Hugh Corbett 12 - The Treason of the Ghosts (31 page)

‘It’s cold,’ Corbett declared.

‘I didn’t find Blidscote. He may have had a hand in this.’

‘I doubt it,’ Corbett replied.

He gathered his cloak around him, putting on his gloves. He listened to the lonely hoot of an owl in the trees at the far end of the graveyard.

‘I wager a tun of wine to a tun of wine, Ranulf, that Blidscote is as dead as any that lie here.’

‘Just because I didn’t find him?’

‘I wonder if we ever will. But come, Ranulf, I need to think, sit and plot.’

They went through the lych-gate. Corbett looked down the lonely lane, ghostly in the pale moonlight. He was tempted to go and see Old Mother Crauford and Peterkin but then he heard voices. People were coming up towards the church as the news spread. He needed to impose some order on what he had learnt.

They returned to the Golden Fleece, to be greeted by scowls and unspoken curses. Corbett ignored them as he stood looking around.

‘Whom do you want?’ Matthew the taverner came up.

‘Master Blidscote - I don’t suppose he’s been in tonight?’

‘No, Sir Hugh, he hasn’t.’ The taverner glanced at him sly-eyed. ‘But the news about Curate Robert is known by all. They are calling you the Death Bringer.’

‘I’m not that!’ Corbett snapped. ‘Master taverner . . .’ Then he thought better of what he’d been about to say. ‘I’ll be in my chamber if anyone wishes to see me.’

Ranulf stayed, determined not to be bullied by the dark looks and seething hostility of the taproom. Once he was in his chamber, Corbett lit a candle and prepared his writing desk. He took out the scrap of parchment from the curate’s chamber and studied the outline of the triptych.

‘I wonder . . .’ he murmured.

He smoothed this out, took a piece of vellum and began to write down everything he had seen, heard or learnt since arriving in Melford. The first afternoon in the crypt; the conversation there; the daubed markings on the grave; the piece of parchment pinned to the gibbet. He wrote down a list of names and, taking each one, carefully recalled how they had looked, what they had said.

An hour passed. Ranulf came up but Corbett was so immersed he simply mumbled good night and went back to his studies. The taproom below emptied. Corbett lay on his bed for a while, thinking, trying to study each person, each death. Blidscote could have helped.

‘That was a mistake,’ Corbett murmured. ‘I should have questioned him before. But, there again, he wouldn’t have told the truth.’

He returned to his writings: slowly but surely a pattern emerged.

‘Let’s take one murder,’ he murmured. ‘Deverell’s. No.’ He shook his head.

He wrote down Molkyn’s name. Molkyn the miller? A drunkard, an oaf, frightened by a verse from Leviticus? Corbett was now certain two assassins were loose in Melford: Molkyn was the bridge between them. He had been specially elected to that jury, therefore he must have been blackmailed. But was he killed to keep his mouth closed? Or executed for his role in Sir Roger’s death? Corbett underscored the word ‘executed’. He sat and reflected, half dozing. He slipped into a dream and woke with a start. For a moment he was back in the cold, stark belfry with that grisly corpse swinging by its neck.

He got up and splashed water over his face. He had his suspicions but who could help? Peterkin? He would have to wait until the morning. Matters, however, were proceeding too fast. The hostility in the taproom might spill over and, as the news of Bellen’s death spread, people would say the murderer had confessed and hanged himself. So, why should this clerk be poking his long nose into other people’s affairs?

Corbett was about to strap on his sword belt and go out but then thought of Maeve, her face pale and anxious, eyes studying him. Her departing words echoed in his mind. She had whispered them as she put her arms round his neck and kissed him on the cheek.

‘Be careful of the shadows,’ she’d murmured. ‘Remember, if you hunt murderers, they can hunt you.’

Corbett paused, hand on the latch, and changed his mind. Instead he went to sit on the bed and thought of that bell tower, the hanging corpse and those other ropes with the weights at the end. If he could resolve that, he might trap the killer and, with the help of Molkyn’s daughter, bring these deaths in Haceldema to an end.

Corbett returned to his studies. He put Bellen’s murder to one side for the moment and returned to his theory of two murderers loose in Melford.

‘Not Furrell and his wife,’ he murmured - he was now sure of that - so who? He examined, once again, the parchment from Bellen’s chamber and recalled Furrell’s song about the angel and the devil. What else had Sorrel told him? If she was not exacting vengeance then who? There was something about her story? Corbett worked on and, as he did so, the mystery began to unravel.

‘Who is the Mummer’s Man?’

Corbett sat in Old Mother Crauford’s small, mud-packed earth cottage. It was smoky and dark. The fire in the makeshift hearth was lacklustre, the green logs gently resisting the licking flames. Old Mother Crauford put down the bellows and looked over her shoulder at Peterkin sitting on a three-legged stool. The simpleton was cradling a bowl of leek soup on his lap. He dropped his horn spoon with a clatter, frightened eyes still on Corbett. He slowly put the bowl on the ground beside him.

‘What nonsense is this?’ Old Mother Crauford asked. ‘It’s barely dawn and you come knocking on my door? We have nothing to do with Haceldema.’

‘I know why you call it that, Mother,’ Corbett replied. ‘No, no . . .’ Corbett put out a hand.

Peterkin was now staring at the doorway but that was blocked by Ranulf.

‘You mustn’t run,’ Corbett said gently. ‘I’ll only catch you. Hush!’ He held up a hand to fend off more questions from the old woman. ‘Look, Peterkin.’ Corbett held a silver coin between his fingers.

The slack face relaxed. Peterkin smiled, opening his mouth, tongue coming out as if he could already savour the sweetmeat he’d buy.

‘He’s a poor, witless fool,’ Mother Crauford mumbled.

‘He’s not as stupid as you think,’ Corbett retorted. ‘You know that, Mother, and so does he. It’s not really foolish Peterkin, is it? Or simple Peterkin? Or witless Peterkin?’ Corbett caught it - just a shift in the eyes, a gleam, a knowing look. ‘You understand what I am saying, don’t you?’ Corbett continued.

‘Peterkin does not know.’ The reply was low, throaty.

‘Yes you do. I’ll tell you and Mother Crauford a story. But first I do wonder where you have your secret place, Peterkin? Where do you hide the coins the Mummer’s Man gives you?’

‘What secret place?’ Mother Crauford demanded.

She pulled across a stool and studied Peterkin rather than Corbett, as if the clerk’s words had jolted a memory.

‘What I’ll do,’ Corbett declared, ‘is tell you my story, then I’ll threaten. I’ll bully you with all sorts of dire punishments, Peterkin, but, if you help me,’ he smiled, ‘it will be a silver coin for wise Peterkin. St Edmund’s parish in Melford,’ Corbett continued. ‘Well, it’s a strange place for a man like you, Peterkin. People are growing wealthy, travellers arrive, merchants, traders, pedlars and chapmen. Your world is changing, isn’t it, Mother Crauford? Forty years ago, who cared about Melford, when the plough ripped the earth and the peasants spent every hour wondering what the harvest would be like? Now it’s all different: broad meadows cut off by hedgerows where sheep graze and everyone becomes fat on the profits. Peterkin has to be careful. He has no family: people say he has no wits. He acts the part but Peterkin is quite cunning. He has to protect himself from the goodly, newly rich people. Peterkin is frightened of one thing: that he will be taken away and put in some Bethlehem house. No one knows this better than the Mummer’s Man. Where does he meet you, Peterkin? Does he come to this desolate lane? And has he taught you a poem?’

Mother Crauford was now staring at Corbett.

‘He did, didn’t he, over the years - take a message to this or that young woman? How a lover or admirer has left a gift, a token of their appreciation near Devil’s Oak, Brackham Mere or some place along Gully Lane. Peterkin takes the message. Everyone ignores you, running up and down, backwards and forwards across the marketplace.’

‘That’s true,’ Mother Crauford intervened. ‘But it’s only poor Peterkin. He often talks to young women yet he means no harm. No one takes offence.’

‘Of course they don’t,’ Corbett replied. ‘Look at him: innocent as a lamb. He wants to be accepted and chatters. Our killer recognised this. So, five years ago, young Peterkin is approached. He’s taught the doggerel, given the message—’

‘And why should he obey?’ Mother Crauford broke in.

‘Because the Mummer’s Man is frightening. He has a hideous mask. He threatens: if Peterkin doesn’t do what he says, the masters of the Bethlehem house will come with a cart and a whip. Poor Peterkin has seen that, haven’t you? When the parish gets rid of some beggar? Peterkin’s frightened.’

Corbett paused and glanced at Ranulf. In this dank cottage everything he had concentrated on the previous night now hung in the balance. He studied Peterkin’s sallow, unshaven face. The mouth hung slack but the eyes were not so frightened, more watchful.

‘Peterkin is also rewarded. Because the Mummer’s Man holds a rod in one hand but a coin in the other. All Peterkin has to do is go into Melford, seek out a certain young woman and deliver the message. Peterkin may have refused but, there again, why should you? Never, in all your woebegone days, have you earned a penny so quickly. You are given simple instructions. You are to approach the young woman when she is alone, never in a group. You are to tell her to keep quiet but, there again, she’s not going to tell anyone, is she?’

‘Oh my God!’ Mother Crauford groaned. ‘Oh, sweet Mary and all the saints!’ The old woman was now following Corbett’s logic.

‘A simple ruse,’ Corbett continued, pressing his point. ‘Peterkin delivers the message. A short while later that young woman’s corpse is found out in the countryside—’

‘Peterkin wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ Mother Crauford interrupted.

‘I didn’t say he did but Peterkin is now truly trapped. He must have remembered the victim was the same young woman to whom he delivered the message. But you can’t tell anyone, can you, Peterkin? The Mummer’s Man, the next time he approached you, reminded you of that. Ah well.’ Corbett sighed. ‘Peterkin is now very frightened. This dreadful Mummer’s Man truly has him by the neck. If he confesses what has happened, who will believe Peterkin? People will start pointing the finger. You wouldn’t be the first man, Peterkin, to be strung up like a rat on the town gibbet.’

Peterkin’s jaw was now trembling. He started to shake, one hand going out towards Mother Crauford.

‘He’s just a fool,’ the old woman repeated.

‘Not as dull as you think, Mother Crauford. And you know that! Haven’t you ever wondered why Peterkin is eating a pie or a sweetmeat? Or how he bought some gewgaw from the market stalls?’

‘People are kind,’ she retorted.

‘Oh, I am sure they are,’ Corbett declared. ‘But let’s go back five years. Sir Roger Chapeleys was accused of the murders. He died on the gibbet. The murder of the young women abruptly ended and so did the visits from the Mummer’s Man, or at least I think they did. But, late in the summer of this year, the Mummer’s Man reappears. Peterkin has no choice but to obey his instructions. Somehow or other you took the message to Elizabeth the wheelwright’s daughter, didn’t you?’

Mother Crauford seized Peterkin’s hand, rubbing it between hers.

‘You have no proof of this,’ she whispered to Corbett. Her hand went out and clutched Peterkin’s face.

Corbett wondered about the true relationship between these two. Some blood tie? Some kinship? Everybody in Melford acted their roles. Blidscote, the pompous master bailiff, Adela the bold-eyed tavern wench. Why not Mother Crauford and Peterkin? She, the old crone, but in reality her mind and memory were sharp and fresh as anyone’s, as Corbett’s study of the Book of the Dead had proved. And Peterkin? In truth, he led quite a comfortable life: dull in his wits but not the fool he pretended to be.

‘They could hang you.’ Ranulf spoke up, wondering how his master had discovered this information.

‘What do you mean?’ Mother Crauford snapped. ‘They couldn’t hang Peterkin!’

‘They would,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘And you beside him. Don’t you understand the word “accomplice”? Sir Hugh is correct. Some people might even allege Peterkin’s the murderer. You can tell from his face he is being confronted with the truth.’

‘You could hang.’ Corbett leant forward. ‘You must have known what the Mummer’s Man really intended. But, there again, you were frightened, weren’t you, whilst, after the first murder, you had no choice.’ He glanced at Mother Crauford. ‘And I wonder how much you knew? Did Peterkin ever tell, or begin to tell you, what had happened? Did you press your finger against his lips and so help the Mummer’s Man in his murderous games? Oh, you knew Peterkin wouldn’t hurt a fly. After all, such murders were taking place in Melford long before Peterkin was born. Yet, I tell you this,’ Corbett concluded briskly. ‘If Peterkin tells the truth he gets rewarded. Some coins and a letter, with the King’s Seal on it, proclaiming he is never to be troubled by anyone. And when the new priest arrives . . .’ Corbett paused: he could have bitten his tongue off. ‘In future years, perhaps, even a small annuity for Peterkin and Mother Crauford from the parish chest?’