Hugh Corbett 12 - The Treason of the Ghosts (25 page)

‘A carpenter who understood Latin?’ Corbett murmured.

There was also a white cord with three knots in it and a brown scapular, two pieces of leather on a coarse string. Corbett slipped this over his own head, allowing one piece of the leather to lie on his chest, the other on his back. The cord looked well used, slightly fraying in places. He went through the other items: a medal, Ave beads, a small pyx for carrying the host.

‘So, that’s what you were?’ Corbett declared. ‘No wonder you kept yourself to yourself!’

He took off the scapular and put all the contents back in the coffer, closed and locked it and returned to the kitchen.

The two knights and Ranulf were sitting at the kitchen table. Chanson came through the front door, a stout man striding behind him who introduced himself as a local physician. He brusquely told Corbett to get out of his way and went upstairs to see his patient.

‘We should be gone,’ Corbett declared, picking up his cloak.

‘Did you find anything?’ Sir Maurice asked.

‘Is Blidscote still here?’ Corbett asked Chanson.

‘Oh yes, but he prefers to be as far away from you, Master, as possible.’

‘I’ll have words with him soon,’ Corbett replied.

‘What have you found, Corbett?’ Tressilyian demanded.

‘Deverell may have been a carpenter but, once upon a time he was a monk.’

‘A monk!’ Sir Maurice exclaimed.

‘A defrocked priest,’ Corbett replied. ‘A monk who ran away from his monastery. It’s not so unusual. He could never really close the door on his past so he kept a few mementoes: Ave beads, the scapular some monks wear beneath their robes, his psalter and his cord with the three knots symbolising the vows of Chastity, Poverty and Obedience. I suspect Master Deverell, as a monk, showed tremendous skill as a carpenter. Perhaps he got tired of his vocation. Perhaps he quarrelled with Father Abbot. So he fled. He arrived in a prosperous town like Melford, married and settled down.’

‘And what has this got to do with my father’s death?’

‘A great deal, Sir Maurice. Remember Deverell was a craftsman, a worthy burgess of this town. His word would carry a great deal of weight.’ Corbett lowered his voice. ‘On oath his evidence would be believed by a judge and jury. Yes, Sir Louis?’

The justice, tight-lipped, nodded. Corbett glimpsed the anger in his eyes. Judges and justices made mistakes. Sir Louis would not be the first, and certainly not the last, to regret a sentence passed.

‘I appreciate, sir, this is difficult for you,’ Corbett apologised.

‘In the end, Sir Hugh, justice will be done. If Deverell gave false testimony, and any others, then let it be upon their heads. I can only accept the verdict of the jury. God knows, I pleaded for Sir Roger’s life.’

‘I know.’ Corbett glanced over his shoulder towards the stairs. ‘Deverell, God rest him, lied and perjured himself. But why? Gold or silver?’ He pulled a face. ‘A man like Deverell wouldn’t risk his life and reputation for that. No, Deverell was being blackmailed. Someone here knew he was a runaway monk, which means his marriage wasn’t valid. The summoner could arrive from the Archdeacon’s court: Deverell could either be excommunicated or dragged back to his monastery to do penance on bread and water.’

‘So, Deverell perjured himself?’

‘Yes, he perjured himself. The problem is, who knew his secret? I wonder about Deverell,’ Corbett continued. ‘Was he the one who sent Molkyn the miller that verse from Leviticus?’

‘What verse?’ Sir Louis asked.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ Corbett replied.

They walked out into the sunshine. Corbett heard his name called. Sorrel came out of one of the alleyways.

‘So, Deverell’s dead!’ she murmured, eyes gleaming. ‘Fitting punishment for a perjurer.’ She offered Corbett the coin he’d given her the previous evening. ‘I shouldn’t have taken that.’

‘Why not?’ Corbett steered her away from the rest.

‘I didn’t tell you,’ she confessed. ‘I’m well furnished with silver.’

‘How?’

‘Three times a year,’ she said, ‘at Beauchamp Place a silver coin appears wrapped in a piece of parchment. No messages: it’s been the same since Furrell died. Every January, Easter and Michaelmas.’

‘Keep it.’

Corbett closed her fingers round the coin. He was about to join the rest but Old Mother Crauford hobbled forward, cane tapping the cobbles, one hand grasping Peterkin. She shooed a scavenging cat out of her way.

‘More deaths, royal clerk. They should rename Melford, Haceldema.’

‘The Field of Blood,’ Corbett translated. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Always been deaths,’ she declared.

‘What’s the matter?’ Corbett glanced at Peterkin, who was jibbering with fright.

‘He lives with me,’ the old woman explained, ‘and he’s all a-feared. He thinks you’ve come to take him away to a house of simpletons, where he’ll be fed bread and water and given the whip.’

Peterkin’s face was dirty and unshaven, his eyes full of terror, his lower lip quivering. If Old Mother Crauford hadn’t held him by the wrist, he would have bolted like a rabbit. Corbett took a coin out of his wallet and, grasping the man’s hand, made him accept it.

‘I have not come to take you,’ Corbett said softly. ‘Peterkin is my friend. Old Mother Crauford is my friend. Buy some sweetmeats, a hot pie or join me in the Golden Fleece. Have a tankard of ale.’

The change in the simpleton’s face was wonderful to behold. He shook himself free and danced from foot to foot, humming under his breath.

‘Peterkin’s rich! Peterkin’s rich!’ he slurred.

‘Aye, Peterkin’s a friend of the King,’ Corbett added.

He was about to walk away when Mother Crauford caught him by the fingers.

‘That was kind of you, clerk,’ she whispered. ‘But, be careful as you walk through Haceldema!’

The jurors were a nondescript group of petty trades-men and farmers. They sat in a corner of the taproom, shuffling their feet, looking rather woebegone, frightened of meeting the royal clerk. They had fortified their courage with stoups of ale. Tressilyian cleared the taproom of everyone else. Sir Maurice Chapeleys sat some distance away, feet up on a stool, drumming his fingers on the table. Chanson went to check on the horses. Ranulf sat beside Corbett. Tressilyian took charge. He introduced the clerk and smiled sadly.

‘Time passes quickly,’ he declared. ‘Five of the jury which tried Sir Roger Chapeleys have died.’ His smile disappeared. ‘Two have been murdered. Now, you remember the days of the trial well, yes? The trial took place in the Guildhall?’

They all nodded like a group of obedient mastiffs.

‘I’ve never asked you this,’ Tressilyian continued. ‘The deliberations of the jury are usually secret but why did you return a verdict so swiftly, in less than an hour?’

‘It was your summing up.’ A burly tradesman, a butcher by the blood on his apron, spoke up.

‘Yes it was,’ Tressilyian conceded. ‘Your name is Simon, isn’t it? You are a flesher?’

‘That’s right, my lord.’

‘Please answer my question!’

‘I can’t remember every detail,’ the flesher replied, ‘but the evidence was clear: Sir Roger went down to Widow Walmer. He was seen by Deverell the carpenter - and yes, we now know he’s dead.’ He gazed round at his companions. ‘And, by the way, what protection do we have? It wasn’t our fault Sir Roger was executed.’

‘No one said it was,’ Corbett replied. ‘Do continue.’

‘Sir Roger was seen hurrying away from the widow’s cottage. He possessed belongings of the other women who had been murdered.’

‘What I’m interested in,’ Tressilyian declared, ‘and what Sir Hugh wants to know, is what happened in the jury room after you retired. Molkyn was your leader, Thorkle his deputy?’

‘Well, I’ll be honest,’ Simon replied. ‘Molkyn was a bugger. I didn’t like him alive, I don’t like him dead. He was all hot for Sir Roger being hanged. Guilty, he said, as soon as the door was closed. Thorkle, of course, followed suit.’

‘And the rest of you?’ Corbett asked.

He stared round at these men with their chapped faces and raw red hands. He felt sorry for them. It was common for juries to be intimidated but, there again, they could prove surprisingly stubborn, particularly when a man’s life was at stake.

‘Some of us objected. I am not going to say who. Rein in your horse, we told Molkyn. You could see he didn’t like Sir Roger.’

‘It was Furrell.’ One of Simon’s companions spoke up. ‘I was very concerned about Furrell’s evidence. He claimed Widow Walmer was alive after Sir Roger left. He also hinted at how others were seen going down to her cottage.’

‘Ah yes.’ Simon took up the story. ‘But Molkyn told us to shut up. He alleged Furrell had been bribed by Sir Roger. The knight could have gone back, whilst the people Furrell had glimpsed going down to Widow Walmer’s cottage were probably Repton the reeve and others who discovered the corpse.’

‘How did you vote?’ Corbett asked.

‘By a show of hands.’

‘And what convinced you?’

Corbett moved on the stool. He wished Ranulf, sitting beside him, would stop humming softly under his breath. His manservant glanced at him and winked. Corbett wondered what was wrong. He turned back to the flesher.

‘The evidence? You mentioned the justice’s summing up at the end of the trial. I asked how you voted?’

‘It was Deverell’s testimony.’ The flesher sighed.

‘The visit to Widow Walmer and the goods being found in Sir Roger’s manor. Molkyn was urging us on; eventually we all had to agree.’ He shrugged. ‘The verdict was returned.’

‘And since then?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh, we’ve discussed it - when the murders began again.’ Simon nodded. ‘Yes, we wondered if an innocent man had been executed.’ The flesher shuffled his feet and looked at the floor.

‘What is it?’ Corbett asked. ‘You have something else to say, haven’t you?’

Simon wiped his sweaty brow on the back of his wrist. ‘I’d like to make a confession.’ The words came blurting out. ‘Sir Louis, I should have told you this before.’

‘What?’ Corbett asked.

‘About two years after the trial I was in an alehouse, the Gooseberry Bush at the far end of the town. Molkyn came in. He’d just made a delivery of flour and was drinking the profits. Now most times, Molkyn was a surly bastard, always looking for a fight - fists like hams he had. He calls me over. I was delivering some meat. He was quite insistent so I joined him. He was deep in his cups. We talked about this and that. “Do you believe in ghosts?” Molkyn suddenly asked. “What do you mean, Molkyn?” I said. “Sir Roger Chapeleys,” he replied. “Do you think he can come back and haunt us for what we did?” Now I was troubled, I didn’t like that sort of talk. “He was guilty,” I replied. “What if I say he wasn’t,” Molkyn jibed—’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Corbett interrupted. ‘Molkyn said that?’

‘Aye. I became frightened. I questioned him but Molkyn grew all coy and sly, tapping his fleshy nose and winking. He then told me about a quarrel he had had with Furrell the poacher. “What quarrel?” says I. It appears that after the trial, Furrell had approached Molkyn, saying Sir Roger was innocent and he could prove it. Molkyn told him to go hang. Furrell also accused Molkyn of being a perjurer, then Furrell said something very strange. He claimed there was proof in Melford who the real killer was and that it was plain as a picture for anyone to see.’

‘And?’ Corbett asked.

‘That’s all Molkyn told me. He was fuddled in his wits and deep in his cups so I left him.’

‘Is there anything else?’ Corbett demanded.

A chorus of denial greeted his question. Corbett thanked them and the men left, eager to be away from the sharp-eyed clerk and his probing questions.

‘You are rather quiet, Sir Maurice?’ Corbett asked.

The young man gazed sullenly back. ‘Sir Hugh, what can I do? I was only a boy when my father was hanged. How can I go round Melford asking questions?’ His face became hard. ‘I can see it in their eyes, Sir Hugh. They still regard him as a killer, an assassin.’ His gaze softened. ‘But I have trust in you. Justice will be done.’

‘Sir Louis,’ Corbett glanced around to make sure there were no eavesdroppers: Matthew the taverner, however, had the sense to keep his slatterns and tapboys well away, ‘at Sir Roger’s trial, were you uneasy?’

‘Of course, but what could I do? The only evidence Sir Roger truly denied was Deverell’s.’

‘And Furrell’s evidence?’ Corbett asked.

Sir Louis sighed and sat down on a stool opposite. The justice hadn’t slept well; his eyes were heavy and red-rimmed.

‘Sir Hugh, Furrell was patronised by Sir Roger.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And there’s something else. Three young women were killed before Widow Walmer’s death, yes?’

Corbett nodded.

‘Now, whatever Sorrel has said to you, and I saw you talking to her, Furrell was a rogue. He was a thief. He poached on my land, as he did on everybody else’s but, of course, we ignored him. He only took what he wanted and there was little malice in the fellow. Except,’ Sir Louis continued, ‘Furrell was a lady’s man himself. When it came to maypole dancing or mummery on the green, Furrell, in his cups, was hot and lecherous as a sparrow. Now, when these murders occurred both Blidscote and I investigated. The finger of suspicion pointed strongly at Furrell. He was well known for talking to the girls. He did solicit, albeit well out of sight of Sorrel, and, above all, he knew the country roads and lanes.’