Hugh Corbett 12 - The Treason of the Ghosts (10 page)

‘And why do you wander the woods?’

‘I don’t wander, I am searching.’ Her voice was hard. ‘I am looking for Furrell’s grave.’

Corbett paused. ‘You are so sure he’s dead?’

She tapped her forehead and chest. ‘I truly am. I want to find his grave. I want to pray over his corpse. If I can discover his grave, perhaps I can unmask his killer. He was a good man. I was a wanderer. I met Furrell twelve years ago. We exchanged vows under a yew tree in the graveyard. We were man and wife, as close and as handfast as any couple blessed in church. Oh, he was merry. He could play a lute and dance a lively jig. He was the best hunter and woodsman. He could creep up on a rabbit, silent as a shadow. We never went hungry and we sold what we didn’t need.’

‘Poaching’s a dangerous pastime.’

‘Oh, the occasional deer or the lonely lamb that no one would miss. But who’s going to tell? The peasants we sold it to? Fresh meat in the pot for their children?’

‘And all that changed?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh, it changed all right. The night Goodwoman Walmer was murdered.’

‘Who was she?’ Corbett asked.

‘She lived in the cottage on the far side of the town. A strange one: pretty as an angel, hair like ripe corn, eyes as blue as the sky. She always wore her gown that little bit too tight. Her face was painted, neck, wrists and fingers adorned with necklaces, bracelets and rings. No one knew where she came from. Geoffrey Walmer was a potter, a very good one. He sold as far afield as Ipswich. He was gone for a week and came back with her. You know how it is, clerk? A marriage between May and December? There is no fool like an old fool in love. Anyway, Geoffrey died and Cecily Walmer became a goodwoman, a widow. She looked even more attractive in widow’s weeds. The men clustered about her like bees round a honeypot.’

‘Did you like her?’

‘We understood each other. You know what she was, clerk? You’ve heard the story many a time. A prosperous tradesman goes to a big town. He makes a tidy profit, enters a tavern and meets some comely maid selling her favours. She’s only too quick to leave the horrors of the alleyways for a peaceful life and anything she wants.’

‘Are you talking from experience?’

‘Very sharp, clerk. Yes, I am but, enough of that. Now Goodwoman Walmer owned a cottage, a self-enclosed plot with chicken coops, dovecotes, piggeries and, in the fields around, juicy pheasants and partridges. Now, on the night she was murdered, Furrell went down there. Sometimes he would call in for a flagon of ale. He crept through the garden, saw the door open and Sir Roger Chapeleys leave. Now, thought Furrell, there’s a satisfied man. The manor lord climbed into his saddle like a man full of ale and pleasure. Goodwoman Walmer stood in the doorway. She leant against the lintel, arms crossed, her hair falling down to her shoulders. Furrell decided to ignore his ale and crept away.’

‘So, the widow was alive and well when Sir Roger left?’

‘Oh, yes. I don’t think Sir Roger killed those women. He was a lecher and a drunkard but he was good to me and Furrell. He knew we poached his lands but, at Christmas, he always sent us a chicken or a goose. I mean, why should Sir Roger, with all the slatterns and maids at his manor hall, go out and assault peasant wenches?’

‘He visited Goodwoman Walmer.’

‘Ay yes, but she was different,’ Sorrel laughed. ‘An accomplished courtesan. Sir Roger knew where he was fishing.’

‘Was he liked?’ Corbett asked.

‘No, he wasn’t, by either the priests or the townspeople. Sir Roger kept himself to himself, except one night in the tavern he called all priests liars and hypocrites, though he seemed to have a soft spot for Parson Grimstone.’

‘Yet that’s no reason why so many people should speak against him.’

‘I don’t know. Furrell said something strange. The day after Sir Roger was condemned, my man and I , we were having a meal in the ruins. Furrell got slightly drunk and abruptly declared the devil had come to Melford. “Why?” asks I. “Oh,” he replies, “to make those people say what they did.”

‘You mean the witnesses?’

‘Everything,’ she replied. ‘How a bracelet was found in Sir Roger’s house, belonging to one of the murdered women. How Deverell the carpenter was so sure he had seen Sir Roger fleeing from Goodwoman Walmer’s house.’

‘Fleeing?’ Corbett asked.

‘That’s the way he put it. All furtive.’

‘But I understand from the records of the trial that they found Chapeleys’ dagger sheath there.’

‘Furrell didn’t believe Sir Roger had left it there. In fact, he said more to me.’

‘More?’ Corbett queried.

‘On the night Walmer was killed, Furrell saw Sir Roger leave but claimed at least three other men, on separate occasions, made their way down Gully Lane towards her house.’

‘Three?’ Corbett demanded. He stopped and stared up at her.

‘He repeated the same in court. According to him, Widow Walmer must have been very busy that night. Yet he was surely mistaken. Whatever she was in a former life, Cecily Walmer acted the role of a widow. If she had acted any differently in a place like Melford, the gossips’ tongues would have soon wagged.’

‘Your man Furrell said that in court?’

‘He swore on oath but no one believed him. They said he was drunk and everyone knew how kindly Sir Roger was towards him. They even claimed he had been bribed.’

Corbett closed his eyes and recalled the trial record: Furrell the poacher had defended Sir Roger.

‘What did your man mean about the devil making people lie? Are you saying they were bribed?’

‘Bribed? Threatened, what does it matter? A good man died.’

‘You should be careful,’ Corbett warned.

‘Oh, don’t worry, master clerk, I keep my mouth shut. I wander around as if I am fey in my wits, a still tongue in my mouth. Old Sorrel sees nothing, she knows nothing.’

‘But you believe Furrell’s been murdered and buried?’

‘I know Furrell has been murdered and buried. I intend to find his grave.’

‘After five years?’ Corbett queried.

‘All I know is that he went out one night and never came back. Melford, and the countryside around it, is crisscrossed by pathways, culverts, brambles, thickets, woods and marshes, but I pray. Every night before I go to sleep, I pray I’ll discover Furrell’s corpse.’

‘And Furrell was murdered because of what he said in court?’

‘Perhaps. As I have said, Furrell was a sly one, as stealthy as the night. Even with me, he could be tight-lipped, if he wasn’t drunk.’

‘So you think he saw something?’

‘I wager to God and His saints that he did, so he had to be silenced. After all, he is the only one who ever heard the Jesses killer.’

‘Ah yes.’ Corbett let the horse snuggle his hand. ‘I’ve heard that. What did Furrell actually see or hear?’

‘He was out poaching, not far from here. Night had fallen. He saw a shape and heard gasps, the tinkle of bells. Now Furrell was visiting one of his hiding places where he had concealed some venison. He didn’t want to be caught red-handed. He thought it was some local with his leman or one of the townspeople with a doxy. Remember, master clerk, Melford is a small town: its walls and pathways have eyes and ears. If you take a fancy to your wife’s maid, she’s best enjoyed out in the countryside. Then there’s the young with their love trysts and starlight meetings. Furrell scampered away. When Blidscote was asking questions, Furrell told him what he’d heard. Furrell always insisted that was a mistake. He regretted ever opening his mouth.’

‘But he did about Sir Roger Chapeleys?’

‘Ah, that was different. It was in a court, on oath in front of a royal justice. Furrell thought he’d be safe.’

‘And what else do you know? If you travel the woods and forests, you must see things others don’t. You followed me from Melford. You heard about my coming. You couldn’t wait to speak to me.’

‘I will speak to you, clerk, but I beg you never tell anyone what I say.’ Sorrel gazed back down the pathway.

‘Are you frightened of Tressilyian, of Chapeleys?’

‘No.’

She smiled down at him through the darkness.

‘I act my part well. They are great lords of the soil. They’ll think that you think as they do. Who would believe poor, mad Sorrel?’

She pulled at the reins of the horse and Corbett stopped. He was aware of how the darkness had closed in swiftly. They had left the wooded area. On either side, hedgerows, fields stretching away in the distance. The sky was starlit, a full moon white and strong.

‘Furrell would love such a night,’ she whispered. ‘Forget all the stories about the darkness. Furrell liked to know where he was.’

Corbett could sense the tension from this woman. She acted fey-witted, the relict of a poacher who had disappeared but she was a woman consumed with the need for justice, a desire for revenge.

‘Do you pray, Sorrel?’

‘I have a statue of the Virgin,’ she replied. ‘It’s made of wood, rather battered and chipped. Parson Grimstone gave it to me. Every night, every morning, I light a wax candle bought specially from the chandlers. I pray: “Dear Mother, you never lost your husband but I have.”

Corbett smiled at this makeshift prayer.

‘Am I your answer, Sorrel?’

She leant down and grasped his shoulder. In the moonlight Corbett could see how, when she was young, Sorrel must have been a lovely girl.

‘I want justice, clerk.’ Tears glittered in her eyes. ‘Is that much to pray for? Can’t the good God in His Heaven give out a little justice to me, a poor widow woman? You are the answer to my prayer. When I saw you riding across the marketplace, I thought God Himself had come down to Melford.’

‘That’s blasphemy,’ Corbett teased.

‘No, clerk, it’s the truth. If you bring justice to poor Sorrel. If you can find out where my man lies. If those responsible can be dispatched to God’s tribunal then, every day, I will light a candle for you.’

Corbett repressed a shiver. He had sat in the King’s courts at Westminster. He had listened to petitions for redress. He had hunted the bloody-handed sons of Cain but never had he been faced with such passion: a deep desire for justice which sprang from the innermost soul.

‘You will help me?’ Sorrel asked.

‘Have you ever been in a maze, Mistress Sorrel? That’s where I am now. Melford’s a maze with little culverts, paths, shadowy corners. Shadows twist and turn. We have the deaths of these young women, Mistress Walmer, now Molkyn and Thorkle.’

‘I know nothing of those,’ Sorrel snapped. ‘God forgive me, master clerk: when I heard of their deaths my heart leapt. So it begins, I thought, God’s justice.’

‘What do you mean?’ Corbett demanded.

He stared up and caught the fierce look in her eyes. Was she a murderer? Corbett thought. Was her hunger for justice so great? Did she believe Thorkle and Molkyn were in some way responsible for the death of her husband?

‘I know what you are thinking, clerk,’ she murmured. ‘I said I was glad, not responsible.’

‘But why should they die?’ Corbett asked. ‘Is it possible someone else believes Sir Roger was innocent and is exacting vengeance?’

‘I don’t know. You really should have words with their widows. I am sure you’ll find them together. Molkyn and Thorkle’s wives are kinswomen, related by blood, though thinly.’

Sorrel slipped her feet from the stirrups and Corbett helped her down.

‘I have ridden enough.’

She thrust her hand into Corbett’s, rough but warm. Corbett wondered what the Lady Maeve would think of this: out in the dark countryside, walking hand-in-hand with this strange poacher woman.

‘Listen. I have three things to tell you, then I’ll be done,’ she declared. ‘First, I saw you at Devil’s Oak. You were looking at where Elizabeth’s corpse was found. Yes?’

Corbett agreed.

‘I glimpsed her,’ Sorrel continued. ‘Late in the afternoon on the day she disappeared. Elizabeth had a secret place in the copse of trees at the top of the meadow.’

‘A secret place?’

‘Oh, master clerk, you were a child once! You lived in a house with your parents, brothers, sisters, dog. You had a secret place. Elizabeth Wheelwright had one as do the other young men and women, places they can meet.’

‘So, you were the last to see her alive?’

‘Yes, and before you ask, Elizabeth was hurrying. I hid and watched her go by. You could tell from her face she was excited, pleased.’

‘In which case,’ Corbett confessed, ‘I am truly confused. All your sighting proves is that Elizabeth was probably killed somewhere between that copse of trees and Devil’s Oak. Her slayer cunningly hid all traces of his foul act. I can only deduce that her corpse was moved from the murder place to where it was found. So,’ he sighed, ‘I’d be wasting my time searching the ground. What else?’

‘In the last five years, six young women, including Goodwoman Walmer, have been raped and murdered around Melford. But they are not the only ones.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Remember, I wander the roads but so do others: Moon People, tinkers, chapmen, families looking for work. I get to know them well. They talk.’ She shrugged. ‘Two, three, of their womenfolk have disappeared.’

‘But that’s not unheard of,’ Corbett replied. ‘Their womenfolk often—’

‘No, no, listen to what I am saying,’ Sorrel interrupted. ‘Corpses have been found but I wonder how many other murders there have been. Was Elizabeth Wheelwright’s corpse meant to be discovered? Have you ever seen weasels hunt, master clerk? They have a store. They hide the flesh of their victims so they can come back and eat it later. This Jesses killer is like the weasel: he kills and hides, though sometimes he’s not fast enough. Question Blidscote, he collects the corpses.’

‘You don’t like our master bailiff?’

‘He’s corrupt and he’s stupid!’ She spat the words out. ‘He likes nothing better than holding forth in the taproom, telling his business and everyone else’s to anyone who will listen. Don’t forget, he organised the search of Sir Roger’s house.’