Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘Did you go to see Parson Grimstone?’

‘Yes I did. Him and Master Burghesh were very kind. The parson said he’d sing a Mass for him and refused the coin I offered. I still want to find his grave. I’ve discovered many things — that’s what I want to show you — but not Furrell.’

‘Many things?’ Corbett queried.

‘Come with me.’

Sorrel put her cup down. She took a torch from the wall, handed it to Corbett and grasped one herself. She led him back into the hall, across the courtyard and in through a small stone-fretted door.

‘Take care,’ she warned as she led him up some weather-worn steps.

Corbett followed warily. The steps were narrow, steep and slippery. They reached a stairwell. Corbett steeled his nerves against the scampering rats. At last they reached a long, narrow room very similar to the hall. The roof was gone, the plaster walls soaked by the wind and rain. Corbett could tell by the shape of the empty windows, the small platform at the far end and the recesses in the walls, that this must have been the manor chapel.

‘I want to show you something.’

A bird, disturbed by their arrival, abruptly burst from where it was nesting in the rafters and flew up into the night sky. Corbett closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. He fought back the waves of weariness. He should be back at the Golden Fleece but, on their journey into Melford, Corbett had repeated to Ranulf and Chanson, time and again, how quickly they must act.

‘We must take people by surprise,’ he’d told them, ‘not give them time to concoct stories.’

‘Master clerk, are you asleep?’

Corbett opened his eyes. The torch felt heavy, he lowered it and smiled in apology.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

Sorrel was now taking away bricks from the wall. Corbett joined her; he realised that a recess lay beyond. Sorrel told him to stand back and pulled out a makeshift platter.

‘Part of a doorway,’ she explained.

She threw back the dirty linen sheet. Corbett stared in disbelief at the skeleton which sprawled there. He lowered the torch. The bones were yellowing with age. The jaw sagged, the blackened teeth had crumbled, faint tufts of hair still clung to the skull. He muttered a prayer, moved the bones and glimpsed the tawdry, green-tinted bracelet lying beneath.

‘What is this?’ he murmured. ‘A former inhabitant of Beauchamp Place?’

‘No, no,’ she replied. ‘All its owners were buried in the parish graveyard. I put this here.’

‘Why didn’t you tell anyone?’

‘Oh come, master clerk.’ Sorrel took the bracelet from his fingers. ‘You know the old law. Whoever finds the corpse falls immediately under suspicion. You know what they’d say? “Were you involved in this, Sorrel? Is this the work of your man, Furrell? Is that why he fled?”

‘They’ll say the same if they come here.’

Sorrel shook her head. ‘I’ll be sly. I’ll say I never knew the bones were here. I know nothing of them. Perhaps they belonged to a lady or maid who once lived here.’

‘So, you know it’s a woman?’

Sorrel closed her eyes. ‘Of course it’s a woman, hence the bracelet. I also found a cheap ring, the remnants of a girdle. I kept them as treasure.’

Corbett, still holding the torch, sat down on the cold damp floor.

‘But why, Sorrel? What is this skeleton doing here?’

She took the torch out of his hand and stuck it into a niche in the wall; she did the same with hers, then she made herself comfortable before him.

‘You’ll tell no one,’ she warned. ‘I won’t be troubled because of this. I am as innocent as a child.’

‘Tell me,’ Corbett insisted.

Sorrel rubbed her face in her hands. ‘Furrell was a very good poacher. He knew all the trackways and wood lore. When I used to go hunting with him, he’d always tell me to stay away from this place or that. I asked him why. That’s when he told me how Melford used to be, about the sacrifices. He tried to frighten me with stories of the dead wandering the woods.’ She laughed abruptly. ‘He just wanted me to be safe on dark nights, indoors by the fire.’

Corbett watched her curiously. Here he was in this haunted, unhallowed place, the sky visible through the beams above, the cold wind sending the flames dancing. Before him the remains of some poor woman and this widow telling eerie stories about Melford’s dark past.

‘Anyway,’ Sorrel continued, ‘I paid him no heed. I told you people talk about the murders, other women disappearing. I saw it as no business of mine.’

‘Until after Furrell disappeared?’

‘Yes. Now I reasoned that Furrell would never enter someone’s house. The night he disappeared he didn’t visit the Golden Fleece or any tavern or alehouse in or around Melford. I reasoned that if he had been killed, it must have been out in the countryside and his corpse secretly buried. I began to search.’ She bit her lip. ‘Shall we put the remains back?’

‘In a while,’ Corbett replied softly. ‘Continue your story, Mistress.’

‘I won’t be held responsible?’

‘You will not be held responsible,’ Corbett confirmed. ‘But,’ he added wryly, ‘I wish you to add flesh to the bones.’

She laughed at the macabre joke. ‘Furrell was once an outlaw. He knew all about Sherwood and the other great forests north of the Trent. He told me how outlaws, if they killed a traveller, would never take the body far but bury it near the road or trackway where they’d planned their ambush. The places Furrell told me to stay away from were always near a trackway or path. Now, you have seen Devil’s Oak and Falmer Lane. If you were a bird, master clerk, yes. .’ She closed her eyes. ‘Imagine yourself a falcon flying above the meadows and fields around Melford. Go on, close your eyes!’

Corbett did so. ‘Strange,’ he murmured. ‘The day is not clear but grey and overcast.’

‘Good,’ Sorrel agreed. ‘Now, remember the fields on either side of Falmer Lane — they roll and dip, don’t they? The lanes and trackways are deep, more like trenches through the countryside. That’s what Furrell called them.’

‘Yes, yes, I’ve thought of that,’ Corbett agreed. ‘It’s a vision enhanced by the high hedgerows.’

‘That’s the work of the sheep farmers-’

Corbett opened his eyes. ‘What are you implying?’ he interrupted.

‘A poacher,’ she replied, ‘always stays within cover. He will, where possible, always scurry along a ditch or a hedgerow. It’s common sense. One side is protected and he does not want to be caught out in the open. Rabbits and pheasants do the same. The night Furrell disappeared, he must have followed the hedgerows down to a certain place to meet someone. He was probably killed there.’ She kept her voice steady. ‘And his poor corpse buried. Good, I thought, that’s where I’ll begin.’

‘But I saw you in a copse well away from Devil’s Oak?’

‘Patience,’ Sorrel murmured. ‘I mentioned one path Furrell would take but he also favoured the secret copse, the hidden clump of trees. I searched both places. In my first week, Sir Hugh,’ she tapped the skull, ‘I found this. It was behind a hedgerow down near Hamden Mere, a place Furrell had warned me to keep well clear of. I was curious. I dug, no more than a foot, and came across the grave, just a shallow in the ground, the remains tossed in. I noticed the ring, bracelet and piece of girdle. I was going to leave it there but my conscience pricked me. Here was I, searching for poor Furrell’s corpse yet I couldn’t give these pathetic remains proper burial. I don’t trust Blidscote, or any of those wealthy burgesses. I thought of going to see Parson Grimstone, but who’d believe me? I took the ring as payment, wrapped the skeleton in a leather sheet and brought it here.’