by Paul Doherty
‘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!’
Chapter 10
‘An exciting day, Master.’
Ranulf, perched on a stool, grinned over his shoulder at Chanson, who squatted near the door. Corbett sat on his bed beneath the small casement window. He stared around his bedchamber, a comfortable, sweet-smelling place. He was particularly intrigued by this large four-poster bed with its ornate tester and curtains of mulberry-coloured wool.
‘You’d think it was a bridal chamber,’ he murmured. ‘Certainly comfortable; even rugs on the floor.’
‘At least our taverner knows how to treat a royal clerk,’ Ranulf laughed.
‘I am that tired,’ Corbett replied, ‘I’d sleep in a pigsty. Don’t be too hard on the good citizens of Melford: they are frightened.’
He watched the capped brazier in the corner, its coals glowing through the narrow slits. Every so often he would catch the flavour of spring from the herbs sprinkled there. Corbett had not demanded such luxury but he was appreciative of it.
‘Nothing like a well-aimed kick, is there, Master?’
‘Repton was a fool, yet I couldn’t let it pass. Well, I know what you found and you now know what I’ve learnt.’
They’d spent at least an hour exchanging information. Corbett was particularly intrigued at how Ranulf’s story about the Mummer’s Man corroborated what Sorrel had told him.
‘Oh, what was that information from Westminster?’ Ranulf asked.
‘A record of the trial from the court of King’s Bench. The rest was a little research I’d organised. Never once,’ Corbett waved a hand, ‘was Sir Roger, whilst serving with the King’s forces in many places, ever accused of attacking or raping women. As you know, when troops are in hostile country those who love to abuse women seize such opportunities with relish. I’ve seen at least five or six hanged in Wales for rape and abduction.’
‘What do you mean, relish?’ Chanson asked.
‘When we return to London, Chanson, Ranulf may take you down to the stews of Southwark, introduce you to some of his lady friends.’
‘You mean whores? Ranulf’s talked about them.’
‘No woman is a whore!’ Ranulf snapped. ‘I call them my ladies of the night. A prettier bunch of damsels you’ve never clapped eyes on.’
‘You should talk to them,’ Corbett continued. ‘They will tell you about a certain type of man who can only enjoy intercourse after he has beaten a woman. The ladies of the night make them pay for such a privilege. Last Michaelmas we entertained Monsieur de Craon, the French envoy. When he’s not busy plotting for his master, Philip of France, or trying to steal secrets or kill our spies, de Craon is used, like I am, to track down killers. He mentioned a particular case near the royal hunting lodge of Fontainebleau. About two summers ago, young women were attacked, raped and murdered. De Craon eventually caught the killer and watched him broken on the wheel at Montfaucon. He was fascinated by how the man enjoyed what he did. De Craon described him as an animal; a human wolf, who liked to prey: he enjoyed the violence more than the kill.’
‘And this is what we have in Melford?’
‘Yes, Ranulf, but I can’t make sense of anything we have learnt.’ Corbett leant forward. ‘Let me tell you a story.’
Chanson drew nearer and sat cross-legged next to Ranulf.
‘Once upon a time,’ Corbett smiled at his companions, ‘we have the King’s market town of Melford, a very prosperous place where crops are no longer sown but the fields are grassed over. Sheep are raised and the wool is sold for a fat profit. You’ve seen the effects of this: good, stout buildings, a tavern like the Golden Fleece, Guildhall, shops, luxury items, brought in from the merchants of London. Now all is pleasant in this little Eden until five years ago . . .’
‘So, who came here five years ago?’ Ranulf asked.
‘I’ve scrutinised that,’ Corbett replied. ‘No one did. Most of the characters we are dealing with, including the Chapeleys, have been here at least ten years, as have the vicar, his curate and Burghesh, Molkyn the miller and so on. However, I know what you’re implying. The first murder took place five years ago but, according to Sorrel, there have been others: the womenfolk of traders, chapmen, tinkers, Moon People. The latter now avoid this place like the plague. However,’ Corbett continued, ‘five years ago, in the space of a few months, three townswomen were attacked, raped and garrotted; their corpses found in different parts of the countryside. Now you have seen this town, it lacks walls and gates. An army could slip in and out and not be noticed. I have ridden around it: at one time you are in a busy, prosperous market town, the next lonely countryside. It’s a landscape our killer would love: it dips and rolls. Part of the forest has been cleared away but copses and woods still survive.’
‘And there’s no ploughing,’ Ranulf declared.
‘Good man, Ranulf! We’ll make a farmer of you yet. When fields are ploughed, you have a constant stream of labourers moving in and out: harrowing, fertilising, sowing, reaping. Meadow land is different, that’s why raising sheep is so profitable. The longer the grass grows the better. The sheep are put out to pasture and who looks after them? A shepherd with, perhaps, his boy and dogs? Because sheep wander, hedgerows have been planted along the narrow lanes. In places the trackways are like trenches. Someone could move along them and not be seen by a shepherd boy dozing under a tree - a perfect killing ground. However,’ he tapped his foot on the floor, ‘we do have one perplexing problem. Why should a young woman wander out into such countryside to meet this assassin? Yes, Chanson, I accept how you bribed the tavern wench to come out and meet Ranulf. But, would she have gone into the countryside, to a lonely place like Devil’s Oak? And this Mummer’s Man, riding his silent horse? Is he the murderer? If so, his victim would have to be out in the countryside to begin with. And, bold as she might be, Adela would not approach such a strangely garbed figure on a lonely country lane.’
‘But for silver?’
‘Oh, I accept the logic of what you say, Ranulf. If I told any of the serving girls below that a silver piece was out at Devil’s Oak, they wouldn’t tell anybody in case they lost it. They’d keep it quiet. I could understand Adela going out for a second time, if her first journey had been profitable. But, what inducement would she be given first?’
Ranulf snapped his fingers. ‘Master, the Mummer’s Man was seen riding the country lanes?’
‘Yes, that’s what Sorrel told me.’
‘So, he may have been going to put the silver in the secret place, travelling to meet his victim? Or even returning after the murder?’
‘And?’
‘I’d wager,’ Ranulf continued excitedly, ‘the killer first approaches his victim here in the town, a narrow lane, a dark alleyway. He calls out a name. Perhaps he coats the trap with honey? Says so-and-so adm
ires her. Perhaps that Mummer’s Man, if he is the killer, doesn’t give a name but just says a silver piece will be in a certain place?’
‘I agree. Few young women could resist such an approach. The victim would be curious, wondering if it was true or not. So she plucks up her courage and goes out to some desolate spot. The silver piece is there. Perhaps she is killed on the first occasion, the assassin lurking nearby. Or, maybe she has only to go a short distance that first time, and, the trap laid to ensure greater compliance, it’s the second time he strikes, luring her further away to an appropriate place.’
Corbett half cocked his head and listened to the sounds from the stable yard, the cries of farewells as the taproom was cleared.
‘Anyway, let me continue my story. Our killer lusts after young women. Wearing a disguise and mask, he makes his approach. The victim is lured out into the lonely countryside and killed. For all we know, there may be women who were not tricked so easily but that might be difficult to establish. Now, so far,’ Corbett continued, rubbing his chin, ‘the story is simple, it’s like luring a child with sweetmeats. I suspect this Mummer’s Man is the killer. He roams the countryside lanes and trackways looking for possible victims like a fox hunting rabbits. Remember, the corpses of these victims have been found because relatives became worried. But, what happens to other victims, the wandering womenfolk? Their relatives might believe the wench has run away, gone somewhere else. Or don’t even care? In the area around Whitefriars in London, God forgive us, you can buy a girl of twelve for a penny.’
‘But Widow Walmer doesn’t fit this pattern.’
‘No, Ranulf, she doesn’t. Here’s a pretty widow who has probably seen the world, knows its wickedness and has the wit not to be trapped. She lived by herself though Margaret the miller’s daughter served as her companion. On the night she died she expected Sir Roger, that’s a well-known fact, so young Margaret was told to stay at home.’
‘How would the killer know that?’
‘By deduction, Ranulf. If Sir Roger, God bless him, was trumpeting in the taproom how he was going to visit the widow and the killer heard.’ Corbett pulled a face. ‘That’s not the real problem: the riddle is why? Why Widow Walmer?’
‘It would appear, Master, she almost had to die?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If she hadn’t, Sir Roger wouldn’t have been trapped, his house wouldn’t have been searched. The carpenter wouldn’t have remembered seeing him in Gully Lane.’
Corbett sat and reflected. ‘Are you implying, Ranulf, that Widow Walmer was murdered because she knew something? Or that she was deliberately killed to trap Sir Roger?’
‘Possibly both, but I would choose the latter.’
Corbett shook his head in disbelief. ‘You are a man of cunning wit, Ranulf. I hadn’t thought of that. Let’s follow that path. Sir Roger suspects who the true killer of the young women is. Perhaps he hints at this knowledge. So, our mysterious Mummer’s Man spins his own murderous web to catch this knight. The only weakness of this argument is Sir Roger was a man of hot temperament. Why didn’t he just accuse the killer openly? Have him arrested? Drag him before Justice Tressilyian?’
Ranulf, who had been preening himself at Corbett’s praise, stared blankly back.
‘No, no.’ Corbett leant over and patted him on the knee. ‘I accept your hypothesis. Let us return to Widow Walmer. Sir Roger goes for his evening of love, then leaves. We have to believe that Furrell was telling the truth but the poacher also claimed he saw other people slipping down Gully Lane towards Widow Walmer’s cottage. One of these could have been the killer, the other two must have been Repton’s comings and goings.’
‘Do you think Furrell really was telling the truth?’
‘Yes, Ranulf, I do. It makes sense. The killer knew that Sir Roger would leave Widow Walmer. The goodwoman probably insisted that he not spend the night there. So the killer goes down, he murders Widow Walmer, and finds, by good luck, Chapeleys’ knife and sheath which had been given as a gift. Those are left on the floor and he flees into the night. Repton goes down once and, having fortified himself with ale and the company of Master Burghesh, returns. The murder is known and the hunt is on. What happens next is what you’d expect. They visit the local justice and warrants are sworn out. Thockton Hall is searched where more incriminating evidence is found.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Chanson, who had been carefully following the argument, spoke up. ‘What was a manor lord doing with gewgaws from wenches of the town?’
‘If, my dear horseman, our noble Clerk of the Green Wax is correct, then I believe the killer sent these to Sir Roger, who mistakenly thought they were keepsakes of some woman he had tumbled. It’s like young Adela in the taproom below sending me a ring or a brooch—’
‘Lady Maeve would have your head!’ Ranulf broke in.
‘Yes, yes, she would,’ Corbett smiled. ‘But if I was Sir Roger, I wouldn’t want to throw them away. I’d toss them into my coffer and not give them a second thought, which is what happened. Now, it’s Sir Roger we must concentrate on.’ Corbett scratched the back of his head. ‘He didn’t help his case one whit. He was disliked and he was blunt but three things he stoutly denied: the murder of the young women, the slaying of Widow Walmer and Deverell the carpenter’s evidence.’
‘We should have visited him first,’ Ranulf declared.
‘He’ll not change his story. This is not Repton the reeve. Deverell went on oath; he swore a man’s life away. If he changes his story now he’ll hang tomorrow and he knows that. I suspect that’s why he wasn’t in the taproom tonight.’
‘He’s hiding from us?’
‘As well as from the real killer. I’ll come to him in a moment.’
‘So,’ Ranulf spoke up, ‘we have the allegations laid and Sir Roger under arrest in the crypt. Justice Tressilyian sweeps into Melford, takes his seat at the Guildhall. Popular feeling is running high against the imprisoned knight and a jury is empanelled.’
Corbett tapped the roll of the court with the toe of his boot. ‘The record will give us the other jurors’ names. Tressilyian is under orders to gather them together for me to question. However, I do think it’s a remarkable coincidence that the jury was led by a man who hated Sir Roger.’
‘Even so,’ Ranulf declared, ‘the evidence against the knight was impressive.’
‘Except in one matter: the garrotte - that was never found. But you are right, Ranulf, the evidence is impressive and the trial takes its course. Justice Tressilyian tries to have the matter referred to King’s Bench at Westminster but this is refused. Chapeleys is found guilty. There’s only one sentence the justice can pass, though, once again, letters are sent to Westminster, this time pleading for a pardon. The King, advised by his own Chief Justice, refuses to grant a pardon and Sir Roger is hanged.’ Corbett paused. ‘My feet are killing me,’ he groaned. He eased his boots off and threw them into a corner. ‘Melford goes back to its peaceful existence. But,’ Corbett paused, ‘that doesn’t mean the murders cease. I am not too sure how many other women, the kin of wandering folk, this assassin has killed.’
‘And don’t forget Furrell the poacher.’
‘No, we mustn’t forget him. All the evidence indicates Furrell saw something, knew more than he should have done. He would have to be silenced. I believe Sorrel. Furrell’s cold in his grave, God only knows where that is. Sorrel knows this countryside like the palm of her hand but, there again, her husband’s corpse may lie at the bottom of the Swaile, weights and stones attached to its legs. Anyway, back to Melford. In appearances, all is quiet. The murders have been avenged, the King’s justice carried out, then the murders begin again.’
‘Why?’ Chanson asked. ‘That, Master, doesn’t make sense.’ He smiled. ‘It’s not logical.’ He quoted Corbett’s oft-repeated phrase.
‘What do you know about logic?’ Ranulf asked crossly.
‘About as much as you know about horses!’
‘Hush now! Chan
son has made a good point. There were certainly no killings amongst the townswomen for five years. There must be reasons for that. First, it had to be seen that Chapeleys was responsible. Secondly, we must understand the soul of the killer. Here is a man who knows he does wrong but, like a dog returning to its vomit, cannot restrain himself. Over the years his frustration grows. He walks the lanes and streets of Melford and sees this pretty face, a soft neck, well-turned ankles. He lusts in secret. Eventually the demons return. And, finally . . .’ Corbett stared across the chamber.
‘Yes, Master?’
‘We have hunted killers, Ranulf, those who plot murder, the taking of lives. One trait of these children of Cain always fascinates me: their overweening arrogance. They are like pompous scholars in the Halls of Oxford. They think they are different from anyone else, more intelligent, more cunning. They enjoy the game, they truly believe they cannot be caught. In a sense, the killer is mocking Melford, ridiculing the townspeople. “Look,” he is saying, “I killed before and I escaped. Now I’ll kill again and what can you do?”
‘Of course, we could be wrong,’ Ranulf said. ‘There is the possibility that Sir Roger was guilty and someone is now copying these murders.’
‘True,’ Corbett smiled. ‘But logic indicates the same killer, using the same method. Young Elizabeth, the wheelwright’s daughter, a lovely, young woman, is teased and enticed by the Mummer’s Man. Maybe he’s already tested her and she’s taken the bait. Now she goes out to her secret place somewhere near Devil’s Oak. The first time she collected a piece of silver but the second time her killer is waiting: it was money well spent for the enjoyment he gets.’
‘And the other murders? Molkyn and Thorkle?’ Ranulf asked.
‘Ah yes, that precious pair. Let’s discuss them as well as Blidscote and Deverell the carpenter. Let us say, for sake of argument, that all four were corrupted. How could that be done?’
‘Money!’ Chanson spoke so loudly Ranulf jumped.
‘I’d like to agree,’ Corbett replied. ‘But we are no longer talking about young women. These are wealthy, responsible burgesses of Melford. They would have to be bribed heavily to participate in corruption which would lead to an innocent man’s execution. They would also know that if they were ever discovered, the most gruesome death awaited them.’