by Paul Doherty
‘Your man Furrell said that in court?’
‘He swore on oath but no one believed him. They said he was drunk and everyone knew how kindly Sir Roger was towards him. They even claimed he had been bribed.’
Corbett closed his eyes and recalled the trial record: Furrell the poacher had defended Sir Roger.
‘What did your man mean about the devil making people lie? Are you saying they were bribed?’
‘Bribed? Threatened, what does it matter? A good man died.’
‘You should be careful,’ Corbett warned.
‘Oh, don’t worry, master clerk, I keep my mouth shut. I wander around as if I am fey in my wits, a still tongue in my mouth. Old Sorrel sees nothing, she knows nothing.’
‘But you believe Furrell’s been murdered and buried?’
‘I know Furrell has been murdered and buried. I intend to find his grave.’
‘After five years?’ Corbett queried.
‘All I know is that he went out one night and never came back. Melford, and the countryside around it, is crisscrossed by pathways, culverts, brambles, thickets, woods and marshes, but I pray. Every night before I go to sleep, I pray I’ll discover Furrell’s corpse.’
‘And Furrell was murdered because of what he said in court?’
‘Perhaps. As I have said, Furrell was a sly one, as stealthy as the night. Even with me, he could be tight-lipped, if he wasn’t drunk.’
‘So you think he saw something?’
‘I wager to God and His saints that he did, so he had to be silenced. After all, he is the only one who ever heard the Jesses killer.’
‘Ah yes.’ Corbett let the horse snuggle his hand. ‘I’ve heard that. What did Furrell actually see or hear?’
‘He was out poaching, not far from here. Night had fallen. He saw a shape and heard gasps, the tinkle of bells. Now Furrell was visiting one of his hiding places where he had concealed some venison. He didn’t want to be caught red-handed. He thought it was some local with his leman or one of the townspeople with a doxy. Remember, master clerk, Melford is a small town: its walls and pathways have eyes and ears. If you take a fancy to your wife’s maid, she’s best enjoyed out in the countryside. Then there’s the young with their love trysts and starlight meetings. Furrell scampered away. When Blidscote was asking questions, Furrell told him what he’d heard. Furrell always insisted that was a mistake. He regretted ever opening his mouth.’
‘But he did about Sir Roger Chapeleys?’
‘Ah, that was different. It was in a court, on oath in front of a royal justice. Furrell thought he’d be safe.’
‘And what else do you know? If you travel the woods and forests, you must see things others don’t. You followed me from Melford. You heard about my coming. You couldn’t wait to speak to me.’
‘I will speak to you, clerk, but I beg you never tell anyone what I say.’ Sorrel gazed back down the pathway.
‘Are you frightened of Tressilyian, of Chapeleys?’
‘No.’
She smiled down at him through the darkness.
‘I act my part well. They are great lords of the soil. They’ll think that you think as they do. Who would believe poor, mad Sorrel?’
She pulled at the reins of the horse and Corbett stopped. He was aware of how the darkness had closed in swiftly. They had left the wooded area. On either side, hedgerows, fields stretching away in the distance. The sky was starlit, a full moon white and strong.
‘Furrell would love such a night,’ she whispered. ‘Forget all the stories about the darkness. Furrell liked to know where he was.’
Corbett could sense the tension from this woman. She acted fey-witted, the relict of a poacher who had disappeared but she was a woman consumed with the need for justice, a desire for revenge.
‘Do you pray, Sorrel?’
‘I have a statue of the Virgin,’ she replied. ‘It’s made of wood, rather battered and chipped. Parson Grimstone gave it to me. Every night, every morning, I light a wax candle bought specially from the chandlers. I pray: “Dear Mother, you never lost your husband but I have.”
Corbett smiled at this makeshift prayer.
‘Am I your answer, Sorrel?’
She leant down and grasped his shoulder. In the moonlight Corbett could see how, when she was young, Sorrel must have been a lovely girl.
‘I want justice, clerk.’ Tears glittered in her eyes. ‘Is that much to pray for? Can’t the good God in His Heaven give out a little justice to me, a poor widow woman? You are the answer to my prayer. When I saw you riding across the marketplace, I thought God Himself had come down to Melford.’
‘That’s blasphemy,’ Corbett teased.
‘No, clerk, it’s the truth. If you bring justice to poor Sorrel. If you can find out where my man lies. If those responsible can be dispatched to God’s tribunal then, every day, I will light a candle for you.’
Corbett repressed a shiver. He had sat in the King’s courts at Westminster. He had listened to petitions for redress. He had hunted the bloody-handed sons of Cain but never had he been faced with such passion: a deep desire for justice which sprang from the innermost soul.
‘You will help me?’ Sorrel asked.
‘Have you ever been in a maze, Mistress Sorrel? That’s where I am now. Melford’s a maze with little culverts, paths, shadowy corners. Shadows twist and turn. We have the deaths of these young women, Mistress Walmer, now Molkyn and Thorkle.’
‘I know nothing of those,’ Sorrel snapped. ‘God forgive me, master clerk: when I heard of their deaths my heart leapt. So it begins, I thought, God’s justice.’
‘What do you mean?’ Corbett demanded.
He stared up and caught the fierce look in her eyes. Was she a murderer? Corbett thought. Was her hunger for justice so great? Did she believe Thorkle and Molkyn were in some way responsible for the death of her husband?
‘I know what you are thinking, clerk,’ she murmured. ‘I said I was glad, not responsible.’
‘But why should they die?’ Corbett asked. ‘Is it possible someone else believes Sir Roger was innocent and is exacting vengeance?’
‘I don’t know. You really should have words with their widows. I am sure you’ll find them together. Molkyn and Thorkle’s wives are kinswomen, related by blood, though thinly.’
Sorrel slipped her feet from the stirrups and Corbett helped her down.
‘I have ridden enough.’
She thrust her hand into Corbett’s, rough but warm. Corbett wondered what the Lady Maeve would think of this: out in the dark countryside, walking hand-in-hand with this strange poacher woman.
‘Listen. I have three things to tell you, then I’ll be done,’ she declared. ‘First, I saw you at Devil’s Oak. You were looking at where Elizabeth’s corpse was found. Yes?’
Corbett agreed.
‘I glimpsed her,’ Sorrel continued. ‘Late in the afternoon on the day she disappeared. Elizabeth had a secret place in the copse of trees at the top of the meadow.’
‘A secret place?’
‘Oh, master clerk, you were a child once! You lived in a house with your parents, brothers, sisters, dog. You had a secret place. Elizabeth Wheelwright had one as do the other young men and women, places they can meet.’
‘So, you were the last to see her alive?’
‘Yes, and before you ask, Elizabeth was hurrying. I hid and watched her go by. You could tell from her face she was excited, pleased.’
‘In which case,’ Corbett confessed, ‘I am truly confused. All your sighting proves is that Elizabeth was probably killed somewhere between that copse of trees and Devil’s Oak. Her slayer cunningly hid all traces of his foul act. I can only deduce that her corpse was moved from the murder place to where it was found. So,’ he sighed, ‘I’d be wasting my time searching the ground. What else?’
‘In the last five years, six young women, including Goodwoman Walmer, have been raped and murdered around Melford. But they are not the only ones.’ She squeezed his hand.
‘Remember, I wander the roads but so do others: Moon People, tinkers, chapmen, families looking for work. I get to know them well. They talk.’ She shrugged. ‘Two, three, of their womenfolk have disappeared.’
‘But that’s not unheard of,’ Corbett replied. ‘Their womenfolk often—’
‘No, no, listen to what I am saying,’ Sorrel interrupted. ‘Corpses have been found but I wonder how many other murders there have been. Was Elizabeth Wheelwright’s corpse meant to be discovered? Have you ever seen weasels hunt, master clerk? They have a store. They hide the flesh of their victims so they can come back and eat it later. This Jesses killer is like the weasel: he kills and hides, though sometimes he’s not fast enough. Question Blidscote, he collects the corpses.’
‘You don’t like our master bailiff?’
‘He’s corrupt and he’s stupid!’ She spat the words out. ‘He likes nothing better than holding forth in the taproom, telling his business and everyone else’s to anyone who will listen. Don’t forget, he organised the search of Sir Roger’s house.’
Corbett gripped her hand.
‘You are saying he was bribed to find that evidence?’
‘I thought you were sharp,’ she teased. ‘Why should Sir Roger kill a girl, steal her tawdry effects and keep them at his manor? You should think more clearly and act quickly . . .’
Corbett caught the laughter in her voice.
‘. . . otherwise Master Blidscote will join Thorkle and Molkyn. They will soon be lowering his fat corpse into the soil.’
‘And finally?’ Corbett asked.
‘Ah, yes. The Mummer’s Man.’
‘The Mummer’s Man?’
Sorrel laughed deep in her throat. ‘Once, many years ago, I learnt a little Latin. Do you remember that line from the gospels, clerk, when Judas decided to betray Christ?’ She paused. ‘It reads something like, “Judas left and darkness fell.” Melford’s like that. Once darkness falls, all kinds of things happen. That’s the problem with people who live in towns. They think that if they can get out into the fields and woods they are alone, but they are not. I see things, some are comical, some are sad. Oh, not just the lusty swain wishing to swive the wench of his choice. Other things. Men like that young curate, Robert Bellen. Now he’s a strange one. I’ve caught him down near the river Swaile, kneeling naked in the mud, except for his loin cloth, bruising his back with a switch, eyes closed, lips moving in prayer.’
‘That is fanciful.’
‘No, clerk, it’s the truth. Why should a young man, a priest of God, feel he has to punish himself like that?’
Corbett swallowed hard. He’d heard of such practices in monasteries and abbeys, the desire to flagellate, to punish oneself. Sometimes it was just an extreme form of mortification, in others a deep sense of guilt. Did not King Henry have himself whipped through Canterbury for the murder of Thomas à Becket?
‘Do you have dealings with Bellen?’ he asked.
‘Very little but I thought it was a tragic sight, master clerk. Why should a young priest wish to do that? What secret sins does he hide?’
‘Could he be the killer?’
‘All things are possible, Sir Hugh. He made little attempt to hide himself the day I saw him.’
‘And Parson Grimstone?’
‘A goodly man. He likes the trencher, his roast pork, his capon served in sauces and cups of claret, but I’ve heard no whisper of scandal about him. Sometimes short-tempered. He and the other one, Burghesh, they are inseparable, like two old women gossiping with each other.’
‘And the Mummer’s Man?’ Corbett asked.
‘It happened just before the killings began again. Furrell had mentioned something about a man with a mask riding a horse but that was years ago. I said he was drunk, deep in his cups. Anyway, the day was quiet, one of those beautiful times when the weather is changing. I was in Sheepcote Lane; it’s a narrow path across the fields. I was enjoying the sun, nestling behind an outcrop of rock when I heard a horse. Usually the place is deserted but I looked over and, just for a matter of heartbeats, I glimpsed this man dressed in a cloak. On his head he wore one of those mummer’s masks, the sort travelling actors use when they appear in a morality play. This one belonged to the player who takes the part of the devil, blood-red, twisted mouth, horns on either side. I was so shocked I immediately hid. He was past me in a trice. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Perhaps a young man playing a joke? There is so much revelry here. Then I recalled Furrell’s words: how one of the travellers he encountered, passing through, had seen something similar.’ She touched Corbett’s hand and pointed to a gap in the hedge leading into the water meadow. ‘I must go.’ She tapped her walking cane on the trackway. ‘If you wish, you can join me.’ She made a drinking gesture. ‘I have some very good wine . . .’
Corbett stared into the darkness. ‘You saw Elizabeth Wheelwright going across the fields about Devil’s Oak?’ he asked. ‘Weren’t you suspicious? Why didn’t you follow her?’
‘I saw no one else, master clerk. I do not belong to Melford. Few people like me but, in the main, I am tolerated. I don’t want to be accused of snooping or prying where I shouldn’t. I saw Elizabeth go into the copse. No one else was around, there was nothing suspicious, so I walked on.’
‘So, she must have met her killer? Why,’ Corbett insisted, ‘should a young woman come out into the lonely countryside to meet someone? How would she know where to go? I wager she could scarcely read.’
‘I don’t know, clerk, but if you come with me, I might enlighten you.’
Corbett gripped the reins of his horse. ‘It’s truly dark,’ he murmured.
‘You are not just referring to the night, are you, Corbett?’
‘No, I’m not.’ He shivered. ‘Do you believe in ghosts, Sorrel?’
‘I believe the dead walk and try to speak to us.’
‘I hope they speak to me,’ Corbett replied. ‘All those poor women so barbarously ravished and murdered. Surely it’s time their ghosts betrayed this killer.’
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.