Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘Go into London, Chanson, talk to the ladies of the night in Southwark. They’ll tell you about men who like to beat and hurt them, sometimes quite badly, before they can take them.’

‘You mean like a stallion has to be quickened before he can mount a mare?’

‘I couldn’t put it better myself,’ Ranulf said drily. ‘That’s what our killer is. Melford’s an ideal place for him: no walls or gates; there must be at least twenty or thirty lanes leading out to the countryside which surrounds the town with lonely meadows, woods and copses. It’s so easy,’ Ranulf continued, ‘for the killer to slip in and out.’

‘Even on horseback?’

‘You work with horses,’ Ranulf replied. ‘Tell me, Chanson, what if I wanted to dull the sound of my horse’s hoofs?’

‘Sacking or straw,’ the groom replied. He bent down and lifted his horse’s foreleg. ‘You can’t take off the shoe — that will hurt the animal, make it lame. However, if you took small sacks, filled them with hay or grass, then tied them over the hoofs like buskins, it would be fairly quiet. Why, has the girl seen someone?’

‘What she called the Mummer’s Man, masked, riding a horse.’

‘That would be easy enough,’ Chanson confirmed. He climbed into the saddle and gathered the reins. ‘If I put sacking on my horse’s hoofs, I could ride this horse across the cobbles and you wouldn’t know I was there.’

Ranulf grinned up at him. ‘But pretend I’m a comely maid. If I met you, Chanson, riding along a lane, wearing a mask, I’d run, flee for my life.’

The groom pulled a face and eased himself out of the saddle. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘In fact,’ Ranulf quipped, ‘mask or not, any country wench would take one look at you and flee for her life.’

‘I can’t help my eye.’ Chanson coloured. ‘It’s the way I was born!’

‘I was only joking.’ Ranulf patted him on the shoulder. ‘But think, Chanson. You’re the horseman. I’ll tell you what.’ Ranulf pointed across to the Golden Fleece. ‘You solve the riddle and I’ll buy you the juiciest pie and a tankard which froths and glitters as if it is full of angel mead.’

Chanson wetted his lips. ‘You’ll keep your word?’

Ranulf lifted his left hand. ‘As your horse has a tail.’

Chanson climbed back into the saddle, gathered the reins and stared hungrily around. Then, digging his heels in gently, he rode to where Peddlicott the pickpocket dozed quietly in the stocks. The groom dismounted, took the water bottle off the horn of his saddle and held it to the grateful man’s lips.

‘Listen,’ he said, opening his wallet. He took out a piece of dried meat and gave it to the astonished pickpocket to gnaw on. ‘Give me the name of a tavern wench.’ He gestured at the Golden Fleece.

‘Try Matthew’s daughter, Adela. She’s buxom enough.’

Chanson thanked him, left his horse and walked back to Ranulf.

‘So, you say I am ugly, Master Ranulf?’

‘Well, not in so many words,’ Ranulf laughed, ‘but I’ve seen prettier gargoyles.’

‘A tankard, a pie and a silver piece,’ Chanson threatened.

‘For what?’

‘That I can bring a comely wench out from the tavern.’

‘But they already know you,’ Ranulf retorted.

‘No, they don’t. They have seen only you, Lord High-and-Mighty, and Sir Hugh Corbett.’

‘Wager accepted.’

‘On second thoughts,’ Chanson came back, ‘two silver pieces.’

Ranulf shrugged in agreement. Chanson, full of righteous anger, disappeared through the doorway of the Golden Fleece. Ranulf, ignoring Peddlicott’s cry for more salty bacon and a dish of water, stood bemused. Chanson knew everything about horses but his fear of the fairer sex made him quite hopeless with women and they were as frightened of him.

‘I know what he’s going to do,’ Ranulf murmured. ‘He’s going to sing. They’ll hear a few notes and that tavern will empty as if the rushes have caught alight.’

He was about to walk across and have words with Peddlicott when, to his amazement, the tavern door swung open: out sauntered Chanson holding a young, red-haired woman by the hand. They walked across the cobbles like a love swain and his doxy. The girl had a pretty, cheeky face, snub nose and an insolent mouth. She looked at Ranulf from head to toe.

‘Well, yes, I know you. What’s this?’ She let go of Chanson’s hand and rubbed her arms. ‘It’s cold, I’ve got jobs to do. You promised me a piece of silver.’

Ranulf looked at Chanson’s triumphant smile, sighed, opened his wallet and handed across a piece. The wench grabbed it, giggled and fled back to the tavern.

‘And the other piece?’ Chanson demanded. ‘I’m also tired of standing here.’

Ranulf reluctantly tossed it across.

‘You should thank yourself,’ Chanson smiled. ‘Remember what you told me about the girl Johanna? No country wench can resist a piece of silver.’

‘What did you do?’ Ranulf demanded.

‘I went into the tavern and called Adela. She sauntered over, pert as a robin. “You’re Adela?” I asked. “Why?” she replied. “There’s someone out there who wants to give you a silver piece.” ’ Chanson shrugged. ‘She almost pushed me out of the door.’

‘Of course.’ Ranulf closed his eyes. ‘That’s how the Mummer’s Man might have done it. He wouldn’t approach her. He’d just call out, “Elizabeth Wheelwright, Johanna Samler, I have good fortune for you!” ’ Ranulf opened his eyes and clapped Chanson on the shoulder. ‘He’d promise to leave a piece in a certain place and so lure them to their deaths. Can’t you see that, Chanson?’

‘I’m the one who proved it.’

‘If I told any girl in this town,’ Ranulf declared, ‘how there’s a silver piece lying beneath Devil’s Oak, specially for them, they’d laugh, they’d be intrigued, but they’d also be curious.’

‘And wouldn’t tell anyone else.’

‘No, of course they wouldn’t,’ Ranulf murmured. ‘In a town like Melford people would kill for a piece of silver. And that’s the truth of it!’

The church of St Edmund’s lay in darkness. Only a red sanctuary lamp glowed, a small pool of light against the encroaching night. The carved face of the crucified Christ stared down whilst those of His mother and St John gazed up in anguish. The mist had seeped through crevices in the windows, under the door, slipping like steam into the church, turning the paving stones ice-cold. Mice scampered in the transept searching for morsels of food or pieces of candle wax. No one was there to witness the anguish and agony of Curate Bellen as he knelt on the prie-dieu in the chancery chapel. He had taken his robe off, his hose, his boots. He knelt in the cold as an act of mortification. He gazed up at the statue of the martyred King of East Anglia. Bellen’s hands were clenched so tight his knuckles hurt. He prayed for protection, wisdom and forgiveness.

‘So many sins,’ he murmured. Evil he’d never imagined! Ordained by the Bishop of Norwich, Curate Robert Bellen was unused to the wickedness and wiles of this world. He only coped by keeping his eyes firmly on the next. He, too, was sure Satan had come to Melford, and wasn’t he as guilty as the rest?

Bellen sighed and, muttering under his breath, got to his feet. He took off his shift and stretched out on the cold paving stones. Better this, he thought, than the freezing shores by the lakes of Hell. What could he do except pray and atone? The chill caught his hot body and he shivered, quivering as his mind fought against the creeping discomfort. He clutched his Ave beads more tightly. He would pray, do penance then penance again. Perhaps St Edmund, patron of this church, would ask God to send an angel to comfort him. But were there angels? Was God interested in him?