, he thought, than the freezing shores by the lakes of Hell. What could he do except pray and atone? The chill caught his hot body and he shivered, quivering as his mind fought against the creeping discomfort. He clutched his Ave beads more tightly. He would pray, do penance then penance again. Perhaps St Edmund, patron of this church, would ask God to send an angel to comfort him. But were there angels? Was God interested in him?

The curate closed his eyes. He should have been a monk. Bellen tried to clear his mind by chanting phrases from the Divine Office. He stared up into the darkness. Carvings gazed back: angels, demons, the faces of saints, even the carved representations of priests and curates who had served here before him. What should he do? Write to the Bishop? Make a full confession? Yet what proof did he possess? Or should he go in front of that sharp-eyed clerk? He was a royal emissary but also a man; he would understand.

Bellen heard the wind creak and rustle the twisted branches of the yew trees outside. Then a sound, like the click of a latch. But that was impossible! Surely he had closed the corpse door behind him? He sighed and got to his feet. He walked out of the chantry chapel and down the transept to the side door. The latch was still down. Shivering, feeling rather foolish, Bellen lifted this and pulled the door open. The cold night air rushed in. Outside God’s acre lay silent in the moonlight. He was about to close the door when he looked down and his freezing back prickled with fear. He could see the boot stains. Someone had come into this church, like a thief in the night, had stood in the shadows and watched him.

Sir Hugh Corbett reined in and stared across at the church. The lych-gate was closed, but in the moonlight he could make out the path, crosses, carvings and burial grounds. The grass and gorse were already glinting under a frost. Corbett felt tired and cold. An owl hooted deep in the cemetery. Corbett smiled. Next time he told a story to little Eleanor, he would remember this place with its shadows, dappled moonlight, the haunting silence and the ominous sound of a night bird. Corbett also felt hungry. He closed his eyes and thought of the parlour in Leighton Manor. He’d sit in his high-backed chair or on cushions before a great roaring fire, watching a poker heat red in the flames: he’d then pluck it out and warm posset cups for himself and Maeve. She would be singing softly under her breath, one of her sad Welsh songs. The logs would splutter and crackle, the flames leap higher. . Corbett opened his eyes.

‘Oh Lord,’ he prayed, ‘the wind is cold, the night is hard. I wish to God I were in my bed, my lover’s arms around me.’

Corbett laughed softly. Maeve would call him a troubadour. His horse snickered and, lifting a hoof, struck at the hard trackway. Corbett patted its neck.

‘There now! There now! Good lad!’ he soothed. ‘You’ve ridden hard and done fine work. It will be oats and a fresh bed of straw for you tonight.’

The bay threw its head back and whinnied as if it could already smell the tangy warmness of its stable at the Golden Fleece.

Corbett had left Sorrel and spent the greater part of the last hour riding the trackways and lanes around Melford. He wanted to take his bearings: on a number of occasions he had become lost.

‘It’s a maze,’ he muttered.

Melford was not like those ancient towns along the south coast, or the royal boroughs around the Medway, with their walls and gates. Melford had begun as a village, then spread as the wealth from its sheep increased. A murderer could slip easily in and out of such a town. At one time Corbett would be amongst cottages and houses, he’d then take a turning down a muddy lane and be out in open countryside. But at last he had a map in his mind and was already sifting possibilities. How and where the murderer had carried out his crimes was still impossible to deduce. Corbett could only form a vague hypothesis. Now he was intent on visiting Molkyn the miller’s widow. He wanted to proceed quickly. The longer he stayed in Melford, and the more time he gave people to reflect, the more they’d say what they wanted him to hear rather than the truth.

Corbett urged his horse forward, passed the church and, following the direction he had taken earlier, rode down a muddy lane. He entered the miller’s property and reined in before the mere glinting in the moonlight. Corbett could imagine the tray or platter bearing Molkyn’s severed head floating and bobbing on its glassy surface. He dismounted and led his horse round the mere. Above him the great mill soared, its canvas arms stretched out to the night. He glimpsed a light and went on up the lane towards the house. A dog came snarling out of the darkness. Corbett paused, stretching out his hand.

‘Now, now,’ he whispered. ‘No need for that.’

The dog barked again. A door opened and Corbett glimpsed a shadowy form holding a lantern.

‘Who’s there?’ came the challenge.

‘Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s clerk! I would be grateful if you would call your dog off!’

A low whistle broke the darkness. The dog slunk away and Corbett went on. The man carrying the lantern was young, broad-faced, red-haired, pugnacious and aggressive. He was dressed in a cote-hardie which fell to his knees. Both that, and the leggings beneath, were dusty with flour.

‘What do you want?’

‘A civil welcome!’ Corbett snapped. ‘I carry the King’s commission.’

‘Ralph, Ralph,’ a woman’s voice called from the doorway. ‘Take our visitor’s horse.’ The voice was low and warm. ‘You’d best come in, Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s clerk, the night is freezing.’

The young man led off the horse. Corbett undid his sword belt and cloak and followed the woman into the warm, stone-flagged kitchen, a long, sweet-smelling room. The windows at the far end were shuttered, a fire blazed merrily in the hearth and the air was rich with the smell of baking from the ovens on either side of the fire. The woman who welcomed him was blonde-haired and slender, with a smiling, pleasant face. Behind her two other women sat at a table. One was undoubtedly Molkyn’s daughter. She had fair hair and a sweet face. The other had coarser features: a flat nose, podgy cheeks, a watchful, hostile gaze. Her grey hair was hidden under a dark blue veil, now slightly askew. She sat, the sleeves of her grey gown pulled back, a sharp pruning knife in her hands. She was helping cut up some vegetables. She dropped these in the pot on the table, her gaze never leaving Corbett’s face.

‘I am Ursula,’ the welcoming woman said.

‘The miller’s widow?’

Smiling-eyed, she studied Corbett intently. ‘Yes, I am the miller’s widow whilst you’re more handsome than they said.’

Corbett felt himself blush. The woman laughed deep in her throat. She must have seen Corbett’s surprise at the green gown she was wearing.

‘Widow’s weeds are for mourning, master clerk. Molkyn’s dead and buried so that’s the end of the matter. This is my stepdaughter, Margaret, and the lady staring so boldly at you is another widow, Lucy, Thorkle’s wife.’

Corbett felt uneasy. Here were three women who had lost their men. Two their husbands, the young one her father, but there were no funeral cloths against the wall. No purple drape covered the crucifix, chests or cupboards. The kitchen looked like one in the royal household, sparkling clean, scrubbed and washed.

‘I do not wish to intrude.’

‘You are not intruding.’ Ursula’s blue eyes remained steady. ‘We’ve all heard of your arrival. We’ve had King’s commissioners here ready to steal our corn but never a royal clerk. We are greatly honoured! We will be the talk of the parish. Come on now!’

Ursula led him by the elbow across to the chair at the far end of the table. She wouldn’t take no for an answer but served him freshly baked bread, pots of butter and honey and a pewter tankard of ale from a barrel in the far corner.

Her son Ralph returned. Corbett reckoned he must be about twenty summers old and had apparently taken over the running of the mill. He sat surly and ungracious on the bench, moodily sipping at the drink his mother poured. Thorkle’s widow and Margaret continued to slice the vegetables. Ursula sat on the bench to Corbett’s left.

‘You’ve come to talk about Molkyn?’

Corbett chewed the bread carefully. He felt this woman was quietly mocking him.

‘I haven’t really come about Molkyn. More his killer. I’ve passed the scaffold at the crossroads. Before I leave I want to see his murderer dangle there.’

‘And my husband’s?’

‘Yes, Mistress. I think the killer of both your husbands is one and the same!’

‘What makes you say that?’ Ursula demanded.

‘Here we have,’ Corbett now glanced at her, ‘two noble burgesses in the town of Melford: a prosperous miller and an equally prosperous yeoman farmer. Someone cut Molkyn’s head off, put it on a tray and sent it floating across the mere. The same killer, later in the week, went into Thorkle’s threshing shed, took a flail and beat your husband’s brains out.’

‘An evil man.’ Lucy’s face had a stubborn look on it.

‘Who said it was a man?’ Corbett demanded. ‘In Wales I have seen a woman take a soldier’s head with a shearing knife.’

Lucy looked at the one she was holding and put it down on the table.

‘And a flail can be used by anyone.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘A powerful weapon. Now,’ he continued, ‘why should someone want to kill your husbands? They belonged to the same parish, their wives are related but they’ve got more in common than that, haven’t they? Molkyn was a foreman, and Thorkle his deputy, of the jury which convicted Sir Roger Chapeleys of horrid murders. Because of their verdict, one of the King’s knights was executed on the common gallows.’

‘And rightly so.’ Ralph slammed his tankard down. ‘I was in my fifteenth year. I attended the trial. Sir Roger was a drunkard and a lecher. He had the blood of those young women on his hands.’

‘You are sure of that?’ Corbett asked.

‘We were all sure of it,’ Ursula coolly replied. She glanced quickly at Lucy. ‘Molkyn and Thorkle often discussed it. Never once had they any doubts about his guilt.’

‘Now, there’s two brave men,’ Corbett retorted. ‘They see a knight hang-’

‘What difference if he was a knight?’ Ralph interrupted. ‘That’s what knights do, isn’t it, kill? Just because they are lords of the soil doesn’t make them special.’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ Corbett agreed. ‘But Chapeleys was a King’s knight. He’d sworn an oath to uphold the law and he died protesting his innocence. Strange that your father and Thorkle never wavered in their decision.’

‘The evidence was there.’ Lucy picked up the paring knife.

Corbett noticed how the young woman Margaret hardly looked at him but kept her pallid face averted as if she found his presence distasteful.

‘What evidence?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Why were they so convinced Sir Roger was a murderer?’

‘He visited Widow Walmer on the night she died. He was seen by Deverell the carpenter, fleeing along Gully Lane. His house was searched, a bracelet from one of the girls was found amongst his possessions. He was well known for his lecherous ways.’

‘With whom?’ Corbett asked.

‘Widow Walmer for one.’

‘But the women in the town?’ Corbett queried. ‘Did any come forward and claim he had accosted them?’

‘He was well known amongst the chambermaids and slatterns of his manor.’

‘True,’ Corbett agreed, ‘but that’s not what I asked you. Why should a manor lord, with maids of his own to chase, attack, ravish and slay young women from the town?’

‘Perhaps it was the slaying he liked?’ Ralph declared sourly.

‘Then why the widow woman? Sir Roger had declared in the taproom of the Golden Fleece how he was going down to see Mistress Walmer. Why should he proclaim that he was going to slay someone? What I’m saying,’ Corbett continued, ‘is that the evidence against Sir Roger was not final and complete.’

‘But it was.’ Lucy rubbed the bone handle of the knife between her fingers. ‘Master clerk, you must understand women of this town have been killed. Sir Roger was seen near Walmer’s cottage. When his house was searched, belongings of the dead women were found, not to mention his knife and sheath left in Widow Walmer’s cottage.’

Corbett stared down at the table, he had forgotten that.

‘I have my doubts,’ he declared. ‘Yet you are certain neither Molkyn nor Thorkle ever raised a question about anything amiss?’

‘You have your answer,’ Lucy smiled insolently.

She thought Corbett was going to look away but he caught her sly-eyed glance at young Ralph, mouth slightly open, tongue between her teeth. You are lecherous, Corbett concluded. Something was very wrong here. These were not two widows mourning their husbands. The same went for Ralph and his sister. They were conspirators, pretending to be sad but secretly rejoicing. Was there a relationship between the saucy-eyed Lucy and this young miller? And why wouldn’t Margaret look up, catch his eye? She sat silent as a deaf mute, cutting the vegetables like a dream-walker, almost unaware of what she was doing. On a few occasions Corbett had done business in towns like Melford. He had warned Ranulf and Chanson what to expect: tangled relationships, secret fears, lusts, grudges and grievances. These could abruptly manifest themselves in a lunging dagger or hacking axe.

‘Are you tired, Sir Hugh?’

Ursula’s mocking coolness rubbed salt into the wound. He felt as if he was knocking at a door knowing full well that those inside heard but refused to answer. He pushed the tankard away. He wanted to be blunt, tell them what he thought but he sensed a trap. They were not grieving, yet that was their business. If he challenged them they would only lie. Were they the killers? It wouldn’t be the first time the demon Cain entered a family. And the same went for Lucy, sitting smug at the end of the table as if savouring some secret joke. Had she gone into that threshing barn, picked up the flail and killed her husband so she could lie with Molkyn’s son? He pulled back the tankard.

‘I am not tired,’ he replied, ‘just gathering my thoughts.’

‘I am busy,’ Ralph said.

Corbett undid his wallet and took out the royal warrant displaying the King’s Seal. He was wary of this young man whose resentment was so tangible. He was acting the role of the busy, tired miller but his surly looks were as much a threat as his dog which had come snarling out of the darkness.

‘I’m also busy,’ Corbett said softly. ‘The King is busy. You, sir, will sit here, or anywhere I choose, to answer my questions.’

‘We do not wish to give offence.’ Ursula played with the tendrils of her blonde hair. ‘But, Sir Hugh, you come here and ask about a jury which sat five years ago. They only returned the verdict. Sir Louis Tressilyian passed sentence.’

‘I will ask him in due time,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Five years is a long time, but a few days a mere heartbeat, eh? Your husband Molkyn was a good miller, rich and prosperous?’ He gestured round the kitchen. ‘What do you have in the house? A parlour, store-rooms, a writing office and bedchambers above stairs?’

‘Aye, and a bed as soft as a feather down.’

‘And were you lying there,’ Corbett asked, ‘the night your husband was so barbarously killed?’

‘Molkyn liked his ale,’ came the tart reply. ‘On a Saturday afternoon, he closed the mill down. In spring and summer he played quoits or would go jousting on the Swaile, a little hunting with the dog or cockfighting down at the pit behind the Golden Fleece.’

‘And in autumn and winter?’

‘He’d take a small barrel of ale, sit in the mill amongst his wealth and, quite honestly, sir, drink himself into such a stupor he’d piss himself.’

Corbett flinched at the coarseness.

‘And God help any man, Sir Hugh, who disturbed his pleasure. That included me, his son and his daughter.’

‘I never went there.’ Margaret looked up, eyes blazing in her thin, white face. ‘I never went there. You know that, Mother.’

‘Hush now!’

For the first time since they had met Ursula seemed disconcerted, begging Lucy and Ralph with her eyes to assist with Margaret.

‘Why didn’t you go there?’ Corbett asked. ‘Come on, girl!’

‘I am not a girl.’ Margaret made no attempt to hide her hate. ‘I am a young woman. My courses have already started. I don’t like the mill.’ She paused briefly. ‘I’ve never liked the mill! Those grinding stones, the scampering of the mice, and that mere — even in summer it looks dank.’

‘My daughter is still upset,’ Ursula intervened quickly.

Corbett nearly replied she was the only one that was, but bit back the reply.

‘So,’ he continued, ‘we have Molkyn relaxing after his labours on a Saturday afternoon with a firkin of ale. Surely you became worried when he didn’t stagger into bed?’

‘Why should I object?’ Ursula smiled. ‘He stank like a pig and snored like a hog.’

‘Surely you’d send someone across to the mill to see all was well?’

‘He had a bed there. Why should I ask him to soil clean sheets?’

‘Did this drinking become worse after Sir Roger’s execution?’

‘No. For a while Molkyn seemed happy, if that was possible, that Sir Roger was gone.’

Just for a moment the woman blinked quickly, a slight quiver to the mouth. Corbett went cold. It was the way Ursula had pronounced Sir Roger’s name — not harshly, not dismissing him as a great killer. Corbett decided to change tack.

‘Mistress, did you ever meet Sir Roger?’

The laughter disappeared from her eyes.

‘Did you?’ Corbett insisted.

‘I — ’ she glanced quickly at Ralph — ‘I saw him sometimes in church.’ She shook her head. ‘Now and again in the town. He was someone I knew by sight.’

Again a lie, Corbett thought. More pieces of the puzzle; at least, he was making sense of it. Ursula was a hot-eyed woman, well favoured and comely. No wonder Sir Roger had been dispatched to the gallows. How many other men in Melford had he cuckolded, planting pairs of horns on their heads? A charming, sweet-tongued knight, Sir Roger could ride round the town and pay courtesy to any lady of his choice. They would be flattered. Perhaps open to seduction. Was that why Molkyn had decided on the verdict? Revenge against both Sir Roger and his wife who had cuckolded him?

Ursula got up and, without asking, took Corbett’s tankard and refilled it. She came back and in one look Corbett knew he had the truth. Despite her petty errand, the blush still tinged her cheeks.

‘Who empanelled the jury?’ Corbett asked.

‘Ask Blidscote,’ Lucy sneered. ‘Isn’t that the task of the chief bailiff?’

‘But he doesn’t choose them,’ Corbett insisted.

‘According to the law, it’s supposed to be done by lot.’

‘Is it now?’ Lucy asked sardonically. ‘All I know is that they gathered in the taproom of the Golden Fleece. The names of those on the electoral roll were inscribed on pieces of parchment. Twelve were drawn out. Molkyn and Thorkle first. Surely,’ Lucy added sweetly, ‘such a system cannot be corrupted?’

Ralph put his head in his hands and quietly snorted with laughter. Lucy was openly mocking Corbett.

Time and again the royal council had issued denunciations of the empanelling of juries, and their corrupt management. Such practices were a constant theme of strident petitions by the Commons. Corbett scratched the sweat on his neck. He certainly looked forward to his meeting with Sir Louis Tressilyian the following evening.

‘So, Molkyn was killed, his head sheared off and placed on a tray, which was pushed out on to the mere? He was a strong man?’

‘He was drunk as a sot.’ Ralph got to his feet. ‘Are you a numbskull, master clerk?’

Corbett gazed at him steadily.

‘The mill is some distance away. The dog only barks if someone approaches the house. I’ll take you there if you want.’

Corbett shook his head. ‘So, what do you think happened?’

‘Molkyn was lying like a pig on his bed,’ Ralph explained. ‘Sometime in the early hours the killer walked up the steps and entered the mill. He carried a sword, an axe, a cleaver. He sliced off my father’s head,’ he pointed to Lucy, ‘as she slices an onion. One swift blow. The head was put on a tray, the body thrust up into a chair, a tankard between his hands. The killer left. As he does, he takes the tray with Molkyn’s head on it and sends it floating across the mere. That’s where poor Peterkin later found it.’ The young man, hands on the table, pushed his face close to Corbett’s. ‘God forgive me, master clerk. I know what you are thinking. We do not grieve. Do you know why? Because we are not hypocrites! Molkyn was an oaf, quick with his fists or his cudgel. As for enemies, go down to Melford, knock on each door, particularly the bakers’. They’ll tell you about Molkyn’s false weights and measures, the dust and chalk he added to the flour. The way he short-changed farmers and fixed his prices. He wouldn’t give a cup of water to a dying man. I am pleased he’s dead. As far as I am concerned he can rot in Hell!’

The young man stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

‘Does he speak for you all?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes he does,’ Margaret replied swiftly and incisively. ‘He certainly speaks for me.’ She glared defiantly at her mother.

‘And you, Mistress?’

Ursula ran a finger along her lower lip. ‘Margaret,’ she commanded, ‘leave those, go upstairs! Make sure the warming pans are ready!’

The girl was about to refuse.

‘I said go!’

The young woman threw the knife down and flounced out as angrily as her brother.

‘They are not my children,’ Ursula explained.

‘I beg your pardon, Mistress?’

‘I am Molkyn’s second wife.’

‘His first wife died in childbirth?’

Lucy stifled a laugh. Corbett refused to look in her direction.

‘She fell.’ Ursula pointed to the stairs. ‘An unfortunate accident.’

‘Do you know, Mistress, I am tired.’ Corbett sipped from the tankard. ‘Of lies, of hidden laughter, of shadow games as if we are children. She didn’t fall, did she? There is a suspicion that she was pushed. Is that what you are saying?’

‘Molkyn was free with his fists. His first wife fell, bruised her face and broke her neck. Molkyn claimed he was working at the mill when it happened.’

‘But you don’t believe that, do you?’

‘No, sir, I don’t. He was a bully: he would have done the same to me. I fought back. I told him that I would stand on the market cross and proclaim what he really was and — I’ll be honest — if he ever hit me, one night I’d slip across to that mill and slit his drunken throat. But,’ she tossed back her hair, ‘before you ask, I didn’t. Molkyn may have been a big man but he had the mind and belly of a greedy child. Of course, I don’t grieve for him. As for bed sport,’ she hid a giggle behind her hand, ‘I’d have a better game with that whey-faced curate of Parson Grimstone’s.’

‘And is that the view of Thorkle’s widow?’ Corbett asked.

Lucy sliced a vegetable, then wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

‘If Molkyn was a roaring dog,’ she replied, ‘Thorkle was a mouse of a man. And, as for his death, come down to my farm, master clerk. Or even better, ask young Ralph. He was in my house when Thorkle was killed, sitting in the kitchen, talking to me and my children. I don’t know why Thorkle died. Like a little mouse he kept his mouth shut. He always was in fear of Molkyn.’

‘And your daughter, Mistress?’ Corbett asked. ‘She’s not upset?’

‘Ah!’ Ursula got to her feet, wiping her hands slowly on the breast of her taffeta gown. ‘If she’s upset, master clerk, it’s because you mentioned Widow Walmer. Didn’t you know she often acted as her maid?’ She laughed at Corbett’s surprise. ‘Well, not maid — don’t forget she was only a young girl of twelve — more as a companion. She often slept there, spent the evening, kept the good widow company.’

‘And the night Sir Roger supposedly murdered her?’

‘Well, the widow was expecting company, wasn’t she? Margaret was told to stay away, that’s all she knew and that’s all I can tell you.’

Corbett stared across at the fire. He’d learnt enough. He had picked up pieces which he must arrange in some form of order, but, perhaps, not tonight. He pushed back his stool, picked up his cloak and sword belt, thanked his hosts and went out into the yard.