Hugh Corbett 12 - The Treason of the Ghosts (33 page)

‘Did Molkyn ever accuse you of telling anyone else?’

‘No.’ She placed her hands on the table. ‘But sometimes I’d catch that murderous look in his eyes. He’d sit where you are, glaring down at me. It was a matter we never talked about and I never went back to Parson Grimstone.’

‘And the night Molkyn died?’

‘We’ve told you the truth,’ Ursula replied. ‘We were happy. Molkyn went over to the mill, finished his work and settled down like the pig he was to drench his belly in ale. Someone came in, took his head and placed it on a tray which was sent floating across the mere. I am glad he has gone. So is Margaret.’

‘And have you,’ Corbett turned back to where the girl sat listlessly, ‘ever discussed your secret, Margaret?’

‘Never!’ Her head snapped back, eyes blazing with anger. ‘Do you know something, master clerk, I feel as if I’ve come back from the tomb. Molkyn’s rotting in his grave. I want to meet a good man and marry. I don’t want my shame proclaimed throughout Melford.’

Corbett got to his feet. ‘In which case I shall not trouble you again.’

He walked round, crouched beside the bench and took Margaret’s fingers in his. ‘Your hands are cold,’ he said softly. ‘Rest assured, your secret’s safe with me. Parson Grimstone will be leaving: God’s justice is going to be done and so is the King’s.’

He let her hands go, got to his feet, kissed her on the top of the head and went out into the yard.

‘Where’s Ralph?’

‘Locked himself in the mill,’ Ranulf smiled. ‘Said he had better things to do than argue with busybody clerks.’

‘And we are busybody,’ Corbett smiled.

They mounted their horses and went back along the trackway. Corbett was about to round the bend when a figure stepped out of a thicket so swiftly, Corbett’s horse shied. Corbett talked to it quickly, patting its neck.

‘I am sorry. I am sorry . . .’ Sorrel pulled back her hood. A crude bandage covered the gash on her neck.

‘You’ve been hunting?’ Corbett asked, pointing to the sack she carried.

‘Rabbit snares.’ Her weather-beaten face creased in concern. ‘Another murder, clerk? Curate Robert? They say he’s hanged himself. Did he kill my poor Furrell?’

‘No, I don’t think he did. Tell me, Sorrel,’ Corbett grasped the reins and leant down, ‘couldn’t Furrell’s corpse have been hidden in a mire or swamp? I meant to ask you this yesterday.’

‘Spoken like a townsman,’ Sorrel retorted. ‘The swamps and marshes round here aren’t all that deep. And what goes down eventually comes back. Why?’ she asked. ‘Do you know where he’s buried?’

‘Yes, yes, I do. I know the exact place.’

‘Where?’ Sorrel dropped the sack and grasped the reins, her other hand clawing at Corbett’s knee.

Corbett smoothed the hair away from her face.

‘Trust me,’ he whispered. ‘Let me play this game out. Until then, stay in Melford!’

Sorrel let go of the reins. Corbett urged his horse forward and, followed by Ranulf and Chanson, rode along the trackway back into the town. On its outskirts, just past the church, Corbett reined in.

‘Ranulf, Chanson, I’ll break my fast in the Golden Fleece. You are to go out to Sir Louis Tressilyian and Sir Maurice Chapeleys. Bring them both to me. Tell them they must come on their loyalty to the King.’

‘Chapeleys and Tressilyian!’ Ranulf exclaimed.

‘Just bring them,’ Corbett declared. ‘Tell them I have matters to discuss!’

Corbett returned to the Golden Fleece where he broke his fast on salted pork, freshly baked bread, slices of cheese and a tankard of light ale. The taproom was fairly empty though, as he finished, others entered, calling in on their way to the market. The usual travellers: a relic-seller, with his tray of so-called blessed goods; tinkers selling ribbons attached to a pole; a travelling coppersmith; two hucksters with a badger, hoping to bait it against a dog. Strangers to the town, they shuffled in and kept to themselves. When Repton and others entered, Corbett decided it was time to leave. He went back up to his chamber and sat at the table, going through the conclusions he had reached earlier that morning. He’d only had a few hours’ sleep: his mind couldn’t settle but he felt pleased at the way his plan was unfolding. He was sorry for Margaret. Her pain he could not truly understand, but he might have brought her some measure of peace. Corbett thought about little Eleanor and wondered how any father could abuse his own daughter. To distract himself, he prepared the room for his visitors, ensuring both sword and dagger were within easy reach.

For a while Corbett dozed and was awoken by Ranulf’s loud tapping on the door. Chapeleys and Tressilyian entered. Both men were hurriedly dressed, unshaven, their hair tousled. Ranulf brought in stools and Corbett asked them to sit. Neither of them protested. Chapeleys looked nervous. Tressilyian had a half-smile on his face as if he knew what was to happen.

‘You have news?’ Sir Maurice began. ‘It must be urgent?’

‘No, I don’t have news,’ Corbett retorted. ‘I have reached conclusions. Your father, Sir Maurice, was guilty of no more than drinking and lechery. He didn’t murder Widow Walmer. He didn’t rape and garrotte women of this town. He was sent to the gallows by a cunning and evil assassin. You have petitioned both Court and Chancery for an investigation, even a pardon for your father. One will be issued.’

‘What is this?’ Sir Maurice whispered.

‘Now, four men knew your father was innocent,’ Corbett continued. ‘You, himself, the assassin and Sir Louis Tressilyian.’

Maurice looked startled at the justice.

‘Five years ago,’ Corbett continued in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘Sir Louis, quite rightly, was summoned to the Guildhall: he took depositions and evidence against your father. He may have had doubts but, on the basis of the evidence supplied, Sir Roger seemed guilty. Sir Louis probably hoped that a jury, as is their wont, would give the prisoner the benefit of the doubt. He was certainly surprised when they did not. He delayed your father’s execution. He wrote to the King. However, the significant aspect of a jury’s verdict is that it is also seen as the verdict of the community. If Sir Louis continued his protests, the finger of accusation would be pointed at one manor lord protecting another. I am correct, Sir Louis?’

‘I listen to what you say,’ the justice replied.

He spoke so evenly, Corbett wondered if his conclusion was truly correct: Tressilyian seemed so unperturbed.

‘Your father died,’ Corbett pressed on to Sir Maurice. ‘The murders stopped. Sir Louis must have taken comfort from this: he did his best for you, treating you like the son he never had. Perhaps he encouraged you to write to Westminster? Nevertheless, three things secretly reassured him about the rightness of the sentence. The evidence, the verdict of the jury and the fact that the murders had ceased. He would be curious, however: Furrell had disappeared and Sir Louis must have known about Molkyn’s reputation, as well as the deep dislike in the area for your father.’ Corbett paused. ‘And then the murders began again. Sir Louis’s belief in your father’s guilt was severely shaken. He may have also suspected that the real murderer could have even been responsible, God knows how, for your father’s illegal execution. Sir Louis, therefore, decided to take steps. He would carry out his own justice.’

‘What are you saying?’ Sir Maurice asked. His face had paled. He kept running his fingers round the collar of his tunic.

‘Sir Louis,’ Corbett confronted him directly, ‘you, I believe, are responsible for the murder of Molkyn the miller, Thorkle, Deverell, and, I wager, you know where Master Blidscote’s corpse can be found.’

‘You say I am a justice.’ Tressilyian spoke up. ‘And so I am. What evidence do you have for all this?’

‘You are a good man, Sir Louis,’ Corbett replied. ‘Mistaken, but basically good. You suspected a miscarriage of justice had taken place. You felt sorry for Sorrel, Furrell’s widow, so you gave her a pension, a silver coin at certain times of the year. Why should such anonymous gifts be given at specific times? Ever the lawyer, eh, Sir Louis? Those dates mark the beginning of the law terms in the courts of Westminster. It was your way of reminding yourself. You looked after Sorrel just as you looked after Sir Maurice.’

Sir Louis smiled, running a finger along his moustache.

‘Only a justice could afford such generosity,’ Corbett declared. ‘As for that attack on you in Falmer Lane, the day you rode into Melford to meet me, it was curious! Why did you come alone? Why did you make an excuse to arrive late? You didn’t want Sir Maurice riding with you, did you? You wanted to depict yourself as under the knife, fearing attack because of that dreadful miscarriage of justice. You stopped on the trackway. You looked around. No one was in sight. You cut down that sapling to block the trackway. You walked into the trees, took off your boots and fired those arrows. You then continued your journey.’

‘I could have been seen,’ Tressilyian pointed out.

‘No, it’s a lonely place. Two things puzzled me about that assault. First, who was this bare-footed bowman? He struck once but never struck again. Sorrel, who knows those woods like the back of her hand, failed to see any mysterious archer. Secondly, if this bowman had gone to such trouble, why wasn’t he successful? Molkyn, Thorkle, Deverell and probably Blidscote are all dead. All you received were cuts which, of course, were self-inflicted. You got rid of the bow and quiver, ensured all the signs of an attack were visible. You then continued on your way. You muddied the waters. You also left that crude sign pinned to the gibbet and daubed a similar message on the headstone over Sir Roger’s grave. All your actions that day would have been easy. A heavy mist had swirled in. The graveyard is a lonely place and, once you were ready, you burst into the crypt as the frightened, aggrieved justice.’

‘And the executions?’ Sir Maurice asked.

Corbett could tell how the young manor lord half accepted the truth of what he was saying.

‘Oh, those were quite easy. Molkyn was well known for his drunken habits on a Saturday evening. Sir Louis went into the mill, he sheared Molkyn’s head off like one would snip a flower. Thorkle was the same. Melford, particularly in autumn time, with the mists shrouding a desolate countryside, is ideal for such attacks. Deverell the carpenter was also studied. Sir Louis knew about the Judas squint—’

‘Where’s the evidence for all this?’ Sir Louis demanded.

Corbett hid his surprise at Tressilyian’s calm demeanour. He wants to be caught, Corbett thought; he expected to be trapped.

‘The evidence, Sir Louis, is tenuous. First, that note left at Deverell’s house. Do you remember the quotation: “Thou shalt not bear false testimony against your neighbour”? Most people translate that verse as “You must not bear false witness . . .” You used “testimony” about the statements of witnesses at Sir Roger’s trial. You said, in effect: “If they gave false testimony, upon their heads.” What a coincidence! Molkyn lost his head, Thorkle’s brains were dashed out. The crossbow bolt hit Deverell in the face, piercing the brain. When Blidscote’s corpse is found, his death blow will be to the head.’

The justice sat, hands on his knees, staring down at the floor.

‘I am going to ask you one question, Sir Hugh.’ He lifted his head. ‘Have you trapped the real murderer?’

‘I know who it is,’ Corbett replied.

‘Do I have your oath on that?’

‘You have my oath.’

Sir Louis took up the edge of his cloak and picked at the threads.

‘If I am going to be put on trial, I demand to be taken to Westminster.’

Corbett ignored Sir Maurice’s sharp intake of breath. ‘Agreed.’

‘I am a justice,’ Sir Louis continued. He sucked on his upper lip. ‘I took an oath to uphold the truth and see that the King’s laws were executed. I’ve told you this before, Sir Maurice. I had little love for your father: he was a lecher, a philanderer. Thank God you are different. Even my late wife . . .’ He paused. ‘No woman was safe when Sir Roger was around, but I never believed he was a murderer. Why should he kill Widow Walmer, whose favours he enjoyed? Yet the evidence was there, particularly Master Deverell’s, not to mention the bracelets and the knife. Nevertheless, I thought the jury would return a “Not Proven” verdict. Sir Roger would be acquitted, but disgraced and be forced to leave the shire. I was surprised when Molkyn returned the hanging verse: “Guilty with no plea for mercy.” Justice followed its cruel course.’

He smiled. ‘Sir Hugh is correct. I hid my doubts; I recalled the evidence: the jury was responsible. Above all, the murders had ended.’ He paused, wetting his lips.

Corbett went over, half filled a cup of wine and brought it back. Sir Louis thanked him with his eyes.

‘Oh, I made my own enquiries. I found out how Molkyn had acted the bully in the jury room. I was deeply suspicious about Furrell’s disappearance. I felt sorry for Sorrel and for you, Maurice. I did my best. I tried to be the father I had so brusquely removed from your life.’ He cradled the cup. ‘But when those murders began again I knew I was wrong. Somebody had come into my courtroom. I was no more than a puppet, a seal for the real killer’s wickedness. He and the rest had used the law to send an innocent man to the gallows.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘I felt a fool. I realised why Molkyn would sometimes leer at me or Deverell scurry away like the rat he was. I knew the King would have to intervene. I encouraged Sir Maurice to write those letters but I wondered what would happen if they escaped justice. The rest, Sir Hugh, is as you’ve said. In my view I carried out lawful execution: Molkyn, Thorkle and Deverell were the ones I held responsible. I might not trap the true killer but I am a King’s justice: perjury and bribery are capital offences. I learnt about all their habits: Molkyn’s drinking, Thorkle in the threshing shed away from his hot-eyed wife and furtive Deverell, with his Judas squint.’