Hugh Corbett 12 - The Treason of the Ghosts

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Blackmail?’ Ranulf queried.

  ‘That would seem the most logical explanation. But, there again, who would know so much to put the fear of God in all four? We must also remember they were halfway down the Judas path: they disliked Sir Roger and so were receptive to any approach.’

  ‘That means they must have known the killer?’ Ranulf rubbed his hands, enjoying himself. He loved to follow his master’s tortuous mind. It reminded him of a hunting dog snaking and curling amongst the bushes, refusing to give up the scent, determined to track down its quarry. ‘Perhaps,’ he suggested, ‘we should collect Master Blidscote and Deverell and cart them off to London.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Corbett loosened the cords on the neck of his shirt. ‘The most they would tell us is that they were corrupted. The killer, the blackmailer, probably approached his victims in a silent, secretive way.’ He sighed. ‘Now, as for the killer of Molkyn and Thorkle, we have two choices. First, the Mummer’s Man could have silenced them. Perhaps both were having qualms of conscience, feelings of guilt, although there is no evidence of that. Indeed, the little I know of Molkyn, it’s highly unlikely.’

  ‘And secondly?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘That there’s a second killer in Melford. Someone who now knows Sir Roger was innocent either because they found evidence or, more simply, because these murders have begun again. This man, or woman, realises what a heinous miscarriage of justice has been committed and is determined to avenge Sir Roger’s death. Molkyn and Thorkle die and Sir Louis is attacked.’ Corbett chewed the corner of his lip. ‘Yes, it must be an avenging angel, hence the warnings daubed on Sir Roger’s tombstone and at the gibbet.’

  ‘And who could this avenging angel be?’ Chanson asked.

  ‘Well, the list is endless. Perhaps the priests, they may have heard something in confession. Chapeleys’ son, Sir Maurice, eager to avenge his father’s name. Oh, God knows! It could have even been their wives.’

  ‘Their wives!’ Ranulf exclaimed.

  ‘I told you. I met them tonight. Believe me, Ranulf, if some assassin cut my throat, and the Lady Maeve showed as little grief as those two,’ he smiled, ‘I’d be tempted to come back and haunt her! I have never met widows like that. God forgive me, they were almost happy to have their husbands cold in their graves. I believe Ursula may have known Sir Roger more intimately than her husband would have liked. There is no doubt that Lucy, Thorkle’s wife, is dewy-eyed about the miller’s son. The one I would love to have questioned, and intend to do so, is young Margaret.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why, Chanson, because I am suspicious. Somehow or other she knows a great deal. She was Molkyn’s daughter, a companion to Widow Walmer and she hated her father.’

  ‘So many theories,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘So many paths. Which one do we follow?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The clerk spread his hands. ‘So many possibilities. Is the murderer of five years ago responsible for these last two young women’s deaths? Is he responsible for the killing of Molkyn, Thorkle, the attack on Tressilyian, those secret messages? Or are there two, perhaps even three, killers? Are the Jesses killer and the Mummer’s Man one and the same? How did this assassin, despite all our theories, entice his victims out to some desolate spot? Why was Walmer killed? What happened to Furrell? Were Blidscote, Deverell, Molkyn and Thorkle corrupted? If so, why and by whom?’

  Corbett got to his feet, undid his jerkin, went across to the lavarium and splashed water over his face. He took a linen cloth and dried himself.

  ‘We should question Master Deverell but it will be as informative as talking to this bed post. I could go back to the mill and, of course, there are those two priests. Tomorrow, Chanson, Ranulf will come with me. You seek out Master Blidscote. Take him to the Guildhall. I want to know if there have been other reports about young women disappearing over the last ten years.’

  ‘And us?’ Ranulf asked.

  ‘We are going to the dawn Mass at St Edmund’s.’ Corbett looked down at the floor. ‘I was attacked tonight. I don’t see the logic behind that, or indeed what happened to Justice Tressilyian. Beneath the serene surface of this town seethe bloody passions and murderous urges. I need the Mass. I must take the sacrament.’

  Ranulf watched his strange master.

  ‘In a matter of days,’ Corbett continued, ‘we celebrate All-Hallows Eve. They say the ghosts of the dead come back. When I was a boy, we used to light fires, a circle of bonfires around the village, to ward off the ghosts. Well, the ghosts have come back to Melford to haunt, to seek justice, perhaps even revenge. We not only deal with treasons of the living, Ranulf, but the treason of the ghosts. Old lies, deeply embedded, ancient sins quickened and festering. We should be careful as we walk. Perhaps that’s the last time I’ll journey around Melford under the cloak of darkness.’ He sat on the edge of the bed. ‘It’s best if we sleep. The morning will come soon enough.’

  He bade his companions good night and ushered them out.

  Ranulf led Chanson back to their own chamber at the end of the gallery overlooking the stable yard.

  ‘He’s in a sombre mood,’ the groom declared as they settled for the night.

  ‘He’s always in a sombre mood,’ Ranulf answered, sitting at the table, busily lighting more candles.

  ‘Aren’t you going to sleep?’

  ‘I have a letter to write,’ Ranulf declared proudly.

  He opened one of the panniers and took out a sheet of vellum and laid it on the desk, then his portable writing-tray, quills, inkpot and pumice stone. Ranulf heard Chanson’s chatter but he wasn’t listening. He wanted to write to Alicia in that lonely convent in Wiltshire. This would be the sixth letter he had written and still he’d received no reply. Each occasion Ranulf found it more difficult. Was he writing because he missed her? Because he truly loved her? Or because he rejoiced in his new-found skills? He was now Master of the Cursive Script, the elegant phrase: Ranulf had a passion for scholarship. One day he would be a senior clerk in the Chancery of the Secret Seal.

  He wrote the words: ‘My dearest Alicia,’ and then paused. Would he be a senior clerk? He smiled at his secret ambition: to take Holy Orders! And why not? He was a King’s man, wasn’t he? Time and again, old Edward at Westminster would take him aside, grasp him by the arm as if Ranulf was one of his boon companions. The King would share his sorrows and troubles; flatter Ranulf with praise and promises of things to come. It was the one part of Ranulf’s life he never shared with Corbett. Yet, sometimes, more frequently now than ever, Corbett would sit and stare at him. Was it mockery? Cynicism? Or sadness?

  Ranulf sighed. He told Chanson to go to sleep and continued with his letter.

  In his chamber Corbett lay on the bed, hands stretched out, staring up through the darkness at the embroidered tester. The wind rattled the shutters. Distant sounds of the tavern settling for the night drifted up. Images came and went: Maeve dressing for bed; little Edward, plump and pink, snoring softly in the cradle well away from window draughts; Uncle Morgan downstairs, busy baiting the servants. Corbett let these images go. He was standing under the Devil’s Oak in Falmer Lane. He was watching a young woman slip through the meadow to that copse of trees at the top of the hill. The Mummer’s Man or the Jesses killer would be waiting.

  ‘The bells!’ Corbett whispered to himself. ‘It wasn’t jesses. The Mummer’s Man wore a mask with bells on either side. So, who would do that? And why?’

  Only a few streets away, Ysabeau, wife of Deverell the carpenter, was also concerned about the hideous murders which had taken place out in the countryside. She lay in bed staring into the darkness, straining her ears for sounds from downstairs. Since Sir Roger’s trial, nothing had been the same! Deverell, a surly man, had only grown more grim and withdrawn. He had never discussed his evidence but, when asked, would repeat it by rote like a chanteur telling a story. Had her husband told the truth? Why had he been so insistent he had seen Sir Roger that night? She could never understand Deverell’s
unhappiness. He was a carpenter, a craftsman. He had done work as far as Ipswich. Merchants and burgesses visited his workshop. Why was he always sad? What did he have to hide?

  Deverell had come to Melford some seven years ago. A travelling journeyman, he possessed skill with the hammer and chisel that had soon established him as a craftsman. He was definitely learned. He could read and write and, at times, betrayed a knowledge of Latin and French. On one occasion, in his cups, he had even discussed Parson Grimstone’s sermon on the body and blood of Christ. He was a good husband, loyal, faithful and, even when drunk, he never beat her. So why this great fear? And why now?

  News had swept through Melford of the arrival of the King’s clerk. Deverell had grown pale and withdrawn. He had spent more and more time in his workshop. When she brought him food and drink, Ysabeau found he had almost turned it into a fortress, shutters and doors all closed, locked and barred. It was the same with the kitchen below. Deverell had even replaced the door and built a Judas squint in the wall. He never told her the reason why. Now he refused to come to bed but sat in his great high-backed chair in front of the fire, drinking and brooding. If anyone knocked on the door, he went to the Judas squint and peered through to see who was standing in the porch.

  The carpenter’s wife stirred. Wasn’t that a tapping on the door? At this hour? She threw the blankets back and sat up. Yes, someone was tapping. She could hear it. She swung her legs off the bed and, putting on a pair of soft buskins, stole across to the latticed window. She opened it and looked out.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she called.

  She could still hear the tapping but she couldn’t see anybody because of the porch recess. Whoever was there was well hidden. She closed the window and went across the bedchamber. She heard a sound like that of a groan, the crash of a stool, even as the rapping on the door continued. She waited no longer but fled down the stairs, along the passageway and into the kitchen. Lanterns and candles still glowed, the door was still barred but Deverell lay sprawled near the fireplace. A crossbow bolt had smashed him full in the face, shattering skin and bone. Blood pumped out of the terrible wounds, spilling out of the half-opened mouth.

  Deverell’s wife grasped the back of a chair and stared in horror. She couldn’t breathe. She could hear screaming and realised it was herself, just before fainting away.

  Chapter 11

  ‘Ecce Corpus Christi. Behold the Body of Christ!’

  ‘Amen!’ Corbett murmured.

  He received the sacred wafer on his tongue and returned to kneel just inside the rood screen. The flagstones were icy-cold. Corbett ignored the distraction as he closed his eyes and prayed. Ranulf joined him. Parson Grimstone returned to the altar and the Mass proceeded to its conclusion. Grimstone picked up the chalice and the paten and walked off to the sacristy. Corbett crossed himself and looked around. A few parishioners grouped around the sanctuary steps. He noticed with amusement how Burghesh had his own personal prie-dieu and, once the priest had left the sanctuary, the old soldier hastened up to extinguish the candles and remove the sacred cloths.

  Old Mother Crauford and the slack-jawed Peterkin were present: huffing and puffing, the old woman got to her feet. She grasped her cane in one hand, Peterkin’s arm in the other, nodded at Corbett, went through the rood screen and out by the corpse door.

  Corbett crossed himself and, followed by Ranulf, walked down the nave. The church was cold and dank but well kept and swept. The benches were neatly piled in the transepts. The oaken rood screen, the sanctuary chair, furniture and wooden statues were clean and polished. No cobwebs hung round the pillars and considerable monies had been spent on a series of eye-catching wall paintings. One in particular showed Christ, after his crucifixion, going down amongst the dead: the Saviour stood on the shores by the lake of Hell, gazing sorrowfully across at the armies of the damned.

  ‘Very imaginative,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Every church has its paintings, Ranulf. Because local artists are hired the pictures are all different.’

  He stopped to admire a triptych: Christ as a child, Mary on one side, Joseph on the other. Corbett smiled at how the town in the background looked remarkably like Melford. He walked back into the sanctuary. The three stalls on either side had their seats up, displaying misericords carved below. The artist, as usual, had carved local scenes or incidents: a wife beating a drunken husband; a dog with a leg of lamb in its mouth; a parson with a tankard to his lips. The sanctuary was the centrepiece of the church: coloured glass glowed in the windows behind the altar; a silver-gold pyx holding the sacred host hung from a filigree chain; candlesticks of heavy brass gleamed and winked in the light of the sanctuary lamp; more paintings on the walls; soft carpets on the altar steps whilst the altar itself was of pure oak, polished and smoothed.

  With Ranulf wandering behind him, Corbett left and entered the Lady Chapel. The statue of the Virgin seated, holding the baby Jesus, reminded him of the shrine at Walsingham. Corbett slipped a coin into the heavy box and bought a number of candle-lights. He lit them with a taper, murmuring: ‘One for Maeve, one for Eleanor . . .’

  He had hardly finished when Parson Grimstone, accompanied by Curate Robert and Burghesh, joined them.

  ‘Would you like to see the church?’

  Corbett agreed and the parson proudly led them around, explaining the paintings, the different items bought by parishioners. How the rood screen was new and the baptismal font near the front door needed to be refurbished. He then took them into the bell tower with its narrow, winding steps, coloured bell ropes, the deep, sloping window recesses on the outside wall.

  ‘This is the old part of the church,’ he explained.

  Corbett looked at the arrow-slit windows at the far end of the recesses.

  ‘It reminds me of a peel tower,’ he declared, ‘on the Scottish border. Soldiers would climb into such recesses to defend it.’

  ‘This is Curate Robert’s domain,’ Parson Grimstone declared, his rubicund face creased into a smile, though his eyes were watery and nervous. He proudly clapped the curate on the shoulder.

  In fact Bellen looked anything but proud: dressed in his black gown with a white cord round the middle, the curate stood white-faced and heavy-eyed. Now and again his lips moved soundlessly as if he was talking to himself.

  ‘I understand,’ Grimstone said flatly as they left the bell tower, ‘that you met some of my parishioners last night and made the personal acquaintance of Repton the reeve?’

  ‘It was interesting,’ Corbett replied. ‘Parson Grimstone, you have a fine church here. Do you have a Book of the Dead?’ he added sharply.

  ‘Why, yes.’ The parson became flustered. ‘It’s in the sacristy.’

  He led them back down the church and into the small, oak-panelled room with its cupboards and chests. It smelt fragrantly of incense and beeswax candles, and was dominated by a huge black crucifix nailed to the wall above the panelling. Parson Grimstone, hands shaking, unlocked the parish coffer and sifted amongst the documents and ledgers. Beads of sweat coursed down Grimstone’s face: he quietly rubbed his stomach, whilst his search was clumsy.

  You’re nervous, Corbett thought, but you are also a toper. Corbett had seen the same phenomena amongst clerks in the chancery who spent their nights in the alehouses and taverns: an unexplained flush to the face, a tendency to sweat, whilst their hands shook as if they were afflicted by palsy. He noticed how the curate stayed near the door. Burghesh was solicitous, going to help the parson like a mother would a child. Grimstone at last found the silver-edged ledger and pulled it out. The pages inside were thick and crackled as he opened it.

  ‘It’s the work of a binder in Ipswich,’ he remarked. ‘It’s about a hundred years old but well sewn together with twine. Why the interest, Sir Hugh?’

  ‘Elizabeth the wheelwright’s daughter’s name is in this?’

  ‘Oh yes, oh yes,’ Parson Grimstone said, flustered. ‘Of course, she is. We celebrate her Requiem Mass at noon today, followed by interment.
’ He pointed to the black and gold vestments laid out over a chest. ‘Robert will sing the Mass. He has a fine voice. He knew the girl better than I did.’

  ‘In what way?’ Corbett asked sharply.

  The curate walked forward, scratching at his mop of hair. He’s not as nervous as he looks, Corbett thought. Bellen’s eyes were troubled but steady.

  ‘She came to me in the confessional pew.’

  ‘But you never met her outside your priestly duties?’

  ‘No, Sir Hugh, why should I? I am a priest, sworn to celibacy. I heard her petty sins and shrived her. You know Canon Law, clerk.’

  ‘I know Church Law, priest! I have no intention of asking you what you heard under the seal of confession. It is a sacred seal, is it not?’

  The curate smiled with his eyes.

  ‘I mean no offence.’ Corbett took his gloves off and pushed them into his war belt. ‘But the poor girl lies dead.’

  ‘Aye, Sir Hugh, she does but her soul’s with God. Elizabeth Wheelwright was guilty of no serious sin, at least none that she confessed to me.’

  ‘And Sir Roger Chapeleys?’ Corbett queried, glancing at Grimstone.

  ‘We’ve had this conversation before, Sir Hugh. I’ve told you what I know. Sir Roger’s last confession was heard by a visiting friar but he did say that Sir Roger had not confessed to any murders.’

  ‘You think he was innocent?’

  ‘No man is innocent.’

  ‘You think he was a murderer?’ Corbett demanded.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Parson Grimstone sat in a high-backed chair between two chests. ‘I know nothing about Sir Roger. I would not describe him as a man of God. Oh, he attended Mass on Sundays and when he had to. He gave a triptych to the church which was later burnt.’