Hugh Corbett 12 - The Treason of the Ghosts Read online

  THE TREASON OF THE GHOSTS

  PAUL DOHERTY

  headline

  www.headline.co.uk

  Copyright © 2000 Paul Doherty

  The right of Paul Doherty to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  eISBN : 978 0 7553 5039 1

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London

  NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachettelivre.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Letter to the Reader

  About the Author

  Also by Paul Doherty

  Praise for Paul Doherty

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Author’s Note

  History has always fascinated me. I see my stories as a time machine. I want to intrigue you with a murderous mystery and a tangled plot, but I also want you to experience what it was like to slip along the shadow-thronged alleyways of medieval London; to enter a soaringly majestic cathedral but then walk out and glimpse the gruesome execution scaffolds rising high on the other side of the square. In my novels you will sit in the oaken stalls of a gothic abbey and hear the glorious psalms of plain chant even as you glimpse white, sinister gargoyle faces peering out at you from deep cowls and hoods. Or there again, you may ride out in a chariot as it thunders across the Redlands of Ancient Egypt or leave the sunlight and golden warmth of the Nile as you enter the marble coldness of a pyramid’s deadly maze. Smells and sounds, sights and spectacles will be conjured up to catch your imagination and so create times and places now long gone. You will march to Jerusalem with the first Crusaders or enter the Colosseum of Rome, where the sand sparkles like gold and the crowds bay for the blood of some gladiator. Of course, if you wish, you can always return to the lush dark greenness of medieval England and take your seat in some tavern along the ancient moon-washed road to Canterbury and listen to some ghostly tale which chills the heart . . . my books will take you there then safely bring you back!

  The periods that have piqued my interest and about which I have written are many and varied. I hope you enjoy the read and would love to hear your thoughts – I always appreciate any feedback from readers. Visit my publisher’s website here: www.headline.co.uk and find out more. You may also visit my website: www.paulcdoherty.com or email me on: [email protected].

  Paul Doherty

  About the Author

  Paul Doherty is one of the most prolific, and lauded, authors of historical mysteries in the world today. His expertise in all areas of history is illustrated in the many series that he writes about, from the Mathilde of Westminster series, set at the court of Edward II, to the Amerotke series, set in Ancient Egypt. Amongst his most memorable creations are Hugh Corbett, Brother Athelstan and Roger Shallot.

  Paul Doherty was born in Middlesbrough. He studied history at Liverpool and Oxford Universities and obtained a doctorate at Oxford for his thesis on Edward II and Queen Isabella. He is now headmaster of a school in north-east London and lives with his wife and family near Epping Forest.

  Also by Paul Doherty

  Mathilde of Westminster

  THE CUP OF GHOSTS

  THE POISON MAIDEN

  THE DARKENING GLASS

  Sir Roger Shallot

  THE WHITE ROSE MURDERS

  THE POISONED CHALICE

  THE GRAIL MURDERS

  A BROOD OF VIPERS

  THE GALLOWS MURDERS

  THE RELIC MURDERS

  Templar

  THE TEMPLAR

  THE TEMPLAR MAGICIAN

  Mahu (The Akhenaten trilogy)

  AN EVIL SPIRIT OUT OF THE WEST

  THE SEASON OF THE HYAENA

  THE YEAR OF THE COBRA

  Canterbury Tales by Night

  AN ANCIENT EVIL

  A TAPESTRY OF MURDERS

  A TOURNAMENT OF MURDERS

  GHOSTLY MURDERS

  THE HANGMAN’S HYMN

  A HAUNT OF MURDER

  Egyptian Mysteries

  THE MASK OF RA

  THE HORUS KILLINGS

  THE ANUBIS SLAYINGS

  THE SLAYERS OF SETH

  THE ASSASSINS OF ISIS

  THE POISONER OF PTAH

  THE SPIES OF SOBECK

  Constantine the Great

  DOMINA

  MURDER IMPERIAL

  THE SONG OF THE GLADIATOR

  THE QUEEN OF THE NIGHT

  MURDER’S IMMORTAL MASK

  Hugh Corbett

  SATAN IN ST MARY’S

  THE CROWN IN DARKNESS

  SPY IN CHANCERY

  THE ANGEL OF DEATH

  THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS

  MURDER WEARS A COWL

  THE ASSASSIN IN THE GREENWOOD

  THE SONG OF A DARK ANGEL

  SATAN’S FIRE

  THE DEVIL’S HUNT

  THE DEMON ARCHER

  THE TREASON OF THE GHOSTS

  CORPSE CANDLE

  THE MAGICIAN’S DEATH

  THE WAXMAN MURDERS

  NIGHTSHADE

  THE MYSTERIUM

  Standalone Titles

  THE ROSE DEMON

  THE HAUNTING

  THE SOUL SLAYER

  THE PLAGUE LORD

  THE DEATH OF A KING

  PRINCE DRAKULYA

  THE LORD COUNT DRAKULYA

  THE FATE OF PRINCES

  DOVE AMONGST THE HAWKS

  THE MASKED MAN

  As Vanessa Alexander

  THE LOVE KNOT

  OF LOVE AND WAR

  THE LOVING CUP

  Kathryn Swinbrooke (as C L Grace)

  SHRINE OF MURDERS

  EYE OF GOD

  MERCHANT OF DEATH

  BOOK OF SHADOWS

  SAINTLY MURDERS

  MAZE OF MURDERS

  FEAST OF POISONS

  Nicholas Segalla (as Ann Dukthas)

  A TIME FOR THE DEATH OF A KING

  THE PRINCE LOST TO TIME

  THE TIME OF MURDER AT MAYERLING

  IN THE TIME OF THE POISONED QUEEN

  Mysteries of Alexander the Great (as Anna Apostolou)

  A MURDER IN MACEDON

  A MURDER IN THEBES

  Alexander the Great

  THE HOUSE OF DEATH

  THE GODLESS MAN

  THE GATES OF HELL

  Matthew Jankyn (as P C Doherty)

  THE WHYTE HARTE

  THE SERPENT A
MONGST THE LILIES

  Non-fiction

  THE MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF TUTANKHAMUN

  ISABELLA AND THE STRANGE DEATH OF EDWARD II

  ALEXANDER THE GREAT: THE DEATH OF A GOD

  THE GREAT CROWN JEWELS ROBBERY OF 1303

  THE SECRET LIFE OF ELIZABETH I

  THE DEATH OF THE RED KING

  Praise for Paul Doherty

  ‘Teems with colour, energy and spills’ Time Out

  ‘Paul Doherty has a lively sense of history . . . evocative and lyrical descriptions’ New Statesman

  ‘Extensive and penetrating research coupled with a strong plot and bold characterisation. Loads of adventure and a dazzling evocation of the past’ Herald Sun, Melbourne

  ‘An opulent banquet to satisfy the most murderous appetite’ Northern Echo

  ‘As well as penning an exciting plot with vivid characters, Doherty excels at bringing the medieval period to life, with his detailed descriptions giving the reader a strong sense of place and time’ South Wales Argus

  To Doreen and Jack Steeb

  of Ann Arbor, Saline, Michigan

  Chapter 1

  Parson John Grimstone slowly climbed the steps into his pulpit and stared blearily down the parish church of St Edmund’s. The grey dawn light filtered through the thick glass windows, even as the morning mist curled beneath the door, moving up the church like a cloud of cold incense. The nave, as usual for Sunday morning Mass, was packed with the burgesses, villagers and peasants of the royal borough of Melford in Suffolk. The wealthy ones sat in their benches and pews, specially bought, carved at the ends with individual decorations and motifs. The not-so-well off, the cottagers and peasants, sat behind them, whilst the real poor were herded at the back around the baptismal font. The rest lurked in the shadows of the transepts, sitting backs to the wall, their mud-caked boots stretched out before them.

  Parson John breathed in sharply, trying to ignore the heavy fumes of the previous night’s wine. Today, only a few Sundays away from the beginning of Advent, he would talk about death; that silent, sudden messenger which always made its presence felt, particularly in Melford with its history of bloody murder and consequent retribution of public trial and execution. Parson John plucked out the piece of parchment from inside his chasuble, placed it on the small lectern on the back of a carved eagle which soared out in front of the pulpit. He felt cold, the church was gloomy, and he recalled his own nightmares: how those buried beneath the grey flagstones might push the stones aside and stretch out skeletal, claw-like hands to drag him down amongst them - a phantasm, but one which had plagued Parson Grimstone ever since he was a child. His mother had recounted how the dead slept beneath this church, waiting for the blast of Gabriel’s trumpet.

  Grimstone cleared his throat. He must dispel this feeling of unease. A small, thickset man, with a drinker’s red-cheeked face under a mop of snow-white hair, Parson Grimstone considered himself a good priest. He stared down at the people thronged before him. He had baptised their children, witnessed the exchange of vows at marriages and, at least years ago, gone out at all hours of the day and night to anoint their sick and dying.

  His parishioners gazed back expectantly. This was one of the high points of the week. Parson John, sober, was a good preacher. He always stirred their hearts, making full use of the paintings on the walls or even the few stained-glass windows St Edmund’s possessed. They were now in the autumn season, when everything was dying; perhaps their priest would remember that. He might talk about the horrors of Hell, the perils of Purgatory or, not so interesting, the happiness of Heaven.

  Parson Grimstone glanced down at his curate, Robert Bellen, a young, thin-faced man, skin white as milk under a shock of black hair, slack mouth and rather vacant eyes. A good, hard-working curate, yet Grimstone wondered if Bellen was in full possession of his wits: he was a man with a horror of sexual sin. Perhaps that’s why he was always tongue-tied in the presence of women. Father Robert, hands on his lap, was staring up at one of the gargoyles, a demon with a hideous face which surmounted one of the squat, rounded pillars which stretched down the church on either side. Father Robert had such an interest in devils and Hell! Parson John’s close friend, the former soldier Adam Burghesh, sat in his own special chair to the left of the pulpit. He’d quietly murmured how the young curate must have visited Hell, he knew so much about its horrors.

  Burghesh moved in his seat, his long, grizzled face betraying puzzlement at the parish priest’s delay in beginning his sermon. Parson Grimstone smiled back and hid his own anxiety. He and Burghesh had grown up in Melford; half-brothers and close friends, they’d gone their separate ways. Burghesh, however, had made his fortune in the King’s wars and returned to Melford. He’d bought the old forester’s house behind the church. Parson Grimstone had grown to rely on him, even more that he did Curate Robert.

  The congregation began to cough and shuffle their feet. Parson Grimstone glanced along the front bench and noticed that Molkyn the miller was absent. His wife, Ursula, was there and the miller’s strange, blonde-haired, pale-faced daughter, Margaret. So, where was Molkyn? After all, on a Sunday, the mill was closed, no corn was ground, no flour sacked. Molkyn should be here, especially to hear this sermon. The parish priest raised his head.

  ‘Death!’ he thundered.

  The congregation hugged themselves: this would be an exciting sermon.

  ‘Death!’ Parson Grimstone continued. ‘Is like a bell whose function is to waken Christian people to pray. But lazy folk, after hearing the first chimes, wait for the second: often, they are so heavy with sleep, they do not hear it.’

  He glanced quickly at Molkyn’s wife.

  ‘Bells have different songs.’ He smiled down at Simon the bell-ringer. ‘The song of this death bell is: “Remember thy last end and thou shalt never sin.”

  Parson Grimstone pulled back the maniple on his left wrist, warming to his theme.

  ‘Death is like a summoner.’

  He paused as his congregation nodded and muttered to themselves. They all hated the summoner, that dreadful official of the archdeacon’s court, who came sniffing out sin and scandal. When he found it, be it a married woman playing the naughty with her lover, he issued a summons for the offending parties to appear at the archdeacon’s court.

  ‘Ah yes,’ Parson Grimstone continued. ‘Death is like a summoner and carries a rod, as a sign of his office, more sharp, more cruel than the finest arrow. Death is also like a knight on horseback. He carries a huge shield, cleverly quartered. In its first quarter, a grinning ape, which stands for a man’s executors who laugh at him and spend his goods. In the second quarter, a raging lion because death devours all it catches. In the third quarter, a scribe, indicating how all our deeds will be written down and recited before God’s tribunal. And in the fourth quarter . . .’

  The door to the church was flung open. Parson Grimstone lowered his hands. The congregation craned their necks. Peterkin, the village fool, a man of little brain and even less wit, came lumbering up the nave. His shaggy, matted hair almost hid his wild eyes, his hose and battered boots were caked in mud.

  Parson Grimstone came slowly down from the pulpit. Peterkin was one of God’s little ones. He depended on the charity of the parish and slept in barns, or at Old Mother Crauford’s, eating and drinking whatever was doled out to him. Parson Grimstone could see he was agitated. In fact, Peterkin had been crying, the tears creating rivulets of dirt down the poor fool’s face. The man bared his lips, blinked but the words never came out. The congregation were now agitated at their Sunday morning routine being so abruptly disturbed.

  ‘Hush now!’ Parson Grimstone ordered. ‘Peterkin, whatever is the matter? This is God’s house. We are having Mass. You know that. Are you hungry? Are you thirsty? Or have you had one of your nightmares?’

  Peterkin wasn’t listening. He was staring to his left and pointed to a painting in the transept. He was shaking and the inner leg of his hose was stained with urine. Parson Grimsto
ne grasped Peterkin’s hand.

  ‘What is it?’ he demanded. ‘Show me!’

  Like a child Peterkin led him across into the transept, the peasants and the cottagers making way. Peterkin pointed to a painting on the wall, showing the beheading of John the Baptist. The saint’s head was being placed on a platter by a wicked-looking Salome, to be taken to her vengeful mother.

  ‘Have you dreamt of that?’ Parson Grimstone asked, curbing his own impatience.

  Peterkin shook his head. ‘Molkyn!’ the grating voice replied.

  ‘Molkyn the miller?’

  ‘Molkyn the miller,’ Peterkin repeated like a schoolboy. ‘His head is all afloat!’

  Those around heard him. Some scrambled to their feet, staring across at Ursula and her daughter, Margaret, who gazed, round-eyed, back. Parson Grimstone took off his chasuble and threw it to his curate. He hitched up his robe under his belt and grasped Peterkin’s wrist.

  ‘You must come! You must come!’ Peterkin said. ‘Father, I do not lie! Molkyn’s head swims!’

  Leading Peterkin by the hand, Parson Grimstone walked quickly down the nave of the church. The rest of his parishioners, taking their cue, followed close behind. They went down the steps across the graveyard under the lych-gate. Instead of going right, down into Melford, Peterkin turned left towards Molkyn’s mill. The morning mist was still thick and cloying, shrouding the countryside. Parson Grimstone was conscious of a gripping sense of fear, a chill which caught the sweat on the nape of his neck. Peterkin’s laboured breathing and the clatter of his parishioners behind him shattered the brooding silence. They crossed the wooden bridge over the river Swaile, through the wicket gate which would lead them down to the millpond. The gorse and undergrowth on either side were drenched with rain. Parson Grimstone could see little because of the mist. Peterkin stopped and pointed with his finger.

  ‘Yes, yes.’ The parson followed his direction. ‘That’s Molkyn’s mill.’ He stared up at the great canvas arms which stretched, like those of a monster, up through the shifting greyness.

  ‘Come!’ Peterkin mumbled.