Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘And God help any man, Sir Hugh, who disturbed his pleasure. That included me, his son and his daughter.’

‘I never went there.’ Margaret looked up, eyes blazing in her thin, white face. ‘I never went there. You know that, Mother.’

‘Hush now!’

For the first time since they had met Ursula seemed disconcerted, begging Lucy and Ralph with her eyes to assist with Margaret.

‘Why didn’t you go there?’ Corbett asked. ‘Come on, girl!’

‘I am not a girl.’ Margaret made no attempt to hide her hate. ‘I am a young woman. My courses have already started. I don’t like the mill.’ She paused briefly. ‘I’ve never liked the mill! Those grinding stones, the scampering of the mice, and that mere — even in summer it looks dank.’

‘My daughter is still upset,’ Ursula intervened quickly.

Corbett nearly replied she was the only one that was, but bit back the reply.

‘So,’ he continued, ‘we have Molkyn relaxing after his labours on a Saturday afternoon with a firkin of ale. Surely you became worried when he didn’t stagger into bed?’

‘Why should I object?’ Ursula smiled. ‘He stank like a pig and snored like a hog.’

‘Surely you’d send someone across to the mill to see all was well?’

‘He had a bed there. Why should I ask him to soil clean sheets?’

‘Did this drinking become worse after Sir Roger’s execution?’

‘No. For a while Molkyn seemed happy, if that was possible, that Sir Roger was gone.’

Just for a moment the woman blinked quickly, a slight quiver to the mouth. Corbett went cold. It was the way Ursula had pronounced Sir Roger’s name — not harshly, not dismissing him as a great killer. Corbett decided to change tack.

‘Mistress, did you ever meet Sir Roger?’

The laughter disappeared from her eyes.

‘Did you?’ Corbett insisted.

‘I — ’ she glanced quickly at Ralph — ‘I saw him sometimes in church.’ She shook her head. ‘Now and again in the town. He was someone I knew by sight.’

Again a lie, Corbett thought. More pieces of the puzzle; at least, he was making sense of it. Ursula was a hot-eyed woman, well favoured and comely. No wonder Sir Roger had been dispatched to the gallows. How many other men in Melford had he cuckolded, planting pairs of horns on their heads? A charming, sweet-tongued knight, Sir Roger could ride round the town and pay courtesy to any lady of his choice. They would be flattered. Perhaps open to seduction. Was that why Molkyn had decided on the verdict? Revenge against both Sir Roger and his wife who had cuckolded him?

Ursula got up and, without asking, took Corbett’s tankard and refilled it. She came back and in one look Corbett knew he had the truth. Despite her petty errand, the blush still tinged her cheeks.

‘Who empanelled the jury?’ Corbett asked.

‘Ask Blidscote,’ Lucy sneered. ‘Isn’t that the task of the chief bailiff?’

‘But he doesn’t choose them,’ Corbett insisted.

‘According to the law, it’s supposed to be done by lot.’

‘Is it now?’ Lucy asked sardonically. ‘All I know is that they gathered in the taproom of the Golden Fleece. The names of those on the electoral roll were inscribed on pieces of parchment. Twelve were drawn out. Molkyn and Thorkle first. Surely,’ Lucy added sweetly, ‘such a system cannot be corrupted?’

Ralph put his head in his hands and quietly snorted with laughter. Lucy was openly mocking Corbett.

Time and again the royal council had issued denunciations of the empanelling of juries, and their corrupt management. Such practices were a constant theme of strident petitions by the Commons. Corbett scratched the sweat on his neck. He certainly looked forward to his meeting with Sir Louis Tressilyian the following evening.

‘So, Molkyn was killed, his head sheared off and placed on a tray, which was pushed out on to the mere? He was a strong man?’

‘He was drunk as a sot.’ Ralph got to his feet. ‘Are you a numbskull, master clerk?’

Corbett gazed at him steadily.

‘The mill is some distance away. The dog only barks if someone approaches the house. I’ll take you there if you want.’

Corbett shook his head. ‘So, what do you think happened?’

‘Molkyn was lying like a pig on his bed,’ Ralph explained. ‘Sometime in the early hours the killer walked up the steps and entered the mill. He carried a sword, an axe, a cleaver. He sliced off my father’s head,’ he pointed to Lucy, ‘as she slices an onion. One swift blow. The head was put on a tray, the body thrust up into a chair, a tankard between his hands. The killer left. As he does, he takes the tray with Molkyn’s head on it and sends it floating across the mere. That’s where poor Peterkin later found it.’ The young man, hands on the table, pushed his face close to Corbett’s. ‘God forgive me, master clerk. I know what you are thinking. We do not grieve. Do you know why? Because we are not hypocrites! Molkyn was an oaf, quick with his fists or his cudgel. As for enemies, go down to Melford, knock on each door, particularly the bakers’. They’ll tell you about Molkyn’s false weights and measures, the dust and chalk he added to the flour. The way he short-changed farmers and fixed his prices. He wouldn’t give a cup of water to a dying man. I am pleased he’s dead. As far as I am concerned he can rot in Hell!’

The young man stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

‘Does he speak for you all?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes he does,’ Margaret replied swiftly and incisively. ‘He certainly speaks for me.’ She glared defiantly at her mother.

‘And you, Mistress?’

Ursula ran a finger along her lower lip. ‘Margaret,’ she commanded, ‘leave those, go upstairs! Make sure the warming pans are ready!’

The girl was about to refuse.

‘I said go!’

The young woman threw the knife down and flounced out as angrily as her brother.

‘They are not my children,’ Ursula explained.

‘I beg your pardon, Mistress?’

‘I am Molkyn’s second wife.’

‘His first wife died in childbirth?’

Lucy stifled a laugh. Corbett refused to look in her direction.

‘She fell.’ Ursula pointed to the stairs. ‘An unfortunate accident.’

‘Do you know, Mistress, I am tired.’ Corbett sipped from the tankard. ‘Of lies, of hidden laughter, of shadow games as if we are children. She didn’t fall, did she? There is a suspicion that she was pushed. Is that what you are saying?’

‘Molkyn was free with his fists. His first wife fell, bruised her face and broke her neck. Molkyn claimed he was working at the mill when it happened.’

‘But you don’t believe that, do you?’

‘No, sir, I don’t. He was a bully: he would have done the same to me. I fought back. I told him that I would stand on the market cross and proclaim what he really was and — I’ll be honest — if he ever hit me, one night I’d slip across to that mill and slit his drunken throat. But,’ she tossed back her hair, ‘before you ask, I didn’t. Molkyn may have been a big man but he had the mind and belly of a greedy child. Of course, I don’t grieve for him. As for bed sport,’ she hid a giggle behind her hand, ‘I’d have a better game with that whey-faced curate of Parson Grimstone’s.’

‘And is that the view of Thorkle’s widow?’ Corbett asked.

Lucy sliced a vegetable, then wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

‘If Molkyn was a roaring dog,’ she replied, ‘Thorkle was a mouse of a man. And, as for his death, come down to my farm, master clerk. Or even better, ask young Ralph. He was in my house when Thorkle was killed, sitting in the kitchen, talking to me and my children. I don’t know why Thorkle died. Like a little mouse he kept his mouth shut. He always was in fear of Molkyn.’