Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘There’s your hostelry!’ Sir Maurice called out, gesturing across to the Golden Fleece which stood on the corner of an alleyway. A three-storeyed building, black-timbered, its plaster washed a light pink, the tavern had windows of mullioned glass that gleamed in the light of the lanterns slung on hooks along the beam spanning the ground floor. ‘Taverner Alliot serves you well?’

‘He keeps a fine house,’ Corbett replied. ‘Matthew Alliot lives high on the hog.’

‘Aye, he does that,’ Chapeleys replied sourly.

‘He was a witness at your father’s trial, wasn’t he?’

Corbett edged his horse forward. They were now on the edge of the square. Chapeleys reined in, still staring back at the tavern. Corbett noticed how the noise and bustle of the market, the cries of traders had faded as they entered the square. Oh, there was the usual bustle and shouting, the cries of chapmen, ‘What do you lack? What do you lack?’ Dogs and children darted in and out. Apprentices, still sharp-eyed for customers, swaggered about but Corbett felt as if many of them were watching. Was it the presence of a King’s clerk and a royal judge?

‘Sir Hugh?’ Tressilyian leant over and gently touched Corbett on the shoulder. ‘I can read your thoughts, master clerk, and, perhaps answer them. The townspeople realise you are here because of the murders. It’s trade as usual but people are worried.’

‘And can you read Sir Maurice’s mind?’ Corbett replied. ‘It’s true, isn’t it? Taverner Alliot was a witness against your father?’

‘Yes, yes, he was.’ Chapeleys broke free from his reverie. ‘On the night Goodwoman Walmer was murdered, my father went to the Golden Fleece to slake his thirst. According to Alliot, my father said he was going to the goodwoman’s cottage.’

‘But that’s not a lie, is it?’ Corbett asked.

He swore as a dog came yapping at his horse’s hoofs.

‘No, it’s not.’ Sir Maurice gathered the reins in his hand. ‘Oh, never mind. Let’s go on, the light is fading.’

They went down a narrow lane, out along the back streets, past the garden plots, piggeries and outside stables of the cottagers’ houses. They turned right up a cobbled track and reached the crossroads, a slight rise providing a good view of the surrounding countryside. A little of this was plough land but most of it meadows, dotted with sheep. Small copses and lines of hedgerow broke the greenery. To Corbett’s left, the beginning of a great forest which stretched north. He shaded his eyes and caught a glimpse of the river Swaile.

‘Prosperous land,’ he murmured. ‘Well cleared and watered. It makes me homesick.’

He wondered what Maeve was doing at their Manor of Leighton. Would she be in the kitchen doing business with the steward and bailiffs, checking their accounts, planning what they were doing tomorrow? Eleanor would be tottering around whilst Uncle Morgan would be leaning over the crib-cradle tickling Baby Edward. Or, if Maeve wasn’t looking, trying to pick him up and play with him once again.

‘I hate this place!’

Corbett started. Sir Maurice had moved ahead and was staring up at the great gallows post, its three stark branches black against the evening sky. Corbett had studied a map of Melford. Of course, this was the spot where Sir Roger had been executed. The scaffold was immense, its main post sunk deep into the earth and strengthened by mortar. Sir Louis was also staring up, as if fascinated by the sharp hooks at the edge of each outstretched beam. Sir Maurice crossed himself and sat for a while, head bowed. The cold breeze caught their cloaks, tugging at their hoods.

‘It was here?’ Corbett asked. ‘Were you present?’

‘No, he wasn’t,’ Tressilyian whispered back. ‘He was only a lad. His servants kept him at the manor, Thockton Hall.’

Corbett was about to continue his questioning when Sir Maurice cursed and jumped down from his horse. He walked over to the scaffold. Corbett glimpsed a piece of parchment fluttering on a nail just above the base of the beam. Sir Maurice snatched this off and brought it back.

‘It’s the same as on the gravestone,’ he murmured, handing it to Corbett.

The parchment was a greasy piece of old vellum: in the fading light Corbett made out the red scrawl: ‘REMEMBER!’

‘Someone has been busy. Sir Maurice, may I keep this?’

His companion nodded. Corbett folded the scrap of paper and slipped it into his wallet. The clerk stared around. The crossroads and the surrounding fields were not so pleasant now. The breeze was cold, the sky more grey and threatening, the misty haze like a shifting gauze veil. A feeling of dread, of quiet menace pervaded. The lives of many in Melford had been blighted. The secrets they nursed, hidden sins, could surface and manifest themselves in brutal and bloody death, especially on an evening such as this.

At Tressilyian’s insistence they rode on, Chapeleys slightly ahead of the others. Corbett considered drawing Tressilyian into conversation about the trial but decided that this was not the time nor place. The justice himself seemed to be in a dark mood, keeping his head down, chin tucked into his cloak, cowl pulled across his face. Corbett realised that Tressilyian must also be alarmed, seriously concerned that he had condemned and supervised the execution of an innocent man. The silence grew oppressive. Corbett could understand why Ranulf, a creature of the alleyways and streets of London, felt fearful in the countryside, especially in this quiet time before dusk as if the creatures of the night were waiting for darkness to fall. The path they had taken was nothing more than a broad, rutted trackway, ditches on either side and high, prickly hedgerows. Every so often this line would be broken by a gate or stile.

Corbett reined in, forcing the other two to stop. ‘I am a stranger,’ he reminded them. ‘I am trying to get my bearings. This is Falmer Lane?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the village of Melford lies — ’ Corbett gestured with his hand — ‘to the south? The church stands at one end. We have streets and thoroughfares, the marketplace in the centre, then it curves slightly out into the countryside?’

‘You are not such a stranger,’ Tressilyian replied. ‘But yes, that’s a good way of describing the town.’

‘So, there are many trackways and thoroughfares out?’

‘Yes, I told you. Melford has grown as prosperous, and as rambling, as the fleece on a sheep’s back.’

‘And Molkyn’s mill is at the church end of the town?’

‘That’s right. There’s the mill, Thorkle’s farm is nearby. In fact, it’s almost a small hamlet. There’s the mere, the millpond.’

‘And Goodwoman Walmer’s cottage?’

‘About a mile from the mill.’

‘And lanes and trackways aplenty?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh, Sweet Lord, yes,’ Tressilyian laughed. ‘If you read the report of the trial, one witness actually described Melford as a rabbit warren. There are lanes and trackways out. You’ve seen the gates and stiles. Footpaths crisscross the meadows. God knows,’ he sighed, ‘as a justice I am always having to rule on what is trespass and what is not. You see, Corbett, the land round here has changed. Sheep, not corn, is the measure of a man’s wealth. So woods are cleared, hedgerows planted, fences and gates put up.’

‘If I catch your drift,’ Sir Maurice said, ‘an ideal place for murder, yes, Sir Hugh?’

‘Any place is ideal for murder,’ Corbett replied. ‘Ranulf dislikes the countryside. He claims it’s more dangerous than the alleyways of London. For once I agree with him. Once darkness falls, a man who knew his way around here could slip along the lanes and gullys and do what he wished. He’d be as well protected as he would in the dingy slums around Whitefriars or the maze of Southwark alleyways.’