by Paul Doherty
‘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 t
he 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!’
Chapter 4
The justice took some time to calm down. Parson Grimstone went up to his house and brought back a jug of ale as well as a bowl and cloth. Tressilyian quaffed the ale in a few gulps, then wiped his face. He had a cut high on his cheek, small scars on the backs of his hands.
‘What happened?’ Corbett asked.
‘I was coming down Falmer Lane,’ the justice replied. He paused. ‘You must be Corbett?’
There was more confusion as Corbett made the introductions.
Tressilyian studied him from head to toe. ‘I suppose you’ve already been asked,’ he smiled, ‘why you are here? The King could have asked me to investigate.’
‘Aye, sir, but you were the principal justice who tried Sir Roger. Today’s events prove that this is a matter for royal concern. After all, you, the King’s justice, were attacked on his highway. You were telling us what happened.’
‘I was riding down Falmer Lane,’ Tressilyian explained. ‘There was a fallen tree across the lane, just a sapling. You know how such things frighten horses? Bare branches, dry leaves? I thought nothing of it. I climbed down, took off my gauntlets to grasp it, that’s where some of these cuts came from. Suddenly an arrow came flying through the air.’ Sir Louis tapped the cut high on his cheek. ‘It missed, just skimming my face. I sheltered in the sapling; its twigs and branches cut me. I had no bow. My horse had become frightened and was skittering away. Two more arrows were loosed. I decided that I wasn’t going to wait. I gauged where the mysterious bowman must be, drew my sword and charged as if I was on the battlefield.’
‘But your assailant escaped?’
‘I never even saw him, just a crackle of bracken and then the voice.’ Tressilyian paused, staring across at the coffin. ‘God’s teeth, Corbett, this is a sombre place.’ He flung his hand out. ‘And that poor woman!’
‘What did your voice say?’ Corbett insisted.
‘ “Remember.” That’s what it said. A man’s voice. “Remember, royal justice, how you hanged an innocent man! You and the others will pay for it.” Tressilyian shrugged. ‘Then there was silence. There was nothing more I could do. I returned to my horse and rode here. I saw young Chapeleys going across God’s acre. He’s visiting his father’s grave?’
‘Yes,’ Grimstone replied.
‘Why did you think it was a ghost?’ Corbett asked.
Tressilyian looked at him blankly.
‘When you came in here,’ Corbett insisted, ‘you said you thought you’d been attacked by a ghost.’
‘Well, it’s obvious,’ Tressilyian retorted, his light blue eyes dark with anger. ‘A young woman lies dead, another has been murdered. Members of the jury who found Sir Roger guilty have also paid with their lives.’