Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘A secret place?’

‘Oh, master clerk, you were a child once! You lived in a house with your parents, brothers, sisters, dog. You had a secret place. Elizabeth Wheelwright had one as do the other young men and women, places they can meet.’

‘So, you were the last to see her alive?’

‘Yes, and before you ask, Elizabeth was hurrying. I hid and watched her go by. You could tell from her face she was excited, pleased.’

‘In which case,’ Corbett confessed, ‘I am truly confused. All your sighting proves is that Elizabeth was probably killed somewhere between that copse of trees and Devil’s Oak. Her slayer cunningly hid all traces of his foul act. I can only deduce that her corpse was moved from the murder place to where it was found. So,’ he sighed, ‘I’d be wasting my time searching the ground. What else?’

‘In the last five years, six young women, including Goodwoman Walmer, have been raped and murdered around Melford. But they are not the only ones.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Remember, I wander the roads but so do others: Moon People, tinkers, chapmen, families looking for work. I get to know them well. They talk.’ She shrugged. ‘Two, three, of their womenfolk have disappeared.’

‘But that’s not unheard of,’ Corbett replied. ‘Their womenfolk often-’

‘No, no, listen to what I am saying,’ Sorrel interrupted. ‘Corpses have been found but I wonder how many other murders there have been. Was Elizabeth Wheelwright’s corpse meant to be discovered? Have you ever seen weasels hunt, master clerk? They have a store. They hide the flesh of their victims so they can come back and eat it later. This Jesses killer is like the weasel: he kills and hides, though sometimes he’s not fast enough. Question Blidscote, he collects the corpses.’

‘You don’t like our master bailiff?’

‘He’s corrupt and he’s stupid!’ She spat the words out. ‘He likes nothing better than holding forth in the taproom, telling his business and everyone else’s to anyone who will listen. Don’t forget, he organised the search of Sir Roger’s house.’

Corbett gripped her hand.

‘You are saying he was bribed to find that evidence?’

‘I thought you were sharp,’ she teased. ‘Why should Sir Roger kill a girl, steal her tawdry effects and keep them at his manor? You should think more clearly and act quickly. .’

Corbett caught the laughter in her voice.

‘. . otherwise Master Blidscote will join Thorkle and Molkyn. They will soon be lowering his fat corpse into the soil.’

‘And finally?’ Corbett asked.

‘Ah, yes. The Mummer’s Man.’

‘The Mummer’s Man?’

Sorrel laughed deep in her throat. ‘Once, many years ago, I learnt a little Latin. Do you remember that line from the gospels, clerk, when Judas decided to betray Christ?’ She paused. ‘It reads something like, “Judas left and darkness fell.” Melford’s like that. Once darkness falls, all kinds of things happen. That’s the problem with people who live in towns. They think that if they can get out into the fields and woods they are alone, but they are not. I see things, some are comical, some are sad. Oh, not just the lusty swain wishing to swive the wench of his choice. Other things. Men like that young curate, Robert Bellen. Now he’s a strange one. I’ve caught him down near the river Swaile, kneeling naked in the mud, except for his loin cloth, bruising his back with a switch, eyes closed, lips moving in prayer.’

‘That is fanciful.’

‘No, clerk, it’s the truth. Why should a young man, a priest of God, feel he has to punish himself like that?’

Corbett swallowed hard. He’d heard of such practices in monasteries and abbeys, the desire to flagellate, to punish oneself. Sometimes it was just an extreme form of mortification, in others a deep sense of guilt. Did not King Henry have himself whipped through Canterbury for the murder of Thomas a Becket?

‘Do you have dealings with Bellen?’ he asked.

‘Very little but I thought it was a tragic sight, master clerk. Why should a young priest wish to do that? What secret sins does he hide?’

‘Could he be the killer?’

‘All things are possible, Sir Hugh. He made little attempt to hide himself the day I saw him.’

‘And Parson Grimstone?’

‘A goodly man. He likes the trencher, his roast pork, his capon served in sauces and cups of claret, but I’ve heard no whisper of scandal about him. Sometimes short-tempered. He and the other one, Burghesh, they are inseparable, like two old women gossiping with each other.’

‘And the Mummer’s Man?’ Corbett asked.

‘It happened just before the killings began again. Furrell had mentioned something about a man with a mask riding a horse but that was years ago. I said he was drunk, deep in his cups. Anyway, the day was quiet, one of those beautiful times when the weather is changing. I was in Sheepcote Lane; it’s a narrow path across the fields. I was enjoying the sun, nestling behind an outcrop of rock when I heard a horse. Usually the place is deserted but I looked over and, just for a matter of heartbeats, I glimpsed this man dressed in a cloak. On his head he wore one of those mummer’s masks, the sort travelling actors use when they appear in a morality play. This one belonged to the player who takes the part of the devil, blood-red, twisted mouth, horns on either side. I was so shocked I immediately hid. He was past me in a trice. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Perhaps a young man playing a joke? There is so much revelry here. Then I recalled Furrell’s words: how one of the travellers he encountered, passing through, had seen something similar.’ She touched Corbett’s hand and pointed to a gap in the hedge leading into the water meadow. ‘I must go.’ She tapped her walking cane on the trackway. ‘If you wish, you can join me.’ She made a drinking gesture. ‘I have some very good wine. .’

Corbett stared into the darkness. ‘You saw Elizabeth Wheelwright going across the fields about Devil’s Oak?’ he asked. ‘Weren’t you suspicious? Why didn’t you follow her?’

‘I saw no one else, master clerk. I do not belong to Melford. Few people like me but, in the main, I am tolerated. I don’t want to be accused of snooping or prying where I shouldn’t. I saw Elizabeth go into the copse. No one else was around, there was nothing suspicious, so I walked on.’

‘So, she must have met her killer? Why,’ Corbett insisted, ‘should a young woman come out into the lonely countryside to meet someone? How would she know where to go? I wager she could scarcely read.’

‘I don’t know, clerk, but if you come with me, I might enlighten you.’

Corbett gripped the reins of his horse. ‘It’s truly dark,’ he murmured.

‘You are not just referring to the night, are you, Corbett?’

‘No, I’m not.’ He shivered. ‘Do you believe in ghosts, Sorrel?’

‘I believe the dead walk and try to speak to us.’

‘I hope they speak to me,’ Corbett replied. ‘All those poor women so barbarously ravished and murdered. Surely it’s time their ghosts betrayed this killer.’

Corbett, leading his horse, followed Sorrel across the ditch and into the water meadow. The ground was wet but still firm. Corbett felt as if he was walking along a dreamlike landscape: the surrounding trees and bushes were bathed in moonlight; Sorrel was striding in front of him, swinging her cane, singing softly under her breath. A hunting owl flew like a white shadow above them. Corbett’s horse started and he paused to let it nuzzle his hand. He couldn’t help thinking of Maeve watching her husband, a royal clerk and manor lord, going across night-wrapped fields with this mysterious woman. The owl, which had reached the far trees, now began to hoot, low, mournful but clear on the night air.