by Paul Doherty
Corbett paused. Then: ‘What were Furrell’s words to Molkyn? That it was all as plain as a picture?’ He stared up at the emblems on the tester cloth above the bed. ‘Plain as a picture,’ he repeated. He turned on his side. ‘Chanson, you made careful enquiries at the Guildhall?’
‘I didn’t find much,’ the groom replied. ‘Every year someone is reported missing.’
Corbett stared at a small triptych on the wall. ‘I want you to do me an errand.’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘A message for Sir Maurice.’
‘But he’s just left.’
‘I know and I apologise.’
Corbett got up and went to his writing-desk. Ranulf glared at Chanson, shaking his head as a warning not to protest. Corbett wrote quickly, took a piece of wax and sealed the note.
‘Give that to Sir Maurice personally. He is to tell no one what I ask, nor is he to mention it tonight, except to say yea or nay. Do you understand? Now drink a tankard in the taproom below and be off.’
Chanson took the message and left.
‘And what were you so pleased about in the taproom?’ Corbett asked. ‘Humming and singing under your breath?’
‘Adela. She’s quite a chatterbox,’ Ranulf replied. ‘She told me that—’
‘Told you?’ Corbett intervened. ‘When did she tell you, Ranulf?’
His manservant coloured. ‘Ah, last night I grew thirsty. Chanson is not the most ideal companion: he not only snores like a horse, he smells like one as well.’
‘So, you went downstairs and paid court to the fair Adela. Ranulf, if you become a priest, these midnight trysts will have to end.’
‘Well, she has taken a silver piece off me.’ Ranulf pulled a stool across and sat down. ‘Tavern wenches are a source of gossip. Grimstone likes his wine. Burghesh is the priest more than he is, a veritable busybody. Sir Louis Tressilyian doesn’t like the townspeople, whilst Sir Maurice, before he fell in love with Sir Louis’s daughter, would often vow terrible retribution for his father’s death. The miller was an oaf, a bullyboy. His wife is certainly hot-eyed and may have entertained Sir Roger when her husband was absent—’
‘All this we know,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘This is a town, a parish. Go to any town in the kingdom . . .’
‘Master Blidscote,’ Ranulf retorted.
‘Oh, our good master bailiff.’
‘He’s unmarried.’
‘For some men that might be happiness. I suppose he has an eye for the wenches?’
‘Yes, Master, and for the boys.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘So it’s rumoured.’
‘Children rather than men?’
‘So rumour has it,’ Ranulf replied. ‘There’s even a story that Sir Roger had to have words with him years ago about his own son, Maurice. They also say Blidscote’s corrupt. A coward at times, a bully at others, his soul is constantly up for sale.’
‘So, Ranulf, a man easily blackmailed. Blidscote harmed Sir Roger by ensuring Molkyn was on that jury whilst the rest were people who would give way to the burly miller.’
‘Does the trial record reveal anything?’
‘No, Ranulf. They call it a transcript, but in truth, it is a summary; it contains nothing new. The prosecution was presented by a sergeant at law from Ipswich, a royal lawyer attached to the city council: he had an easy task.’
‘Will we trap the real murderer?’
‘I don’t know,’ Corbett murmured. ‘You see, Ranulf, everything we learn is what people tell us. And, as you know, that can be easily controlled. Some people forget, others conceal, a few tell us what we want to know. Then, of course, there are the downright lies. Of course, the killer, or shall I say killers, may make a mistake.’
‘So, we are dealing with two?’
‘Oh yes. The first likes to terrify young women, ravish and murder them. The second - I don’t know: he or she - wages bloody war against those who sent Sir Roger to the scaffold.’
Corbett recalled Old Mother Crauford’s words about Haceldema. He sat and half listened to the sounds from the taproom below.
‘What happens if we can’t prove anything?’
‘Then, Ranulf, we can’t prove anything. The King has given us little time. He’s calling a great council at Winchester shortly after the feast of All Saints and we have to be present. Look, go across to the church. Ask Parson Grimstone if I can borrow the Book of the Dead.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want it.’
Ranulf pulled a face and went out. He closed the door behind him and made a rude gesture in its direction. Ah well, he thought, old Master Long Face will sit and brood and then leap like a mouse-hunting cat. But will the murderers be so easily trapped?
Ranulf clattered down the stairs. He was so immersed in his own thoughts he didn’t even bother to stop and flirt with Adela.
Back in his bedchamber Corbett lay on the bed. He tried to conceive a map of Melford, the sprawling town, the silent, secretive countryside around. Tressilyian was correct in one thing: a man like Furrell could hide out there - but these murders? He tried to put himself in the place of young Elizabeth, whose corpse was now buried in God’s acre. A young woman full of romantic notions, probably resenting the close confines of a family house, Elizabeth would be ever ready to run on an errand to the market, any excuse to talk and chatter to others. No, he decided, the Mummer’s Man wouldn’t make contact in the town. Would Elizabeth Wheelwright stop because of a shadowy voice calling from a doorway? But she would be even more terrified if she met such a creature out on a country lane. No, there was something wrong with that. He had to ford that gap in his logic. Somehow Elizabeth, like others, is lured out into the countryside, some desolate spot where the killer is waiting. He enjoys himself like the demon he is, then hides the body, or tries to. Five years ago something went wrong. Perhaps Sir Roger began to suspect the true identity of the killer. Sir Roger was trapped, accused of the murder of Widow Walmer. An easy task for, if rumour was correct, Sir Roger was lecherous as a sparrow. The killer prepared the trap well. He not only slew young women but had gathered information about the residents of Melford which he could use. He also sent belongings taken from his victims to Sir Roger. Corbett pulled himself up against the bolsters. But that wasn’t enough: Blidscote, Molkyn, Thorkle and Deverell were blackmailed. They were forced to dance to the killer’s tune and Sir Roger’s fate was a foregone conclusion.
‘He enjoys it,’ Corbett declared. ‘The killer enjoys the power.’
They call him the Jesses killer, Corbett reasoned, the Mummer’s Man, but he’s more like a chess player. He regards other people as pieces to move as he thinks fit. He likes to see them do what he wants. But who would have such power? Sir Louis? Sir Maurice? They were both manor lords. They would have spies and retainers listening to the chatter. But Sir Louis himself had been attacked. He also had played a major part in Sir Roger’s execution. And Sir Maurice? A man dedicated to clearing his father’s name, he’d have little love for the people of Melford. But which killer was he thinking about? Corbett shook his head. Then there were the others: Parson Grimstone with his drinking, his seclusion; Curate Robert with his hidden anxiety and deep feeling of guilt. Or Burghesh? Could Blidscote be a killer? A man who may not even like women? Or was it someone he had forgotten? Corbett beat his fist against his thigh. Two killers, he thought, or one? The murder of Molkyn and the rest had only occurred after the killings of the young women had begun again. So, what did that mean? Corbett sighed as he heard footsteps outside. Ranulf entered with Burghesh behind him.
‘I brought the Book of the Dead myself,’ the old soldier declared. He took it out of the leather bag and placed it on the stool beside Corbett’s bed.
‘I really shouldn’t allow it but,’ he grinned, ‘you are the King’s clerk. If I stay in the taproom below and take it back later . . .?’
Corbett’s hand went to the purse in his belt.
‘No, no,’ Burghesh said. �
��I can pay for my own ale. Sir Hugh, I’ll be downstairs.’
Ranulf closed the door behind him. Corbett picked up the book and began to leaf through it.
‘Well, Chanson’s galloping after Sir Maurice,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘You are going down amongst the dead.’
Corbett smiled over the book. ‘If you were involved in Sir Roger’s death . . .?’ Corbett paused. ‘No, let me put the question another way. Who has the most to fear?’
‘Sir Louis?’
‘But he’s a manor lord.’
‘Then Blidscote,’ Ranulf remarked.
‘I agree, and there’s little we can do to save him. But, go round Melford, Ranulf, see if you can track our fat bailiff down, then bring him back here for questioning.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Ask young Adela to come up. Tell her she has nothing to fear.’
‘If the Lady Maeve got to know? Shouldn’t I stay,’ Ranulf teased, ‘and act the chaperone?’
‘Ask her to come up,’ Corbett repeated. ‘She has more to fear from the messenger than the message he carries.’
Ranulf collected his cloak and sword belt and went down the stairs. A short while later Adela tapped on the door of the chamber. She slipped in, nervous but still bold-eyed, pretending to stand in a docile fashion, hands hanging beside her.
‘Sit down.’ Corbett gestured to the stool. ‘I believe you know Ranulf?’
The tavern wench looked for sarcasm but found none. This clerk’s gaze was not lustful or mocking but rather gentle and sad.
‘What do you want, Master?’
‘Just a little of your time. I am sorry about the game Ranulf and Chanson played with you, bringing you out of the tavern,’ he added hastily.
Adela shrugged one shoulder.
‘What harm can a man do in a busy marketplace?’
‘Has any man tried to harm you, Adela?’
She smiled sweetly. ‘Most men are babies: they think with their codpieces.’
‘Do we now?’ Corbett laughed. ‘But you are able to look after yourself?’
‘A swift slap and an even swifter kick, Master, is a good defence.’
‘You were the last to talk to the wheelwright’s daughter, Elizabeth?’
‘Aye, but I have answered this. She was in a hurry to get away. I thought she was going home.’
‘Did she ever talk of the Mummer’s Man or any other creature?’
‘No.’
‘Tell me, Adela, if you met a man out in the countryside, riding a horse, wearing one of those masks they use in a miracle play . . .?’
‘I’d run and hide,’ she laughed.
‘And if this evening you were going home and a voice called “Adela” from the shadows?’
‘I’d stop, if there was someone with me.’
‘And if this voice said that you must go to such and such a place, where some admirer was waiting for you or a gift had been left?’
‘I wouldn’t believe it. I certainly wouldn’t stand there. I’d see who it was.’
‘And if that man was wearing a mask?’
‘I’d scream and run. Why these questions? I’ve learnt my lesson about—’
‘What do you mean?’ Corbett asked sharply.
‘Oh, about four months ago, that fool Peterkin - well, he’s not as dull-witted as he looks - he brought me a message.’
‘What did this message say?’
She closed her eyes. ‘ “A gift awaits for the one I love at Hamden Mere. After the market horn, it will appear.”
Corbett asked her to repeat it.
‘It’s doggerel poetry,’ he murmured.
‘Peterkin’s like that,’ Adela remarked. ‘Hurrying hither and thither like a little rabbit. Ask the taverner: even as a lad, Peterkin was used as a messenger by lovesick swains.’
‘And did you go to Hamden Mere?’
‘Yes. It’s a marsh in a copse of wood on the south side of the town. I was impatient. I wanted to know who it was: the tavern becomes busy after the horn is sounded and the market’s ended.’
‘Why Hamden Mere?’ Corbett asked. ‘Why not Devil’s Oak or Gully Lane?’
She smiled. ‘It’s where I used to play as a child.’
‘And where you take your love swain?’
‘Yes, but don’t tell Taverner Matthew: he’s always boasting how he runs a good house.’
‘And what happened?’ Corbett demanded.
‘I went and waited. I searched and I looked but there was nothing - a cruel jape - so I came back.’
‘Did you later question Peterkin?’
‘Yes I did, quietly. I didn’t want to make myself look as big a fool as he is. He just gaped at me, said it was a poem he had learnt and didn’t say any more.’
‘But you believed him the first time?’
‘He showed me a coin: said he’d been paid to deliver it.’ She shrugged. ‘That convinced me.’ Adela became all nervous.
‘You know what I’m going to ask,’ Corbett said softly. ‘Is that how Elizabeth was trapped?’
‘But I had no proof,’ she hissed. ‘I was frightened. I did not want to become a laughing stock. The taproom would never let me forget the day I believed simple Peterkin. Even if I had said something - who would believe me? What proof did I have?’
Corbett took a coin from his purse, went across and pushed it into the wench’s hand.
‘What’s that for, Master?’ she asked cheekily.
‘Your company,’ Corbett replied. ‘If I were you I’d go across to the church. I’d buy a candle and light it.’
The young tavern wench looked puzzled. Corbett opened the door. She slipped out, he closed and locked it behind her.
‘You danced with death,’ he murmured, ‘and were allowed to walk away.’
Corbett went to the window and stared down at an ostler cooling horses off in the yard below.
Of course, Corbett thought. Poor Peterkin! Frightened of being taken away, so easily terrified, so quickly bribed. Who would pay much attention to him? The man may be a dullard but the same doggerel would have been taught to him time and time again, only the place changed. Corbett wondered how many other young women in the town had received such an invitation? Some would ignore it, dismissing Peterkin as mad as a March hare. Others, like Adela, would go, perhaps at the wrong time, and find nothing. Poor Elizabeth was not so fortunate. Of course, she’d tell no one. She wouldn’t want anyone to know about the secret or, as Adela said, be made to look a fool if there was nothing there.
Corbett turned his back on the window. No one would ever connect the two: daft Peterkin and these murders. He was weak and helpless; a wench like Adela would find him no threat. Corbett smiled grimly. The killer was clever: love trysts, messages . . .! As Adela had proved, young women did not like their elders to know about such things - a conspiracy of silence which the killer exploited.
Corbett picked up the Book of the Dead.
‘He didn’t strike twice,’ he murmured. ‘He just did it the once!’
Elizabeth was lured to some place where the Mummer’s Man was waiting. Peterkin, he concluded, would be the perfect messenger. Probably after a day or so, the message and the memory would fade and, if the simpleton realised there was something wrong, how could he proclaim what he had done? Corbett vowed to have words with Peterkin. In the meantime . . . He opened the Book of the Dead and, going back twenty years, began to read. He recalled lines from a poem:
Amongst the dead I have walked,
And amongst the dead I have found the
truth.
Corbett closely studied the Book of the Dead and found what he was looking for: unexplained deaths. He closed it and sat back. Melford was truly a place of bloody slaughter! He recalled Beauchamp Place and that pathetic skeleton stowed away in the old chapel wall.
‘Some are left,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Some are buried, which means not all have been discovered!’
He recalled what Tressilyian had said about the poacher. Was it pos
sible?
‘Two assassins!’ Corbett murmured.
He thought of Furrell and Sorrel: one a lecherous poacher, the other committed to what? Justice? Vengeance? Both knew the countryside, and what did Furrell mean about ‘the truth being plain as a picture’?
Corbett pushed back the chair, got to his feet and reached for his cloak and war belt.
Chapter 14
Sorrel stared at the paintings on the wall of the solar at Beauchamp Place. Now and again she would turn and listen carefully to the sounds outside. People, occasionally, came to buy fresh meat. She’d heard rumours of an important banquet at the Guildhall that evening.
‘Best time for a little poaching,’ she murmured.
Sorrel walked across to the niche where the statue of the Virgin stood. She reached behind it, plucking out the greasy scroll, a piece of vellum Sorrel had bought in Melford marketplace. She took this to the table, smoothed it out and studied the names scrawled there. Sorrel knew her letters. After all, she was a merchant’s daughter with book-learning who had the misfortune to fall in love only to be spurned by both suitor and family. The names were not correctly written, the letters ill formed but Sorrel could recognise them. She ran her fingers down: Tressilyian, Molkyn, Thorkle, Deverell, Repton . . .
‘Aye,’ she whispered. ‘And a few others.’
She took her dagger and etched a rough cross beside the names of those who had been killed. She picked the vellum up. One name caught her attention.
‘Walter Blidscote!’ she said. ‘But your time will surely come.’
Sorrel revelled in Deverell’s death, sucked at her teeth and wondered what progress the clerk was making. She had not told him everything. Oh no! She put the parchment back and moved a piece of tapestry hanging on the wall. The crude drawing etched there was not Furrell’s work but her own: a rough map of the countryside.