Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘Yes, Ranulf, I do. It makes sense. The killer knew that Sir Roger would leave Widow Walmer. The goodwoman probably insisted that he not spend the night there. So the killer goes down, he murders Widow Walmer, and finds, by good luck, Chapeleys’ knife and sheath which had been given as a gift. Those are left on the floor and he flees into the night. Repton goes down once and, having fortified himself with ale and the company of Master Burghesh, returns. The murder is known and the hunt is on. What happens next is what you’d expect. They visit the local justice and warrants are sworn out. Thockton Hall is searched where more incriminating evidence is found.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Chanson, who had been carefully following the argument, spoke up. ‘What was a manor lord doing with gewgaws from wenches of the town?’

‘If, my dear horseman, our noble Clerk of the Green Wax is correct, then I believe the killer sent these to Sir Roger, who mistakenly thought they were keepsakes of some woman he had tumbled. It’s like young Adela in the taproom below sending me a ring or a brooch-’

‘Lady Maeve would have your head!’ Ranulf broke in.

‘Yes, yes, she would,’ Corbett smiled. ‘But if I was Sir Roger, I wouldn’t want to throw them away. I’d toss them into my coffer and not give them a second thought, which is what happened. Now, it’s Sir Roger we must concentrate on.’ Corbett scratched the back of his head. ‘He didn’t help his case one whit. He was disliked and he was blunt but three things he stoutly denied: the murder of the young women, the slaying of Widow Walmer and Deverell the carpenter’s evidence.’

‘We should have visited him first,’ Ranulf declared.

‘He’ll not change his story. This is not Repton the reeve. Deverell went on oath; he swore a man’s life away. If he changes his story now he’ll hang tomorrow and he knows that. I suspect that’s why he wasn’t in the taproom tonight.’

‘He’s hiding from us?’

‘As well as from the real killer. I’ll come to him in a moment.’

‘So,’ Ranulf spoke up, ‘we have the allegations laid and Sir Roger under arrest in the crypt. Justice Tressilyian sweeps into Melford, takes his seat at the Guildhall. Popular feeling is running high against the imprisoned knight and a jury is empanelled.’

Corbett tapped the roll of the court with the toe of his boot. ‘The record will give us the other jurors’ names. Tressilyian is under orders to gather them together for me to question. However, I do think it’s a remarkable coincidence that the jury was led by a man who hated Sir Roger.’

‘Even so,’ Ranulf declared, ‘the evidence against the knight was impressive.’

‘Except in one matter: the garrotte — that was never found. But you are right, Ranulf, the evidence is impressive and the trial takes its course. Justice Tressilyian tries to have the matter referred to King’s Bench at Westminster but this is refused. Chapeleys is found guilty. There’s only one sentence the justice can pass, though, once again, letters are sent to Westminster, this time pleading for a pardon. The King, advised by his own Chief Justice, refuses to grant a pardon and Sir Roger is hanged.’ Corbett paused. ‘My feet are killing me,’ he groaned. He eased his boots off and threw them into a corner. ‘Melford goes back to its peaceful existence. But,’ Corbett paused, ‘that doesn’t mean the murders cease. I am not too sure how many other women, the kin of wandering folk, this assassin has killed.’

‘And don’t forget Furrell the poacher.’

‘No, we mustn’t forget him. All the evidence indicates Furrell saw something, knew more than he should have done. He would have to be silenced. I believe Sorrel. Furrell’s cold in his grave, God only knows where that is. Sorrel knows this countryside like the palm of her hand but, there again, her husband’s corpse may lie at the bottom of the Swaile, weights and stones attached to its legs. Anyway, back to Melford. In appearances, all is quiet. The murders have been avenged, the King’s justice carried out, then the murders begin again.’

‘Why?’ Chanson asked. ‘That, Master, doesn’t make sense.’ He smiled. ‘It’s not logical.’ He quoted Corbett’s oft-repeated phrase.

‘What do you know about logic?’ Ranulf asked crossly.

‘About as much as you know about horses!’

‘Hush now! Chanson has made a good point. There were certainly no killings amongst the townswomen for five years. There must be reasons for that. First, it had to be seen that Chapeleys was responsible. Secondly, we must understand the soul of the killer. Here is a man who knows he does wrong but, like a dog returning to its vomit, cannot restrain himself. Over the years his frustration grows. He walks the lanes and streets of Melford and sees this pretty face, a soft neck, well-turned ankles. He lusts in secret. Eventually the demons return. And, finally. .’ Corbett stared across the chamber.

‘Yes, Master?’

‘We have hunted killers, Ranulf, those who plot murder, the taking of lives. One trait of these children of Cain always fascinates me: their overweening arrogance. They are like pompous scholars in the Halls of Oxford. They think they are different from anyone else, more intelligent, more cunning. They enjoy the game, they truly believe they cannot be caught. In a sense, the killer is mocking Melford, ridiculing the townspeople. “Look,” he is saying, “I killed before and I escaped. Now I’ll kill again and what can you do?”

‘Of course, we could be wrong,’ Ranulf said. ‘There is the possibility that Sir Roger was guilty and someone is now copying these murders.’

‘True,’ Corbett smiled. ‘But logic indicates the same killer, using the same method. Young Elizabeth, the wheelwright’s daughter, a lovely, young woman, is teased and enticed by the Mummer’s Man. Maybe he’s already tested her and she’s taken the bait. Now she goes out to her secret place somewhere near Devil’s Oak. The first time she collected a piece of silver but the second time her killer is waiting: it was money well spent for the enjoyment he gets.’

‘And the other murders? Molkyn and Thorkle?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Ah yes, that precious pair. Let’s discuss them as well as Blidscote and Deverell the carpenter. Let us say, for sake of argument, that all four were corrupted. How could that be done?’

‘Money!’ Chanson spoke so loudly Ranulf jumped.

‘I’d like to agree,’ Corbett replied. ‘But we are no longer talking about young women. These are wealthy, responsible burgesses of Melford. They would have to be bribed heavily to participate in corruption which would lead to an innocent man’s execution. They would also know that if they were ever discovered, the most gruesome death awaited them.’

‘Blackmail?’ Ranulf queried.

‘That would seem the most logical explanation. But, there again, who would know so much to put the fear of God in all four? We must also remember they were halfway down the Judas path: they disliked Sir Roger and so were receptive to any approach.’

‘That means they must have known the killer?’ Ranulf rubbed his hands, enjoying himself. He loved to follow his master’s tortuous mind. It reminded him of a hunting dog snaking and curling amongst the bushes, refusing to give up the scent, determined to track down its quarry. ‘Perhaps,’ he suggested, ‘we should collect Master Blidscote and Deverell and cart them off to London.’

‘I doubt it.’ Corbett loosened the cords on the neck of his shirt. ‘The most they would tell us is that they were corrupted. The killer, the blackmailer, probably approached his victims in a silent, secretive way.’ He sighed. ‘Now, as for the killer of Molkyn and Thorkle, we have two choices. First, the Mummer’s Man could have silenced them. Perhaps both were having qualms of conscience, feelings of guilt, although there is no evidence of that. Indeed, the little I know of Molkyn, it’s highly unlikely.’