Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

Burghesh grinned. ‘No, no. Sir Roger was interested in magic: in those twilight areas where the light and dark are not so pronounced. He would sometimes talk about it in here.’

‘But Furrell’s evidence?’ Corbett demanded, steering the conversation on to firmer ground. ‘Here was a man prepared to go on oath that Sir Roger left Widow Walmer alive and well.’

‘He could have gone back,’ Blidscote replied.

‘But Furrell also hinted that he glimpsed others going down Gully Lane towards Widow Walmer’s cottage.’

‘Ah well.’ Blidscote grinned over the tankard. ‘How do we know it wasn’t Sir Roger returning? We have also got Deverell the carpenter’s evidence.’

‘And the jury?’ Corbett decided to change tack.

‘They were selected as usual by ballot here in the taproom.’

‘But, isn’t it strange, master bailiff, that the foreman and the deputy of that jury. .’ Corbett paused, ‘. . well, certainly Molkyn, was no friend of Sir Roger?’

‘What are you implying?’ Blidscote’s face turned ugly. ‘That I am guilty of embracery?’ The bailiff stumbled over the official term for the corruption of a jury. ‘The ballot was open and fair. Sir Roger had no friends, I’ve told you that. Moreover, I’m only the bailiff, not the justice. Sir Louis Tressilyian could have sent Sir Roger for trial before King’s bench in London.’

‘Yes, yes, he could have done.’ Corbett cradled the tankard. ‘I wondered about that.’

When Corbett had met the King at Westminster, he had asked the same question: Edward, who loved arguing about the subtleties of the law, had simply shaken his head.

‘I think Sir Louis,’ the King had replied, ‘tried to do that but I refused. It sets a precedent, Corbett. Can you imagine what would happen if every murder case was referred to Westminster? The courts would be as clogged as a wheel on a muddy day.’

‘Sir Hugh Corbett! Sir Hugh Corbett!’

The clerk turned. A royal messenger, his surcoat emblazoned with the snarling leopards of England, stood in the doorway, boots and spurs caked with dirt. He carried a wallet in one hand, his white wand of office in the other.

‘I am here!’ Corbett called out.

The man wearily made his way forward. He thrust the wallet into Corbett’s hand.

‘Messages from Westminster,’ he declared.

Sir Hugh looked at the man’s red-rimmed eyes. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Varley, sir.’

‘Well, Varley?’ Corbett then called across the taverner.

‘I’m to be away at first light,’ the messenger added warningly.

‘At this moment I have no reply to make,’ Corbett declared. ‘Master taverner, give this man a clean bed, something to eat and drink.’

‘All our beds are clean,’ the taverner replied, his square, red-whiskered face breaking into a grin. ‘But I know what you mean.’

He led the messenger off. Corbett broke the seals and undid the wallet. The first roll was a copy of Sir Roger’s trial which he had asked for before leaving Westminster. The second was from the Chancery of the Secret Seal, giving details of Sir Roger’s military service in Gascony and along the Scottish/Welsh march. Corbett demanded a candle and read this carefully. He grunted and thrust it back into the wallet. He stared across the taproom at Repton. The reeve lifted his head. Corbett flinched at the hostility in the narrow, close-set eyes. He glanced at Blidscote.

‘It’s time I walked with Master Repton. After all, he did start this dance.’

Blidscote eased himself up and sauntered across. Corbett waited. When he felt the presence of the man beside him, he glanced up.

‘Sit down, Master Repton,’ he offered. ‘Have some ale.’

The reeve pulled across a stool.

‘I drink with my friends.’ Close up Repton’s face was even more sour.

‘Do you now?’ Corbett drained his tankard. ‘And you were drinking here the night Widow Walmer was killed?’

‘That’s correct. I was here with my friends whilst that killer raped and choked the woman I loved.’

‘And did she love you?’

The reeve blinked. ‘I never had the chance to ask, clerk, did I? But, if she had responded, I would have met her at the church door to exchange vows.’

Corbett studied the reeve. His cote-hardie was of good cloth. The brown belt strapped around his narrow waist of good leather; his leggings of dark blue worsted; even the boots were the work of a craftsman. A prosperous man, Corbett concluded. He would act as reeve, steward of lands held by the town. He would also have his own holding: producing for the market as well as for the pot.

‘What’s the matter, clerk?’

‘I am wondering why you are so hostile. You’ve told your tale a thousand times. Surely, you can tell it once more?’

‘Fine, I’ll tell you my tale.’ The words came out as a snarl. ‘I was drinking here. I wanted to visit Widow Walmer. I asked Burghesh to accompany me.’

‘No, no, that’s not true, is it?’

‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Repton’s hand went to the knife in its sheath.

‘No, I am just saying you are rather forgetful. You were drinking here and you decided to visit Mistress Walmer. However, the taverner Matthew had announced how the widow was receiving another guest that night.’

The reeve swallowed hard. Corbett was aware of how quiet the taproom had fallen.

‘That’s my first question,’ Corbett smiled. ‘Why, in the late hours of the night, did you suddenly decide to visit a woman whom you knew was entertaining someone else? She would not have liked it and Sir Roger would have objected. A feisty man, Sir Roger. I don’t think he would have liked someone else a-calling?’

‘That’s why I took Burghesh.’

‘Ah,’ Corbett sighed. ‘You always take a companion when you visit a lady friend?’

The reeve grasped the corner of the table. ‘What are you implying?’

‘I am implying nothing, master reeve. I am trying to get to the truth of the matter. Had you visited Widow Walmer before? Well, had you?’

‘Yes, but that’s my business.’

‘Fair enough and had you asked someone to accompany you?’ Corbett leant closer. ‘Give me one occasion, name one companion.’

‘That night Sir Roger was there I needed-’

‘Did you really? But, surely, it was very late? Sir Roger may have left?’

‘I don’t know what you are implying.’ Repton leapt to his feet. In one swipe he drew his dagger from its sheath. He backed off and stood slightly crouching, legs apart.

You’ve fought before, Corbett thought: you’re a taproom brawler.

‘What’s this nosy clerk doing here?’ Repton glowered round the quiet taproom.

His question provoked a murmur of agreement.

‘Who do you think you are? Chapeleys was a murderer!’

A chorus of approval greeted his words.

‘He killed Widow Walmer and those other women. So he was hanged for it. Now his whelp sends whining letters to Westminster.’

‘Sit down, master reeve,’ Corbett ordered. ‘Put your knife away and sit down!’

‘Do you think I’ll do what you say, clerk?’ Repton raised the knife. ‘Or is that all you are good for? A long nose with a clacking tongue? This is Melford, not Westminster. You won’t be the first to be sent packing!’

Some of the other customers were now jeering.

‘Come on!’ Repton waved his hand.

‘I carry the King’s warrant.’

‘I carry the King’s warrant,’ Repton mimicked.

This provoked further guffaws of laughter. Corbett looked across at Ranulf, shook his head and got to his feet.

‘I want to talk to you, Repton, that’s all. I want the truth. The King wants the truth.’

‘I’ve told you the truth. You’re not in the Schools of Oxford now, clerk.’