Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘You’ve come to talk about Molkyn?’

Corbett chewed the bread carefully. He felt this woman was quietly mocking him.

‘I haven’t really come about Molkyn. More his killer. I’ve passed the scaffold at the crossroads. Before I leave I want to see his murderer dangle there.’

‘And my husband’s?’

‘Yes, Mistress. I think the killer of both your husbands is one and the same!’

‘What makes you say that?’ Ursula demanded.

‘Here we have,’ Corbett now glanced at her, ‘two noble burgesses in the town of Melford: a prosperous miller and an equally prosperous yeoman farmer. Someone cut Molkyn’s head off, put it on a tray and sent it floating across the mere. The same killer, later in the week, went into Thorkle’s threshing shed, took a flail and beat your husband’s brains out.’

‘An evil man.’ Lucy’s face had a stubborn look on it.

‘Who said it was a man?’ Corbett demanded. ‘In Wales I have seen a woman take a soldier’s head with a shearing knife.’

Lucy looked at the one she was holding and put it down on the table.

‘And a flail can be used by anyone.’ Corbett shrugged. ‘A powerful weapon. Now,’ he continued, ‘why should someone want to kill your husbands? They belonged to the same parish, their wives are related but they’ve got more in common than that, haven’t they? Molkyn was a foreman, and Thorkle his deputy, of the jury which convicted Sir Roger Chapeleys of horrid murders. Because of their verdict, one of the King’s knights was executed on the common gallows.’

‘And rightly so.’ Ralph slammed his tankard down. ‘I was in my fifteenth year. I attended the trial. Sir Roger was a drunkard and a lecher. He had the blood of those young women on his hands.’

‘You are sure of that?’ Corbett asked.

‘We were all sure of it,’ Ursula coolly replied. She glanced quickly at Lucy. ‘Molkyn and Thorkle often discussed it. Never once had they any doubts about his guilt.’

‘Now, there’s two brave men,’ Corbett retorted. ‘They see a knight hang-’

‘What difference if he was a knight?’ Ralph interrupted. ‘That’s what knights do, isn’t it, kill? Just because they are lords of the soil doesn’t make them special.’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ Corbett agreed. ‘But Chapeleys was a King’s knight. He’d sworn an oath to uphold the law and he died protesting his innocence. Strange that your father and Thorkle never wavered in their decision.’

‘The evidence was there.’ Lucy picked up the paring knife.

Corbett noticed how the young woman Margaret hardly looked at him but kept her pallid face averted as if she found his presence distasteful.

‘What evidence?’ Corbett insisted. ‘Why were they so convinced Sir Roger was a murderer?’

‘He visited Widow Walmer on the night she died. He was seen by Deverell the carpenter, fleeing along Gully Lane. His house was searched, a bracelet from one of the girls was found amongst his possessions. He was well known for his lecherous ways.’

‘With whom?’ Corbett asked.

‘Widow Walmer for one.’

‘But the women in the town?’ Corbett queried. ‘Did any come forward and claim he had accosted them?’

‘He was well known amongst the chambermaids and slatterns of his manor.’

‘True,’ Corbett agreed, ‘but that’s not what I asked you. Why should a manor lord, with maids of his own to chase, attack, ravish and slay young women from the town?’

‘Perhaps it was the slaying he liked?’ Ralph declared sourly.

‘Then why the widow woman? Sir Roger had declared in the taproom of the Golden Fleece how he was going down to see Mistress Walmer. Why should he proclaim that he was going to slay someone? What I’m saying,’ Corbett continued, ‘is that the evidence against Sir Roger was not final and complete.’

‘But it was.’ Lucy rubbed the bone handle of the knife between her fingers. ‘Master clerk, you must understand women of this town have been killed. Sir Roger was seen near Walmer’s cottage. When his house was searched, belongings of the dead women were found, not to mention his knife and sheath left in Widow Walmer’s cottage.’

Corbett stared down at the table, he had forgotten that.

‘I have my doubts,’ he declared. ‘Yet you are certain neither Molkyn nor Thorkle ever raised a question about anything amiss?’

‘You have your answer,’ Lucy smiled insolently.

She thought Corbett was going to look away but he caught her sly-eyed glance at young Ralph, mouth slightly open, tongue between her teeth. You are lecherous, Corbett concluded. Something was very wrong here. These were not two widows mourning their husbands. The same went for Ralph and his sister. They were conspirators, pretending to be sad but secretly rejoicing. Was there a relationship between the saucy-eyed Lucy and this young miller? And why wouldn’t Margaret look up, catch his eye? She sat silent as a deaf mute, cutting the vegetables like a dream-walker, almost unaware of what she was doing. On a few occasions Corbett had done business in towns like Melford. He had warned Ranulf and Chanson what to expect: tangled relationships, secret fears, lusts, grudges and grievances. These could abruptly manifest themselves in a lunging dagger or hacking axe.

‘Are you tired, Sir Hugh?’

Ursula’s mocking coolness rubbed salt into the wound. He felt as if he was knocking at a door knowing full well that those inside heard but refused to answer. He pushed the tankard away. He wanted to be blunt, tell them what he thought but he sensed a trap. They were not grieving, yet that was their business. If he challenged them they would only lie. Were they the killers? It wouldn’t be the first time the demon Cain entered a family. And the same went for Lucy, sitting smug at the end of the table as if savouring some secret joke. Had she gone into that threshing barn, picked up the flail and killed her husband so she could lie with Molkyn’s son? He pulled back the tankard.

‘I am not tired,’ he replied, ‘just gathering my thoughts.’

‘I am busy,’ Ralph said.

Corbett undid his wallet and took out the royal warrant displaying the King’s Seal. He was wary of this young man whose resentment was so tangible. He was acting the role of the busy, tired miller but his surly looks were as much a threat as his dog which had come snarling out of the darkness.

‘I’m also busy,’ Corbett said softly. ‘The King is busy. You, sir, will sit here, or anywhere I choose, to answer my questions.’

‘We do not wish to give offence.’ Ursula played with the tendrils of her blonde hair. ‘But, Sir Hugh, you come here and ask about a jury which sat five years ago. They only returned the verdict. Sir Louis Tressilyian passed sentence.’

‘I will ask him in due time,’ Corbett retorted. ‘Five years is a long time, but a few days a mere heartbeat, eh? Your husband Molkyn was a good miller, rich and prosperous?’ He gestured round the kitchen. ‘What do you have in the house? A parlour, store-rooms, a writing office and bedchambers above stairs?’

‘Aye, and a bed as soft as a feather down.’

‘And were you lying there,’ Corbett asked, ‘the night your husband was so barbarously killed?’

‘Molkyn liked his ale,’ came the tart reply. ‘On a Saturday afternoon, he closed the mill down. In spring and summer he played quoits or would go jousting on the Swaile, a little hunting with the dog or cockfighting down at the pit behind the Golden Fleece.’

‘And in autumn and winter?’

‘He’d take a small barrel of ale, sit in the mill amongst his wealth and, quite honestly, sir, drink himself into such a stupor he’d piss himself.’

Corbett flinched at the coarseness.