Hugh Corbett 12 - The Treason of the Ghosts (19 page)

Corbett studied the reeve. His cote-hardie was of good cloth. The brown belt strapped around his narrow waist of good leather; his leggings of dark blue worsted; even the boots were the work of a craftsman. A prosperous man, Corbett concluded. He would act as reeve, steward of lands held by the town. He would also have his own holding: producing for the market as well as for the pot.

‘What’s the matter, clerk?’

‘I am wondering why you are so hostile. You’ve told your tale a thousand times. Surely, you can tell it once more?’

‘Fine, I’ll tell you my tale.’ The words came out as a snarl. ‘I was drinking here. I wanted to visit Widow Walmer. I asked Burghesh to accompany me.’

‘No, no, that’s not true, is it?’

‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Repton’s hand went to the knife in its sheath.

‘No, I am just saying you are rather forgetful. You were drinking here and you decided to visit Mistress Walmer. However, the taverner Matthew had announced how the widow was receiving another guest that night.’

The reeve swallowed hard. Corbett was aware of how quiet the taproom had fallen.

‘That’s my first question,’ Corbett smiled. ‘Why, in the late hours of the night, did you suddenly decide to visit a woman whom you knew was entertaining someone else? She would not have liked it and Sir Roger would have objected. A feisty man, Sir Roger. I don’t think he would have liked someone else a-calling?’

‘That’s why I took Burghesh.’

‘Ah,’ Corbett sighed. ‘You always take a companion when you visit a lady friend?’

The reeve grasped the corner of the table. ‘What are you implying?’

‘I am implying nothing, master reeve. I am trying to get to the truth of the matter. Had you visited Widow Walmer before? Well, had you?’

‘Yes, but that’s my business.’

‘Fair enough and had you asked someone to accompany you?’ Corbett leant closer. ‘Give me one occasion, name one companion.’

‘That night Sir Roger was there I needed—’

‘Did you really? But, surely, it was very late? Sir Roger may have left?’

‘I don’t know what you are implying.’ Repton leapt to his feet. In one swipe he drew his dagger from its sheath. He backed off and stood slightly crouching, legs apart.

You’ve fought before, Corbett thought: you’re a taproom brawler.

‘What’s this nosy clerk doing here?’ Repton glowered round the quiet taproom.

His question provoked a murmur of agreement.

‘Who do you think you are? Chapeleys was a murderer!’

A chorus of approval greeted his words.

‘He killed Widow Walmer and those other women. So he was hanged for it. Now his whelp sends whining letters to Westminster.’

‘Sit down, master reeve,’ Corbett ordered. ‘Put your knife away and sit down!’

‘Do you think I’ll do what you say, clerk?’ Repton raised the knife. ‘Or is that all you are good for? A long nose with a clacking tongue? This is Melford, not Westminster. You won’t be the first to be sent packing!’

Some of the other customers were now jeering.

‘Come on!’ Repton waved his hand.

‘I carry the King’s warrant.’

‘I carry the King’s warrant,’ Repton mimicked.

This provoked further guffaws of laughter. Corbett looked across at Ranulf, shook his head and got to his feet.

‘I want to talk to you, Repton, that’s all. I want the truth. The King wants the truth.’

‘I’ve told you the truth. You’re not in the Schools of Oxford now, clerk.’

‘I’m trying to be reasonable.’ Corbett took a step forward. ‘I wish you no ill.’

Corbett watched the man’s eyes. Repton had drunk deep. He was beyond reason.

‘Look,’ Corbett played with the chancery ring on his finger, ‘I apologise. I am sorry if I have upset you.’

The laughter grew. Repton couldn’t resist the audience. He came up, the knife moving away. Corbett lashed out with his boot, catching the unfortunate full in the groin. Repton screamed with pain and fell to his knees, the knife clattering amongst the rushes. He tried to crawl forward but Corbett gently placed his heel on the back of the man’s hand.

‘I am the King’s clerk!’ he proclaimed. ‘I wish no man ill but, if I wanted, Repton could hang for treason. So I shall tell you why I am here. Five years ago Sir Roger Chapeleys was executed for the murder of at least four women.’ He stared round the taproom. ‘Good, I now have your attention. If Sir Roger was guilty then he deserved to die. But there’s the riddle. Not only have the murders begun again but two members of the jury responsible for convicting Sir Roger have also been killed in a barbarous manner. I will have the truth either in Melford or in the King’s own prison at Newgate!’

Chanson was staring open-mouthed. Ranulf, grinning from ear to ear, was busy pocketing his earnings.

‘Now, Master Repton,’ Corbett pressed the heel of his boot till the man flinched, ‘do you not accept my apology?’

‘Yes,’ the man gasped.

‘And will you not accept a tankard of ale?’

‘Yes.’

Corbett helped the reeve to his feet. He now looked woebegone. He didn’t know whether to nurse his hand or his groin. Corbett lifted the stool and ushered the man to it. Burghesh and Blidscote sat fascinated, as if they couldn’t understand what was happening. Corbett ordered more tankards of ale. He thrust one into the reeve’s hands.

‘The pewter’s cold.’ Corbett urged, ‘Hold it against your groin, it will ease the pain.’ He leant forward. ‘You are a fool!’ he hissed. ‘You could be hanged for that!’

Repton caught back a sob.

‘You are not angry, are you?’ Corbett continued. ‘You are frightened.’

He was aware of Ranulf and Chanson joining them, taking stools and sitting behind the reeve.

‘What do you mean?’ the reeve stuttered.

‘You came into the Golden Fleece that night twice, didn’t you? You had been drinking all day. You learnt from Taverner Matthew how Widow Walmer was entertaining so off you staggered, along Gully Lane to Widow Walmer’s cottage?’

‘I didn’t do it,’ the reeve whispered, and sipped from the ale. ‘I swear to God I didn’t do it!’

‘Did what?’ Blidscote queried.

‘You reached the cottage, didn’t you?’ Corbett ignored the bailiff. ‘And the door was open?’

‘Yes, the door was open.’ The reeve spoke as if learning a lesson. ‘Widow Walmer was lying on the floor.’ He clutched his stomach. ‘I could tell what had happened, her dress had been pulled down at the top, those hideous marks round her throat. Body and legs twisted. I was frightened. I thought the killer could still be there. I panicked. What if they accused me?’

‘So you came back to the Golden Fleece,’ Corbett explained, ‘where you drank some more, turning over and over in your mind what you had seen. Once your courage returned, you asked Burghesh to accompany you. So, both of you went along.’

‘That’s right,’ the reeve slurred.

‘You didn’t tell us this,’ Blidscote stated.

‘How could I?’ The reeve blinked. ‘But I didn’t kill her!’

‘And Sir Roger’s knife?’ Burghesh asked.

‘I told you. I stood in the doorway. I touched nothing. Just one glance was enough. I went outside and was sick in the bushes. Then I came back here.’

‘Did you see anything of Sir Roger?’

The reeve shook his head. Corbett pushed away the tankard; he picked up his leather wallet, cloak, sword belt and saddle panniers.

‘You see,’ he smiled at Blidscote. ‘I am here for the truth, but now I am tired.’

He bade them good night, went across the taproom and up the stairs.

‘Your master is a strange man,’ Burghesh declared.

‘Old Master Long Face is strange enough,’ Ranulf grinned, getting to his feet. He leant over the table, raising his voice so it carried across the taproom. ‘He’s a strange one, is Sir Hugh. He nags and nags at the truth. He never gives up. But,’ he raised his eyebrows, ‘tonight he was in a good temper.’

‘Why?’ the reeve asked. ‘Would he have killed me?’

‘No.’ Ranulf grasped the reeve by the shoulder. ‘Sir Hugh wouldn’t have killed you but I would have done!’ He pushed his face closer. ‘And, if it happens again, I will! Do tell that to the people of Melford!’

‘An exciting day, Master.’

Ranulf, perched on a stool, grinned over his shoulder at Chanson, who squatted near the door. Corbett sat on his bed beneath the small casement window. He stared around his bedchamber, a comfortable, sweet-smelling place. He was particularly intrigued by this large four-poster bed with its ornate tester and curtains of mulberry-coloured wool.

‘You’d think it was a bridal chamber,’ he murmured. ‘Certainly comfortable; even rugs on the floor.’

‘At least our taverner knows how to treat a royal clerk,’ Ranulf laughed.

‘I am that tired,’ Corbett replied, ‘I’d sleep in a pigsty. Don’t be too hard on the good citizens of Melford: they are frightened.’

He watched the capped brazier in the corner, its coals glowing through the narrow slits. Every so often he would catch the flavour of spring from the herbs sprinkled there. Corbett had not demanded such luxury but he was appreciative of it.

‘Nothing like a well-aimed kick, is there, Master?’

‘Repton was a fool, yet I couldn’t let it pass. Well, I know what you found and you now know what I’ve learnt.’

They’d spent at least an hour exchanging information. Corbett was particularly intrigued at how Ranulf’s story about the Mummer’s Man corroborated what Sorrel had told him.

‘Oh, what was that information from Westminster?’ Ranulf asked.

‘A record of the trial from the court of King’s Bench. The rest was a little research I’d organised. Never once,’ Corbett waved a hand, ‘was Sir Roger, whilst serving with the King’s forces in many places, ever accused of attacking or raping women. As you know, when troops are in hostile country those who love to abuse women seize such opportunities with relish. I’ve seen at least five or six hanged in Wales for rape and abduction.’

‘What do you mean, relish?’ Chanson asked.

‘When we return to London, Chanson, Ranulf may take you down to the stews of Southwark, introduce you to some of his lady friends.’

‘You mean whores? Ranulf’s talked about them.’

‘No woman is a whore!’ Ranulf snapped. ‘I call them my ladies of the night. A prettier bunch of damsels you’ve never clapped eyes on.’

‘You should talk to them,’ Corbett continued. ‘They will tell you about a certain type of man who can only enjoy intercourse after he has beaten a woman. The ladies of the night make them pay for such a privilege. Last Michaelmas we entertained Monsieur de Craon, the French envoy. When he’s not busy plotting for his master, Philip of France, or trying to steal secrets or kill our spies, de Craon is used, like I am, to track down killers. He mentioned a particular case near the royal hunting lodge of Fontainebleau. About two summers ago, young women were attacked, raped and murdered. De Craon eventually caught the killer and watched him broken on the wheel at Montfaucon. He was fascinated by how the man enjoyed what he did. De Craon described him as an animal; a human wolf, who liked to prey: he enjoyed the violence more than the kill.’

‘And this is what we have in Melford?’

‘Yes, Ranulf, but I can’t make sense of anything we have learnt.’ Corbett leant forward. ‘Let me tell you a story.’

Chanson drew nearer and sat cross-legged next to Ranulf.

‘Once upon a time,’ Corbett smiled at his companions, ‘we have the King’s market town of Melford, a very prosperous place where crops are no longer sown but the fields are grassed over. Sheep are raised and the wool is sold for a fat profit. You’ve seen the effects of this: good, stout buildings, a tavern like the Golden Fleece, Guildhall, shops, luxury items, brought in from the merchants of London. Now all is pleasant in this little Eden until five years ago . . .’

‘So, who came here five years ago?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I’ve scrutinised that,’ Corbett replied. ‘No one did. Most of the characters we are dealing with, including the Chapeleys, have been here at least ten years, as have the vicar, his curate and Burghesh, Molkyn the miller and so on. However, I know what you’re implying. The first murder took place five years ago but, according to Sorrel, there have been others: the womenfolk of traders, chapmen, tinkers, Moon People. The latter now avoid this place like the plague. However,’ Corbett continued, ‘five years ago, in the space of a few months, three townswomen were attacked, raped and garrotted; their corpses found in different parts of the countryside. Now you have seen this town, it lacks walls and gates. An army could slip in and out and not be noticed. I have ridden around it: at one time you are in a busy, prosperous market town, the next lonely countryside. It’s a landscape our killer would love: it dips and rolls. Part of the forest has been cleared away but copses and woods still survive.’

‘And there’s no ploughing,’ Ranulf declared.