Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘This was once the chapel, wasn’t it?’ Corbett asked. ‘In your eyes, a holy place?’

‘Yes. I later regretted my charity.’

‘Why?’ Corbett asked.

‘I found two more graves,’ she confessed.

‘What!’

‘I tell you, I found two more graves. That’s why I called the killer of those young women a weasel but. .’ She paused.

‘What?’ Corbett asked.

‘How do we know these poor women were murdered? I’ve examined these bones. There’s no blow to the head. No mark to the ribs. Nothing!’

Corbett got to his feet. His fingers felt cold and he stretched out towards the warmth from the sconce torch. What do we have here? he thought, staring into the heart of the flame. Sorrel was an expert poacher. She knew the land around Melford. He’d met similar people on his own estates. They could tell if the ground had been disturbed, what animals had passed along which trackways. Furrell must have discovered these graves scattered around the countryside. Being shrewd and clever, he must have disturbed them, realised what he had found, covered them over and, because of superstition, kept Sorrel well away from them. She, in turn, when looking for his grave, sharp-eyed and remembering what she had learnt, had found one grave: out of respect or superstition, she’d then moved the pathetic remains to this ruined chapel. But were they murder victims?

‘What do you think, master clerk?’

‘They could be murder victims.’ Corbett spoke his own thoughts. ‘They could be the prey of the slayer of Elizabeth Wheelwright and the others but, there again, another killer could be responsible, years earlier. Look at the skeleton. The flesh and clothes have all decayed — nothing but brittle, yellowing bone. Indeed, these graves may have nothing to do with murder.’ He sat back on the floor. ‘In London, Mistress Sorrel, beggars die every night on the streets, particularly during wintertime. Their bodies are buried in the mud flats along the Thames, out on the moorlands or even in someone’s garden. Melford is a prosperous place,’ he continued. ‘Think of the young girls from Norwich and Ipswich, the Moon People and the travellers. A woman sickens and dies of the fever or, frail with age, suffers an accident. What do these people do? They leave the trackway. They don’t go very far but dig a shallow grave, place the woman’s corpse there in some lonely copse or wood. A skeleton does not mean a murder,’ he concluded. ‘We don’t even know when this poor woman died. Do you still have the ring?’

She shook her head. ‘I traded it with a pedlar for needles and thread.’

Corbett examined the bracelet. ‘It’s certainly copper, the damp earth has turned it green.’ He held it up against the flame. ‘But I would say. .’

‘What, clerk?’

Corbett took out his dagger and tapped it against the bracelet.

‘It’s not pure copper,’ he confirmed. ‘But some cheap tawdry ornament. The same probably goes for the clothes and the girdle.’

He crouched down beside the skeleton and examined it carefully. Sorrel was correct. None of the ribs was broken, nor could Corbett detect any fracture of the skull, arms or legs. He examined the chest, the line of the spine: no mark or contusion.

‘The effects of the garrotte string,’ he murmured,

‘would disappear with decay. How many more of these graves did you say?’

‘Two more and the bodies are no less decayed than this.’

Corbett, mystified, replaced the bracelet. He rearranged the bones back on to the board, covered them with the cloth and slid them back into the recess. Sorrel replaced the bricks; Corbett helped her. He tried to recall his conversations with his friend, a physician at St Bartholomew’s Hospital in London.

‘You found no string? Nothing round the throat?’ he asked.

‘No, I didn’t.’

Corbett was about to continue his questioning when he heard a sound. He got to his feet and moved to the window.

‘You have sharp ears, clerk.’ Sorrel remained composed.

‘I thought I heard a horse or pony, a rider. .’

‘I told you, someone I wished you to meet,’ she explained.

Corbett, one hand on his dagger, stood by the window. He heard the jingle of a harness. Whoever had arrived had already crossed the bridge. An owl hooted but the sound came from below. Sorrel went to the window and imitated the same call. She grasped Corbett’s hand.

‘Our visitor has arrived.’

‘The Moon People?’

‘They got tired of waiting,’ Sorrel explained. ‘They watch the hours as regularly as a monk does his office.’

Corbett stared up at the night sky. Aye, he reflected, and I watch mine. What time was it? He had left the church with Sir Louis and Sir Maurice about an hour before nightfall. It must be at least, he reckoned, three hours before midnight and he still had other business to do: Molkyn’s widow to speak to for a start! He heard a sound. Sorrel, holding the sconce torch, was standing in the doorway.

‘Come on!’ she urged.

They reached the cobbled yard. Sorrel’s visitor was standing in the middle. Corbett made out his shadowy outline.

‘I stood here deliberately.’ The voice had a strong country burr. Corbett recognised the tongue of the south-west. ‘I didn’t want to startle you.’

The man stepped into the pool of light. He was tall. Raven-black hair, parted down the middle, fell to his shoulders; sharp eyes like a bird, crooked nose, his mouth and chin hidden by a black bushy moustache and beard. He was swarthy-skinned and Corbett glimpsed the silver earrings in each earlobe. He smelt of wood smoke and tanned leather. The stranger was dressed from head to toe in animal skins: the jacket sleeves were of leather, the front being of mole’s fur, with leggings of tanned deerskin pushed into sturdy black boots. He wore a war belt which carried a stabbing dirk and a dagger. Bracelets winked at his wrists, rings on his fingers.

The stranger studied Corbett from head to toe. ‘So, you’re the King’s clerk?’

‘You should have waited,’ Sorrel accused. ‘I would have brought him.’

The man’s gaze held Corbett’s.

‘I did not want to meet him,’ he replied insolently. ‘I don’t like King’s officers, I don’t like clerks. I only said I would see him because you asked. What I’ve got to say isn’t much. You said you’d bring him to see me if you could.’

Corbett glanced at Sorrel and smiled. He was intrigued by how much this woman had planned what had happened this evening.

‘You find me amusing?’ the man asked dangerously.

‘No, sir,’ Corbett replied wearily. ‘I do not find you amusing. You are the leader of the Moon People, aren’t you?’

‘One of its clans.’

‘You came here, not because you’re tired of waiting, but because you did not want me in your encampment?’

The man’s eyes flickered.

‘You don’t like court officials,’ Corbett continued, ‘because they stride amongst your wagons like the Lord Almighty. They steal your goods, bully your men, harass your women. They take your horses and accuse you of crimes you did not commit. They will only go away if you offer silver and gold. Do you think I am like that, sir? I tell you, I’m not!’ Corbett undid his purse and took out two silver coins. ‘You come here out of friendship to Sorrel. Go on, take these for your pains!’

The man took the coins.

‘You are an ill-mannered lout!’ Sorrel exclaimed. ‘This clerk’s no Blidscote.’

The Moon man extended a hand. ‘My name is Branway. I’ve come to tell you something.’

Corbett grasped his hand.

‘I’ll tell you what I want, here under God’s sky. In that way you know I am telling the truth. I belong to the Moon People. We travel from Cornwall to the old Roman wall in the north. We have our carts and our ponies. We have coppersmiths, seamstresses, carpenters and painters. We buy and sell and, yes, when our children go hungry, we steal. We know the King’s kingdom better than he does. We arrived here two days ago and we’ll be gone tomorrow morning.’