The Treason of the Ghosts

Chapter 9

The wind had picked up, whirling the branches, scattering the dry leaves. Clouds raced across the moonlit sky. Corbett dug his heels in, guiding his horse across the bridge and up the lane leading back to the church.

‘The devil’s night,’ Corbett whispered.

He recalled boyhood stories. His mother used to sit him on her knee and talk about the wild woodman, all tangled hair and glaring eyes, who supposedly lived in the forest, an arrow-shot from their farm. Corbett closed his eyes and smiled. Such stories! Every tree, every bush, hid a fantastical world of evil goblins, malignant forest people; dragons, griffins and man-sized hawks. He’d started telling the same to Baby Eleanor but always in a whisper. Maeve had clear ideas about such legends.

‘Uncle Morgan used to frighten me to death as a child!’

‘He still frightens me,’ Corbett had whispered.

Uncle Morgan had arrived years ago for a ‘short visit’ but settled down and didn’t show the slightest inclination to return to Wales. On a night like this, however, Corbett was glad Uncle Morgan was at Leighton.

Corbett was tightening the reins when the figure came whirling out of the darkness. A rustle in the undergrowth, a slithered footfall, Corbett glimpsed the club coming back, aiming for his leg. His horse whinnied and started. Corbett cursed, going back in the saddle, fingers searching for the hilt of his sword. Then his attacker had disappeared, quietly and mysteriously.

‘What on earth. .?’ Corbett pulled himself out of the saddle, patting his horse, talking to it reassuringly. The bay, however, refused to be quietened, going back on its hind legs, threatening to rear, shaking its head and expressing its annoyance in sharp whinnies. Corbett held on to the reins, talking softly as Chanson had taught him.

At last the animal calmed. Corbett allowed it to nuzzle his hands and face before remounting. Of all the attacks he had ever endured, that was the most surprising. A man on foot could really do little harm to a rider. The blow had been directed towards his leg; only sheer luck had saved both him and the horse from considerable pain. But why?

Corbett emerged from the woods and stared up at the moon-washed church. He breathed in deeply, quietening his mind, calming his temper. He’d had enough. He had been out in the dark too long! He urged his horse into a canter and was pleased to reach the square and the glowing warmth of the Golden Fleece. He went round the side of the tavern and gave his horse to an ostler.

‘I want him treated really well,’ Corbett ordered. ‘A good rub down. You have the blankets? Make sure he’s fed and watered.’

The sleepy-eyed boy promised he would. Corbett tossed him a penny, took off his sword belt, grasped his saddlebags and walked through the rear door and along the passageway into the bustling taproom: a welcome relief from the cold and darkness.

The taproom was busy, lit by lanterns and candles, and warmed by a roaring fire. The air was thick with the smell of candle grease and wood smoke. Somewhere a shepherd played a lilting tune on a lute. Corbett’s mouth watered at the spicy smell from the side of pork being tended on the spit by two red-faced boys crouched in the inglenook. They turned it slowly, basting it with herbs soaked in oil. Mastiffs lay before the hearth and slavered at such pleasant odours. Slatterns, their hands full of tankards of frothing ale, pushed their way through, slapping away the wandering fingers of chapmen and tinkers. Ranulf and Chanson were seated in the corner, surrounded by locals. Both of them looked well fed and relaxed. Ranulf sat like Herod amongst the innocents, those precious dice in his hand, inviting his ‘guests’ to lay a wager.

‘You’ve returned at last!’

Corbett glanced behind him. In a cooler, darker part of the taproom sat Blidscote and Burghesh. Burghesh was the same as ever, Blidscote looked bleary-eyed and red-nosed as if he had drunk too much, too fast. Burghesh waved Corbett over.

‘I recommend the quail pie and some of that pork.’

Matthew the taverner came bustling across. Corbett ordered food for himself and ale for his companions. He did not have to wait long. The taverner served the food personally: a broad, wooden platter with half a steaming pie, strips of crackling pork and vegetables diced and covered in a cheese sauce. Corbett took out his horn spoon and the small dagger kept in a sheath above his right boot. He ate quickly, hungrily, savouring every mouthful. He half listened to Blidscote and Burghesh’s chatter: about the change in the weather and the arrangements for All-Hallows celebrations.

‘A busy day, Sir Hugh?’ Burghesh asked once the clerk had finished eating. The old soldier toasted him with his tankard.

Corbett responded. Blidscote might be a toper but Burghesh’s broad face was friendly: clear grey eyes and smiling mouth. Corbett wondered how much this veteran of the King’s wars knew about Melford.

‘I’ll tell you this, Master Burghesh.’ Corbett wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘If the French ever invade, Melford will be a hard town to take. You’d have to surround it with a circle of steel.’

‘Ah, but the French will never come,’ Burghesh smiled. ‘That’s one of the joys of this place, Corbett. You can wander in and out.’ He lifted the tankard. ‘God knows there are enough people in this taproom who will keep an eye on what you do and where you go.’

‘But what about the chapmen and tinkers?’

Corbett pointed across to where a group of these sat with their trays carefully stacked on the floor beside them. One was busy feeding a pet squirrel, a small red ball of fur on his shoulder which prettily gnawed on the offered scraps. Now and again the squirrel would break off to chatter at the vicious-looking ferret held by another.

‘I mean,’ Corbett continued, ‘they can wander in and out when they like and not pay the market toll.’

‘They can try,’ Blidscote slurred. ‘But who’ll buy from them? They’ll only get reported, put in the stocks and banned for a year and a day. They are only too willing to come into the market square and pay the tax.’

‘And you are responsible for that?’ Corbett asked.

He studied the chief bailiff’s fat, sweaty face, weak chin, slobbery mouth and bleary eyes. Corbett recalled his conversation at the mill. Blidscote was a dangerous man: weak, boastful but, if threatened, dangerous in a sly, furtive way.

‘I’m chief bailiff,’ Blidscote replied. ‘I do my job well.’

Corbett sipped from his tankard. ‘And you were one of the first to see Widow Walmer’s corpse?’

‘Aye.’ The bailiff shook his head. ‘I’ll never forget that evening. I was here in the taproom, wasn’t I, Burghesh, with you and Repton the reeve?’

‘Tell me exactly,’ Corbett demanded.

‘I’ll do it,’ Burghesh offered. ‘Do you remember, Blidscote, we gathered here early? There was you, me, Matthew the taverner and Repton.’

‘Who’s this Repton?’ Corbett asked.

‘He’s over there.’

Corbett followed his direction.

‘The fellow with the lank hair, thin as a beanpole. A widower, he had lustful thoughts about Widow Walmer — wanted to marry her, he did.’

Repton was tall, thin, angular; a sallow, bitter face, lank brown hair down to his shoulders. He was dressed in a dark green cote-hardie. A choleric man, he was deep in heated discussion with his fellows.

‘Anyway,’ Blidscote continued, ‘Repton was talking about visiting Widow Walmer. “Ah,” says Matthew the taverner, “Sir Roger Chapeleys is fishing in that pond tonight.”

‘And how did Matthew know that?’ Corbett demanded, though he suspected the answer.

‘Why, Sir Roger had been here earlier in the day and said as much in his cups!’ Burghesh took up the story again. ‘Anyway, Repton was all a-sulk, muttering to himself for some time. He wanted to go and see her. The reeve had been acting strangely all evening. He went out and then came back.’

‘How late was this?’

Burghesh pulled a face. ‘Oh, it must have been between ten, eleven o’clock at night. I remember looking at the hour candle.’ He pointed to where it burnt fiercely under its bronze cap near the kitchen door. ‘Repton was in his cups. He asked me to go with him.’ Burghesh sipped from his tankard. ‘So I agreed. It was a pleasant enough evening. We went down Gully Lane. I realised something was wrong as we approached the cottage: the front door was off its latch, one of the shutters was still open. Inside, Goodwoman Walmer was lying on the kitchen floor, a dreadful sight! Dress and petticoats all askew, legs stuck out, head strangely twisted, her dress had been torn, dark blue marks round her throat. In Scotland I’d seen men who had been garrotted with bow-strings. She was the same — face a bluish-black, eyes popping, mouth all twisted. I told Repton to stay there and came back for Blidscote.’

‘Master bailiff?’ Corbett interjected.

‘I’d drunk a good bit,’ the man confessed. ‘I took some of the men from the tavern and went down. It was, as Burghesh described: hideous and ghastly. I was sick outside. We searched the house. Nothing was stolen but, under the kitchen table, we found Sir Roger’s knife, a small stabbing dirk with his arms emblazoned on the ivory handle and sheath.’

‘And what did Sir Roger say when this evidence was offered?’

‘He said he’d given it as a gift to Widow Walmer.’

Corbett hid his disquiet. Any theory that this corrupt bailiff, or anyone else, had deliberately left incriminating evidence was to be rejected, though anyone knowing she’d received such a love token could have used it to incriminate Sir Roger.

‘You are sure of that?’

‘As the Good Lord lives, yes.’

‘And then what happened?’ Corbett insisted.

‘The next morning,’ Blidscote replied, ‘I travelled to see Justice Tressilyian. At first he wouldn’t believe what we told him, then he swore out warrants. I went to Thockton Hall. Sir Roger, of course, denied everything but I showed him the warrants. The armed posse I’d brought searched his chambers. They found a bracelet and a brooch in his private coffer: these had been taken from two of the dead wenches.’

‘And Sir Roger denied having these?’

Blidscote smiled craftily and tapped the side of his nose. ‘What are you implying, Sir Hugh? That someone in my comitatus, my posse, placed those trinkets there? No, no, Sir Roger confessed they’d been sent to him in a small leather sack as a present. He’d put them in his coffer and hadn’t given them a second thought.’

‘You mean as some sort of love token?’

‘That’s right, master clerk, some sort of love token! We asked him about the knife. He made the response as I have described. Then we asked him about the three young women who had been killed. Again, Sir Roger confessed that one of them had worked at Thockton Hall and he had tumbled the wench.’ Blidscote blew out his cheeks. ‘He claimed he was innocent of the murders. I told him that was a matter for a jury. Justice Tressilyian came down to the Guildhall, two others with him, but he was the principal judge. A court was held and depositions taken.’

‘And there were plenty of hostile witnesses. Sir Roger was not liked?’

‘No, he wasn’t.’ Burghesh took up the story. ‘Melford is a prosperous town, Sir Hugh. The old ways are dying. People resent a manor lord, a knight, winking at their women, acting the great lord of the soil. Sir Roger had a temper, and when angered he told people what he thought. Now people had a chance to reply.’

‘But that’s not evidence?’

‘No, Sir Hugh, it isn’t. I admit there was a lot of chatter and gossip, then Deverell the carpenter came before the justice. He took an oath: how he had seen Sir Roger fleeing up Gully Lane, all dishevelled and troubled.’

‘And what was Sir Roger’s response to that?’

‘He dismissed Deverell as a liar, the son of a whore.’

‘But what was Deverell doing in Gully Lane at night?’

‘Oh, he was returning to Melford with a supply of wood.’

‘So.’ Corbett cradled his tankard. ‘We have the knife, the brooch and the bracelet. We have Sir Roger Chapeleys certainly visiting Widow Walmer as well as confessing to a relationship with one of the murdered women.’

‘There was other evidence,’ Blidscote offered. ‘Sir Roger could not produce any proof of where he was when those three women were killed. Time and again he was asked. His reply was simple and stark: he couldn’t recall.’

‘And the parchments he burnt?’ Burghesh added.

‘What?’ Corbett queried.

‘Ah yes.’ Blidscote leant forward, waving a finger. ‘When I arrived at Thockton Hall with my warrants, Sir Roger’s retainers raised the alarm. There was a bit of a struggle; we had to push by them. Sir Roger was found in his bedchamber, his hands and fingers black from soot. He had burnt some papers. I examined the fragments. They were love letters, some record of his conquests.’

‘And Sir Roger’s response?’

‘He said he could do what he liked with his own property. Justice Tressilyian was very fair. “Tell us, Sir Roger, what you burnt,” he said. “Private papers,” was the reply.’

Corbett turned and shouted across to the slattern to bring fresh ale.

What if I had been Tressilyian, he thought, and this evidence had been laid before me? It certainly looked bleak. Sir Roger had had a case to answer and had failed to do so. He had denied none of the evidence except Deverell’s, but he had had one friend. .

‘Sir Hugh?’

Corbett glanced across at Burghesh.

‘What are you thinking?’

‘About Furrell the poacher. Why wasn’t his evidence believed? He claimed he saw Sir Roger leave Widow Walmer alive, that he even glimpsed others going down to her cottage.’

‘Furrell was a poacher,’ Blidscote jeered. ‘He loved his ale.’ The bailiff’s face turned puce as he realised the hypocrisy of what he was saying. ‘Even more than me,’ he muttered. ‘He was also in Sir Roger’s pocket.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Corbett asked.

‘Well, Sir Roger was kind. I think Furrell knew more than he should have done about Sir Roger. Our good knight didn’t go to church often — more interested in matters of the dark.’

‘Are you saying he was a witch or a warlock?’ Corbett scoffed.

‘There’s some truth in that,’ Burghesh interjected.

‘Oh, come, come!’ Corbett sipped from his tankard. ‘If I’m to believe you, Sir Roger had no virtues. Are you now claiming he danced with the Queen of the fairies in moonlit glades? Or made bloody sacrifices to the demons of the woods?’

Burghesh grinned. ‘No, no. Sir Roger was interested in magic: in those twilight areas where the light and dark are not so pronounced. He would sometimes talk about it in here.’

‘But Furrell’s evidence?’ Corbett demanded, steering the conversation on to firmer ground. ‘Here was a man prepared to go on oath that Sir Roger left Widow Walmer alive and well.’

‘He could have gone back,’ Blidscote replied.

‘But Furrell also hinted that he glimpsed others going down Gully Lane towards Widow Walmer’s cottage.’

‘Ah well.’ Blidscote grinned over the tankard. ‘How do we know it wasn’t Sir Roger returning? We have also got Deverell the carpenter’s evidence.’

‘And the jury?’ Corbett decided to change tack.

‘They were selected as usual by ballot here in the taproom.’

‘But, isn’t it strange, master bailiff, that the foreman and the deputy of that jury. .’ Corbett paused, ‘. . well, certainly Molkyn, was no friend of Sir Roger?’

‘What are you implying?’ Blidscote’s face turned ugly. ‘That I am guilty of embracery?’ The bailiff stumbled over the official term for the corruption of a jury. ‘The ballot was open and fair. Sir Roger had no friends, I’ve told you that. Moreover, I’m only the bailiff, not the justice. Sir Louis Tressilyian could have sent Sir Roger for trial before King’s bench in London.’

‘Yes, yes, he could have done.’ Corbett cradled the tankard. ‘I wondered about that.’

When Corbett had met the King at Westminster, he had asked the same question: Edward, who loved arguing about the subtleties of the law, had simply shaken his head.

‘I think Sir Louis,’ the King had replied, ‘tried to do that but I refused. It sets a precedent, Corbett. Can you imagine what would happen if every murder case was referred to Westminster? The courts would be as clogged as a wheel on a muddy day.’

‘Sir Hugh Corbett! Sir Hugh Corbett!’

The clerk turned. A royal messenger, his surcoat emblazoned with the snarling leopards of England, stood in the doorway, boots and spurs caked with dirt. He carried a wallet in one hand, his white wand of office in the other.

‘I am here!’ Corbett called out.

The man wearily made his way forward. He thrust the wallet into Corbett’s hand.

‘Messages from Westminster,’ he declared.

Sir Hugh looked at the man’s red-rimmed eyes. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Varley, sir.’

‘Well, Varley?’ Corbett then called across the taverner.

‘I’m to be away at first light,’ the messenger added warningly.

‘At this moment I have no reply to make,’ Corbett declared. ‘Master taverner, give this man a clean bed, something to eat and drink.’

‘All our beds are clean,’ the taverner replied, his square, red-whiskered face breaking into a grin. ‘But I know what you mean.’

He led the messenger off. Corbett broke the seals and undid the wallet. The first roll was a copy of Sir Roger’s trial which he had asked for before leaving Westminster. The second was from the Chancery of the Secret Seal, giving details of Sir Roger’s military service in Gascony and along the Scottish/Welsh march. Corbett demanded a candle and read this carefully. He grunted and thrust it back into the wallet. He stared across the taproom at Repton. The reeve lifted his head. Corbett flinched at the hostility in the narrow, close-set eyes. He glanced at Blidscote.

‘It’s time I walked with Master Repton. After all, he did start this dance.’

Blidscote eased himself up and sauntered across. Corbett waited. When he felt the presence of the man beside him, he glanced up.

‘Sit down, Master Repton,’ he offered. ‘Have some ale.’

The reeve pulled across a stool.

‘I drink with my friends.’ Close up Repton’s face was even more sour.

‘Do you now?’ Corbett drained his tankard. ‘And you were drinking here the night Widow Walmer was killed?’

‘That’s correct. I was here with my friends whilst that killer raped and choked the woman I loved.’

‘And did she love you?’

The reeve blinked. ‘I never had the chance to ask, clerk, did I? But, if she had responded, I would have met her at the church door to exchange vows.’

Corbett studied the reeve. His cote-hardie was of good cloth. The brown belt strapped around his narrow waist of good leather; his leggings of dark blue worsted; even the boots were the work of a craftsman. A prosperous man, Corbett concluded. He would act as reeve, steward of lands held by the town. He would also have his own holding: producing for the market as well as for the pot.

‘What’s the matter, clerk?’

‘I am wondering why you are so hostile. You’ve told your tale a thousand times. Surely, you can tell it once more?’

‘Fine, I’ll tell you my tale.’ The words came out as a snarl. ‘I was drinking here. I wanted to visit Widow Walmer. I asked Burghesh to accompany me.’

‘No, no, that’s not true, is it?’

‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Repton’s hand went to the knife in its sheath.

‘No, I am just saying you are rather forgetful. You were drinking here and you decided to visit Mistress Walmer. However, the taverner Matthew had announced how the widow was receiving another guest that night.’

The reeve swallowed hard. Corbett was aware of how quiet the taproom had fallen.

‘That’s my first question,’ Corbett smiled. ‘Why, in the late hours of the night, did you suddenly decide to visit a woman whom you knew was entertaining someone else? She would not have liked it and Sir Roger would have objected. A feisty man, Sir Roger. I don’t think he would have liked someone else a-calling?’

‘That’s why I took Burghesh.’

‘Ah,’ Corbett sighed. ‘You always take a companion when you visit a lady friend?’

The reeve grasped the corner of the table. ‘What are you implying?’

‘I am implying nothing, master reeve. I am trying to get to the truth of the matter. Had you visited Widow Walmer before? Well, had you?’

‘Yes, but that’s my business.’

‘Fair enough and had you asked someone to accompany you?’ Corbett leant closer. ‘Give me one occasion, name one companion.’

‘That night Sir Roger was there I needed-’

‘Did you really? But, surely, it was very late? Sir Roger may have left?’

‘I don’t know what you are implying.’ Repton leapt to his feet. In one swipe he drew his dagger from its sheath. He backed off and stood slightly crouching, legs apart.

You’ve fought before, Corbett thought: you’re a taproom brawler.

‘What’s this nosy clerk doing here?’ Repton glowered round the quiet taproom.

His question provoked a murmur of agreement.

‘Who do you think you are? Chapeleys was a murderer!’

A chorus of approval greeted his words.

‘He killed Widow Walmer and those other women. So he was hanged for it. Now his whelp sends whining letters to Westminster.’

‘Sit down, master reeve,’ Corbett ordered. ‘Put your knife away and sit down!’

‘Do you think I’ll do what you say, clerk?’ Repton raised the knife. ‘Or is that all you are good for? A long nose with a clacking tongue? This is Melford, not Westminster. You won’t be the first to be sent packing!’

Some of the other customers were now jeering.

‘Come on!’ Repton waved his hand.

‘I carry the King’s warrant.’

‘I carry the King’s warrant,’ Repton mimicked.

This provoked further guffaws of laughter. Corbett looked across at Ranulf, shook his head and got to his feet.

‘I want to talk to you, Repton, that’s all. I want the truth. The King wants the truth.’

‘I’ve told you the truth. You’re not in the Schools of Oxford now, clerk.’

‘I’m trying to be reasonable.’ Corbett took a step forward. ‘I wish you no ill.’

Corbett watched the man’s eyes. Repton had drunk deep. He was beyond reason.

‘Look,’ Corbett played with the chancery ring on his finger, ‘I apologise. I am sorry if I have upset you.’

The laughter grew. Repton couldn’t resist the audience. He came up, the knife moving away. Corbett lashed out with his boot, catching the unfortunate full in the groin. Repton screamed with pain and fell to his knees, the knife clattering amongst the rushes. He tried to crawl forward but Corbett gently placed his heel on the back of the man’s hand.

‘I am the King’s clerk!’ he proclaimed. ‘I wish no man ill but, if I wanted, Repton could hang for treason. So I shall tell you why I am here. Five years ago Sir Roger Chapeleys was executed for the murder of at least four women.’ He stared round the taproom. ‘Good, I now have your attention. If Sir Roger was guilty then he deserved to die. But there’s the riddle. Not only have the murders begun again but two members of the jury responsible for convicting Sir Roger have also been killed in a barbarous manner. I will have the truth either in Melford or in the King’s own prison at Newgate!’

Chanson was staring open-mouthed. Ranulf, grinning from ear to ear, was busy pocketing his earnings.

‘Now, Master Repton,’ Corbett pressed the heel of his boot till the man flinched, ‘do you not accept my apology?’

‘Yes,’ the man gasped.

‘And will you not accept a tankard of ale?’

‘Yes.’

Corbett helped the reeve to his feet. He now looked woebegone. He didn’t know whether to nurse his hand or his groin. Corbett lifted the stool and ushered the man to it. Burghesh and Blidscote sat fascinated, as if they couldn’t understand what was happening. Corbett ordered more tankards of ale. He thrust one into the reeve’s hands.

‘The pewter’s cold.’ Corbett urged, ‘Hold it against your groin, it will ease the pain.’ He leant forward. ‘You are a fool!’ he hissed. ‘You could be hanged for that!’

Repton caught back a sob.

‘You are not angry, are you?’ Corbett continued. ‘You are frightened.’

He was aware of Ranulf and Chanson joining them, taking stools and sitting behind the reeve.

‘What do you mean?’ the reeve stuttered.

‘You came into the Golden Fleece that night twice, didn’t you? You had been drinking all day. You learnt from Taverner Matthew how Widow Walmer was entertaining so off you staggered, along Gully Lane to Widow Walmer’s cottage?’

‘I didn’t do it,’ the reeve whispered, and sipped from the ale. ‘I swear to God I didn’t do it!’

‘Did what?’ Blidscote queried.

‘You reached the cottage, didn’t you?’ Corbett ignored the bailiff. ‘And the door was open?’

‘Yes, the door was open.’ The reeve spoke as if learning a lesson. ‘Widow Walmer was lying on the floor.’ He clutched his stomach. ‘I could tell what had happened, her dress had been pulled down at the top, those hideous marks round her throat. Body and legs twisted. I was frightened. I thought the killer could still be there. I panicked. What if they accused me?’

‘So you came back to the Golden Fleece,’ Corbett explained, ‘where you drank some more, turning over and over in your mind what you had seen. Once your courage returned, you asked Burghesh to accompany you. So, both of you went along.’

‘That’s right,’ the reeve slurred.

‘You didn’t tell us this,’ Blidscote stated.

‘How could I?’ The reeve blinked. ‘But I didn’t kill her!’

‘And Sir Roger’s knife?’ Burghesh asked.

‘I told you. I stood in the doorway. I touched nothing. Just one glance was enough. I went outside and was sick in the bushes. Then I came back here.’

‘Did you see anything of Sir Roger?’

The reeve shook his head. Corbett pushed away the tankard; he picked up his leather wallet, cloak, sword belt and saddle panniers.

‘You see,’ he smiled at Blidscote. ‘I am here for the truth, but now I am tired.’

He bade them good night, went across the taproom and up the stairs.

‘Your master is a strange man,’ Burghesh declared.

‘Old Master Long Face is strange enough,’ Ranulf grinned, getting to his feet. He leant over the table, raising his voice so it carried across the taproom. ‘He’s a strange one, is Sir Hugh. He nags and nags at the truth. He never gives up. But,’ he raised his eyebrows, ‘tonight he was in a good temper.’

‘Why?’ the reeve asked. ‘Would he have killed me?’

‘No.’ Ranulf grasped the reeve by the shoulder. ‘Sir Hugh wouldn’t have killed you but I would have done!’ He pushed his face closer. ‘And, if it happens again, I will! Do tell that to the people of Melford!’