Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘Fleeing?’ Corbett asked.

‘That’s the way he put it. All furtive.’

‘But I understand from the records of the trial that they found Chapeleys’ dagger sheath there.’

‘Furrell didn’t believe Sir Roger had left it there. In fact, he said more to me.’

‘More?’ Corbett queried.

‘On the night Walmer was killed, Furrell saw Sir Roger leave but claimed at least three other men, on separate occasions, made their way down Gully Lane towards her house.’

‘Three?’ Corbett demanded. He stopped and stared up at her.

‘He repeated the same in court. According to him, Widow Walmer must have been very busy that night. Yet he was surely mistaken. Whatever she was in a former life, Cecily Walmer acted the role of a widow. If she had acted any differently in a place like Melford, the gossips’ tongues would have soon wagged.’

‘Your man Furrell said that in court?’

‘He swore on oath but no one believed him. They said he was drunk and everyone knew how kindly Sir Roger was towards him. They even claimed he had been bribed.’

Corbett closed his eyes and recalled the trial record: Furrell the poacher had defended Sir Roger.

‘What did your man mean about the devil making people lie? Are you saying they were bribed?’

‘Bribed? Threatened, what does it matter? A good man died.’

‘You should be careful,’ Corbett warned.

‘Oh, don’t worry, master clerk, I keep my mouth shut. I wander around as if I am fey in my wits, a still tongue in my mouth. Old Sorrel sees nothing, she knows nothing.’

‘But you believe Furrell’s been murdered and buried?’

‘I know Furrell has been murdered and buried. I intend to find his grave.’

‘After five years?’ Corbett queried.

‘All I know is that he went out one night and never came back. Melford, and the countryside around it, is crisscrossed by pathways, culverts, brambles, thickets, woods and marshes, but I pray. Every night before I go to sleep, I pray I’ll discover Furrell’s corpse.’

‘And Furrell was murdered because of what he said in court?’

‘Perhaps. As I have said, Furrell was a sly one, as stealthy as the night. Even with me, he could be tight-lipped, if he wasn’t drunk.’

‘So you think he saw something?’

‘I wager to God and His saints that he did, so he had to be silenced. After all, he is the only one who ever heard the Jesses killer.’

‘Ah yes.’ Corbett let the horse snuggle his hand. ‘I’ve heard that. What did Furrell actually see or hear?’

‘He was out poaching, not far from here. Night had fallen. He saw a shape and heard gasps, the tinkle of bells. Now Furrell was visiting one of his hiding places where he had concealed some venison. He didn’t want to be caught red-handed. He thought it was some local with his leman or one of the townspeople with a doxy. Remember, master clerk, Melford is a small town: its walls and pathways have eyes and ears. If you take a fancy to your wife’s maid, she’s best enjoyed out in the countryside. Then there’s the young with their love trysts and starlight meetings. Furrell scampered away. When Blidscote was asking questions, Furrell told him what he’d heard. Furrell always insisted that was a mistake. He regretted ever opening his mouth.’

‘But he did about Sir Roger Chapeleys?’

‘Ah, that was different. It was in a court, on oath in front of a royal justice. Furrell thought he’d be safe.’

‘And what else do you know? If you travel the woods and forests, you must see things others don’t. You followed me from Melford. You heard about my coming. You couldn’t wait to speak to me.’

‘I will speak to you, clerk, but I beg you never tell anyone what I say.’ Sorrel gazed back down the pathway.

‘Are you frightened of Tressilyian, of Chapeleys?’

‘No.’

She smiled down at him through the darkness.

‘I act my part well. They are great lords of the soil. They’ll think that you think as they do. Who would believe poor, mad Sorrel?’

She pulled at the reins of the horse and Corbett stopped. He was aware of how the darkness had closed in swiftly. They had left the wooded area. On either side, hedgerows, fields stretching away in the distance. The sky was starlit, a full moon white and strong.

‘Furrell would love such a night,’ she whispered. ‘Forget all the stories about the darkness. Furrell liked to know where he was.’

Corbett could sense the tension from this woman. She acted fey-witted, the relict of a poacher who had disappeared but she was a woman consumed with the need for justice, a desire for revenge.

‘Do you pray, Sorrel?’

‘I have a statue of the Virgin,’ she replied. ‘It’s made of wood, rather battered and chipped. Parson Grimstone gave it to me. Every night, every morning, I light a wax candle bought specially from the chandlers. I pray: “Dear Mother, you never lost your husband but I have.”

Corbett smiled at this makeshift prayer.

‘Am I your answer, Sorrel?’

She leant down and grasped his shoulder. In the moonlight Corbett could see how, when she was young, Sorrel must have been a lovely girl.

‘I want justice, clerk.’ Tears glittered in her eyes. ‘Is that much to pray for? Can’t the good God in His Heaven give out a little justice to me, a poor widow woman? You are the answer to my prayer. When I saw you riding across the marketplace, I thought God Himself had come down to Melford.’

‘That’s blasphemy,’ Corbett teased.

‘No, clerk, it’s the truth. If you bring justice to poor Sorrel. If you can find out where my man lies. If those responsible can be dispatched to God’s tribunal then, every day, I will light a candle for you.’

Corbett repressed a shiver. He had sat in the King’s courts at Westminster. He had listened to petitions for redress. He had hunted the bloody-handed sons of Cain but never had he been faced with such passion: a deep desire for justice which sprang from the innermost soul.

‘You will help me?’ Sorrel asked.

‘Have you ever been in a maze, Mistress Sorrel? That’s where I am now. Melford’s a maze with little culverts, paths, shadowy corners. Shadows twist and turn. We have the deaths of these young women, Mistress Walmer, now Molkyn and Thorkle.’

‘I know nothing of those,’ Sorrel snapped. ‘God forgive me, master clerk: when I heard of their deaths my heart leapt. So it begins, I thought, God’s justice.’

‘What do you mean?’ Corbett demanded.

He stared up and caught the fierce look in her eyes. Was she a murderer? Corbett thought. Was her hunger for justice so great? Did she believe Thorkle and Molkyn were in some way responsible for the death of her husband?

‘I know what you are thinking, clerk,’ she murmured. ‘I said I was glad, not responsible.’

‘But why should they die?’ Corbett asked. ‘Is it possible someone else believes Sir Roger was innocent and is exacting vengeance?’

‘I don’t know. You really should have words with their widows. I am sure you’ll find them together. Molkyn and Thorkle’s wives are kinswomen, related by blood, though thinly.’

Sorrel slipped her feet from the stirrups and Corbett helped her down.

‘I have ridden enough.’

She thrust her hand into Corbett’s, rough but warm. Corbett wondered what the Lady Maeve would think of this: out in the dark countryside, walking hand-in-hand with this strange poacher woman.

‘Listen. I have three things to tell you, then I’ll be done,’ she declared. ‘First, I saw you at Devil’s Oak. You were looking at where Elizabeth’s corpse was found. Yes?’

Corbett agreed.

‘I glimpsed her,’ Sorrel continued. ‘Late in the afternoon on the day she disappeared. Elizabeth had a secret place in the copse of trees at the top of the meadow.’