Hugh Corbett 12 - The Treason of the Ghosts Read online

  Corbett stared closely at the woman. He always prided himself on his logic and his reason but, as Maeve often advised: ‘Follow your heart, Hugh: truth has its own logic.’

  ‘Very well.’ Corbett grasped her hand. He folded back the fingers and examined the white linen cloth wrapped round the wound. ‘I believe you, Sorrel. So I must still ask myself, why should the Mummer’s Man - and I think it was he - come out to Beauchamp Place to murder you?’

  ‘And the answer?’

  Corbett chewed the corner of his lip. ‘When we first met, you said you had much to say about Melford but you’d let me draw my own conclusions. Perhaps the killer realises this. Perhaps he suspects that you know more than you do and wants to silence you once and for all.’ Corbett snapped his fingers. ‘Or something else.’ Corbett got to his feet. ‘Perhaps Furrell told you something? Shared knowledge which brought about his own mysterious disappearance?’

  Sorrel shook her head. ‘If I could, I’d recall it.’

  ‘No,’ Corbett urged. ‘I spoke to one of the other jurors. He met Molkyn in his cups. Our good miller confessed that Furrell had declared how the truth about the killer was plain as a picture. Do you know what he meant by that?’

  ‘Furrell said many things,’ she answered softly. ‘But not that. Or, if he did, I never heard it. I want to show you something, clerk.’

  She went across and took down the piece of tapestry and described the crude map she had drawn.

  ‘I didn’t tell you the full truth,’ she explained. ‘But this is Melford. Here is Falmer Lane.’ She pointed to the roughly etched map. ‘Devil’s Oak. These crosses mark the places Furrell told me to stay away from.’

  Corbett studied the painting. The map was very crude. He wouldn’t have understood it if she hadn’t explained each symbol. He shook his head.

  ‘I don’t think Furrell was talking about any map!’

  He walked over to the other paintings and began to study them carefully. Sorrel joined him.

  ‘I can see nothing,’ Corbett shook his head, ‘nothing at all. Where else would there be paintings, Sorrel?’

  ‘In a church, though Furrell rarely went there. The Golden Fleece, Chapeleys’ manor, the Guildhall, Sir Louis Tressilyian?’ Sorrel spread her hands. ‘Furrell roamed all over the countryside. He even carried out errands for Sir Roger, travelling as far as Ipswich and the coastal towns.’

  Corbett stared round the room.

  ‘And Furrell had no Book of Hours, a psalter?’

  ‘No.’ Sorrel laughed abruptly. ‘He knew his letters like I do but he was no scholar.’

  Corbett walked to the door. ‘Let’s go back to the chapel,’ he demanded. ‘I want to re-examine that skeleton.’

  Sorrel shrugged and took him across the yard. Corbett paused to see that his horse was well. By the time he’d climbed the steps, Sorrel had removed the bricks and pulled the skeleton out.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ she asked.

  Corbett picked up the skull, feeling its texture.

  ‘I have a friend,’ he said, ‘a priest, who is also a subtle physician at the great hospital of St Bartholomew in Smithfield in London. He often talks to me about the property of things.’

  Corbett glimpsed the puzzlement in Sorrel’s face.

  ‘The way things are and how they change. The bones of this skeleton are dry, yellowing, which means it has lain in the earth probably more than five or six years.’ He tapped the skull. ‘This is thin, the flesh is gone, the bones are dry. If they’d been allowed to lie, they would have eventually crumbled to a powdery dust. Now, my good friend,’ Corbett continued, ‘has also been given special licence by the Church to examine the cadavers of men hanged on the nearby gibbet.’ Corbett picked the skull up. He walked to the window and, holding it up, looked inside. ‘When a man is hanged,’ Corbett explained, ‘if he’s lucky, the fall will break his neck. Death is instantaneous. If he’s not, he’ll slowly strangle.’

  ‘Like the garrotte?’

  ‘Yes, Sorrel, like the garrotte. Now, according to this physician, the humours in the brain break down and the skull is filled with blood like an internal wound.’ Corbett tapped the skull. ‘This fills like a swollen bruise, the fetid blood leaving a mark.’ Corbett peered closer. He glimpsed a faded russet stain.

  ‘And this one?’ Sorrel asked.

  ‘There is certainly a mark here but whether it’s blood or the effect of decomposition I don’t know.’

  ‘What are you trying to prove?’

  ‘Old Mother Crauford’s right. Melford is a place of blood. I suspect young women have been murdered here for many a year. Some bodies are found, others are hidden out in the countryside. The questions are who and how?’ He placed the skull tenderly back. ‘Now, Mistress, I have to return. You are to come with me.’

  ‘I’ll be safe here,’ Sorrel replied. ‘The killer will not strike again.’

  ‘Come with me,’ he urged.

  Sorrel agreed. ‘I have friends I can stay with.’

  She pulled a pair of battered saddlebags from the chest and hurriedly began to fill them. Corbett sat and, to break the silence, hummed a hymn, the ‘Ave Maria Stella’.

  ‘You have a fine voice.’ Sorrel dropped the saddlebags. ‘That’s it!’ she exclaimed. ‘My man, Furrell, always sang, sometimes filthy songs.’ She stood, mouth open, suddenly remembering. ‘In the weeks following Sir Roger Chapeleys’ execution, he was always singing the same words, as if he was intent on reminding himself.’

  ‘What was it?’ Corbett asked.

  Sorrel, finger to her lips, stood and stared at the statue. She wouldn’t take that, she thought: if she moved the statue, this sharp-eyed clerk would notice the piece of parchment. Sorrel did not want to excite his suspicions. ‘That’s it!’ she exclaimed. ‘About being between the devil and an angel. I never asked him what it meant.’

  Corbett walked to the door. ‘We’d best hurry,’ he said. ‘The day is drawing on. Tonight I feast with the high and mighty.’

  He went back into the yard and unhobbled his horse. Sorrel joined him. It was still early afternoon but the mist was curling in thickly now, and the breeze was colder. A bird shrieked as it wheeled against the sky. Corbett, holding the reins, stared across at the river, which wound its way through thickets and tall grass. He was glad he had come here. Had he not, Sorrel would have been killed. Two assassins were busy in Melford but what was the solution? He’d go to the banquet tonight but tomorrow . . .? If only Ranulf could trace Blidscote. The bailiff had last been seen at Deverell’s house, but as Corbett set out for Beauchamp Place, Ranulf had reported him missing. Corbett scratched his chin. But what good would such questioning do? He felt a little guilty. It was easy to interrogate the likes of Sorrel, but Blidscote? The bailiff would scarcely confess he’d perjured himself and convened a corrupt jury. And what about the two priests? If Corbett questioned them and really pressed matters, they would protest about their rights under Canon Law. The English Crown was ever conscious of Thomas à Becket’s martyrdom and the Church’s resolute defence of the rights of priests. Perhaps Burghesh could be persuaded?

  ‘No, no,’ Corbett whispered. ‘He’d never betray his friends.’

  He felt Sorrel beside him.

  ‘You are becoming like me,’ she smiled, ‘talking to yourself. We could make a good countryman out of you, royal clerk.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Corbett replied. ‘There was something else I wanted to ask you but, for the moment, it escapes me.’

  They walked across the bridge, their clatter shattering the silence. Corbett stared down at the filth-strewn moat. Sorrel let go of his hand and went before him. She reached the end and suddenly tripped, sprawling into the grass. Corbett’s horse shied, going up on its hind legs. For a few seconds Corbett wondered if both of them would plunge into the moat but the horse was well trained. Sorrel stood up, nursing her ankle.

  ‘That whoreson murderer!’ she shrieked.

  Corbett’s horse trembled.
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  ‘Quiet,’ the clerk soothed.

  He stood for a while until the horse calmed down. Sorrel took a knife out of her bag and cut something at the end of the bridge.

  ‘It’s safe!’ she called.

  Corbett led his horse across and allowed it to graze.

  ‘An old poacher’s trick,’ Sorrel declared, holding up the strong twine.

  Corbett knelt beside her: because of the undergrowth on either side of the bridge, this place couldn’t be seen from the old manor house.

  ‘An old poacher’s trick,’ he confirmed, ‘and quite a deadly one. The twine is strong and taut.’

  ‘Was it meant for me?’ Sorrel asked.

  ‘No,’ Corbett replied. ‘You were attacked, I came in to Beauchamp Place, the assassin slipped by me across the moat. He expected me to follow in full pursuit. And,’ he smiled thinly, ‘years ago I might have done.’ He pointed back to the empty gatehouse. ‘I would have come charging through there and across the bridge: my horse would have tripped and I would have been thrown, wounded, even killed. The assassin was protecting himself whilst also hoping I’d suffer some hideous accident.’

  Sorrel, limping, got to her feet. Corbett grasped her by the arm.

  ‘Come, my lady, you’ll enter Melford like a princess, led by the King’s own clerk.’

  Sorrel allowed him to help her up. Corbett grasped the reins and they made their way back across the meadow.

  Who could the killer be? Despite the loneliness, Melford was only a short distance. Corbett studied the land and recalled Sorrel’s words: the assassin could creep stealthily along the lanes or hedgerows. He could reach Beauchamp Place without breaking cover. Corbett strode on.

  ‘You are thinking, clerk?’

  ‘I think,’ Corbett replied. ‘You watch. If the assassin struck once, he may well strike again.’

  Chapter 15

  An hour later, another visitor arrived on the banks of the Swaile. Master Blidscote, chief bailiff of the town of Melford, was about to die but he did not know it. He had been summoned out to the great water meadow fringing the river. The local inhabitants called it ‘The Ferry’ but this had long disappeared, swept away in some storm. Blidscote obediently stood on the bank, staring into the reeds, the muddy water swirling amongst them. A desolate place, the silence only broken by the raucous cry of birds.

  Blidscote felt as if his life had been taken over by a swiftly rushing river. The arrival of that royal clerk meant justice and vengeance. Blidscote was trapped. Over the years he had taken bribes, tapped his nose and winked and turned a blind eye to this or that. He’d only kept his position by being pliable to those in power and bullying those who weren’t. The scrawled message thrust under the door of his small house in Fardun Street had told him where to come. Blidscote felt nervous. He didn’t like the countryside - the green, cold fields, the trees, their branches black against a grey lowering sky. He had attended the Wheelwright funeral; that had only deepened his pessimism. He shouldn’t have come but what choice did he have? He had followed instructions and ensured the jury which tried Sir Roger would return a verdict of guilty. For such a crime Blidscote could hang. Even if he didn’t, he would be turned out of his living and what could he do then? Beg? Become the brunt of the petty cruelties of the townspeople? Many would seize the opportunity to settle grudges and redress grievances.

  Blidscote wiped his lips and stared back up the hill. Was that a horseman? His belly curdled on the ale he had drunk so quickly. He whimpered with fright. The countryside brought back memories of his bullying, hectoring ways with the boys of the travelling people. Had someone seen his secret heinous sin? He glanced back at the river. He heard it again, the drumming of hoofs. Blidscote turned and moaned in horror. A black-garbed rider, cloak swirling, a figure from the Valleys of Hell, had stopped on the brow of the hill. He was having difficulty with his horse. Was it the clerk? Had that damnable Corbett brought him out here to be questioned? The rider urged his horse forward. The horse’s head was bobbing up and down, hoofs thundering, the rider’s cloak billowed round him. Blidscote remembered his childhood nightmares. Death was thundering towards him. Blidscote stood rooted to the spot. He wasn’t aware of the squelching mud beneath his battered boots, the strident cry of the birds, the slithering ghostly sound of the river. Only this rider from Hell, this living nightmare charging straight towards him.

  Blidscote expected the rider to rein in but he didn’t. The bailiff moved to the right then the left, no escape. He staggered back. He was amongst the reeds now, the mud oozing up above his boots as he floundered about. The rider followed him in. Blidscote tried to seize the reins, only to receive a sharp vicious kick. Further and further the rider forced him back. Blidscote stared up at the face but the rider was hooded and cowled.

  ‘My old companion, Blidscote.’

  The bailiff now was in mortal terror. He was on the edge of the reeds. He could feel the current of the river tugging at him. He tried to turn. The rider brought the club he wielded sharply down on the bailiff’s head. Blidscote fell, face forward, into the river. The cold dirty water filled his mouth and nose. The rider dismounted and, leaving his horse to find its own way back to the bank, dragged Blidscote’s body into the shallows. Going quickly along the bank, he brought heavy stones which he thrust down the jerkin and wrapped in the bailiff’s squirrel-lined cloak. He pushed the body out as he would a small skiff. The unconscious bailiff was taken out midstream. He floated for a while and then slowly sank beneath the surface. The rider waited. He stared around to ensure he was still alone and, mounting his horse, made his way back across the meadow.

  The banquet at the Guildhall proved to be prestigious. Corbett and Ranulf, in their rather travel-stained clothes, felt out of place amongst the costly garbed burgesses and their wives. Sir Louis Tressilyian, in a cote-hardie of dark murrey, soft buskins on his feet, welcomed them at the top of the broad stairs. He escorted them into the main chamber. Corbett thought he was in a church, so many torches and candles had been lit. The windows were long, most of them filled with coloured glass. The table of honour was on a dais dominated by a gorgeous silver-cast salt cellar bearing the town’s arms. The royal charter, which had granted Melford its privileges, was in the centre of the room on a table covered with turkey cloth. The burgesses came up and were introduced: a dizzying array of names and faces. Corbett shook hands and, with Ranulf walking beside him, made his way to the table on the dais.

  Sir Maurice arrived, dressed in a blue and gold gown over a white open-necked shirt. He introduced Alianor, Louis’s daughter, a small, pretty-faced young woman. She had blonde hair and light cornflower-blue eyes and was dressed exquisitely in a dark red gown and white wimple. She was much taken with Ranulf. Corbett had to stand on his companion’s toes, a harsh reminder that the young woman was almost betrothed to Sir Maurice. Ranulf whispered he would be on his best behaviour, except he intended to take some of the choicest pieces of food for Chanson: the groom, with the other servants, was left to his own devices below stairs.

  Parson Grimstone and Burghesh also joined them on the dais. The priest intoned the grace, blessed the assembly and all took their seats. White wine and fish food were served first: lampreys in a special sauce; portions of tender carp with special relishes and spices. Toasts were made and speeches delivered. All emphasised the growing prosperity of Melford and how honoured they were by the presence of the King’s clerk. Sir Hugh sat bemused. This was such a contrast to the silence of the countryside or his own secluded chamber in the Golden Fleece.

  Other dishes were served, to a blare of trumpets and shouts of approval: fried loach with roses and almonds; roast salmon in onion wine sauce; smoked pike; salad in pastry; pheasant in strawberry cream sauce. The hall shimmered with light as silver plates and trenchers, different cups and goblets were placed before the guests.

  Corbett ate little and drank even less. He chose to ignore Ranulf’s stealthy theft of food as he listened to a plump burgess chatter like a ma
gpie about the King’s taxes on wood and the need for better protection in the Narrow Seas. Corbett tried to appear so interested, his face ached. He would have liked to have excused himself but that would be insulting. So, he listened to the burgess but his mind wandered. He’d found the Book of the Dead a treasure house of information. He desperately needed to question Peterkin whilst he had been concerned by Ranulf’s failure to find Blidscote.

  ‘Do you think he’s safe?’ Ranulf had asked.

  ‘No I don’t,’ Corbett had replied as he’d finished his preparations before leaving for the Guildhall. ‘Like the poacher Furrell, Master Blidscote may never be seen again . . .’

  ‘And the King’s war in Scotland, Sir Hugh?’ The burgess was now eager to prove himself an expert in military strategy. Corbett repressed a sigh; he listened to the good citizen’s carefully worded denunciation of the King’s war in the north, its disruption of trade and drain on the Exchequer.

  Corbett was relieved when the burgess had to give up playing Hector as more dishes were served. The burgess was about to launch himself into a second sermon when Corbett heard the bell of St Edmund’s tolling; it echoed through the Guildhall, silencing the noise and chatter.

  ‘It’s the tocsin,’ the burgess murmured. ‘In God’s name, what’s happened now?’ He glared down the table at Parson Grimstone.

  The good priest was already deep in his cups. He tried to stagger to his feet but Burghesh gently pulled him down.

  ‘I will go,’ he declared. ‘Something’s wrong at the church, but I am sure it’s nothing.’ And, dangling a set of keys, he hurried out.

  His departure was followed by dark scowls and muttered conversations. Corbett repressed a smile. He had seen the same thing happen in many a prosperous town. The burgesses grew wealthy, they no longer were in awe of the priest or his church whilst Parson Grimstone was, perhaps, not the man they would have chosen to be their pastor. These wealthy burgesses would eventually build their own church, create a separate parish. They would lavishly adorn their new house of prayer, using it to emphasise their own power and dignity. Corbett grasped his wine cup and listened to the burgess’s ill-concealed attack on the King’s military ambitions.