Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘And secondly?’ Ranulf asked.

‘That there’s a second killer in Melford. Someone who now knows Sir Roger was innocent either because they found evidence or, more simply, because these murders have begun again. This man, or woman, realises what a heinous miscarriage of justice has been committed and is determined to avenge Sir Roger’s death. Molkyn and Thorkle die and Sir Louis is attacked.’ Corbett chewed the corner of his lip. ‘Yes, it must be an avenging angel, hence the warnings daubed on Sir Roger’s tombstone and at the gibbet.’

‘And who could this avenging angel be?’ Chanson asked.

‘Well, the list is endless. Perhaps the priests, they may have heard something in confession. Chapeleys’ son, Sir Maurice, eager to avenge his father’s name. Oh, God knows! It could have even been their wives.’

‘Their wives!’ Ranulf exclaimed.

‘I told you. I met them tonight. Believe me, Ranulf, if some assassin cut my throat, and the Lady Maeve showed as little grief as those two,’ he smiled, ‘I’d be tempted to come back and haunt her! I have never met widows like that. God forgive me, they were almost happy to have their husbands cold in their graves. I believe Ursula may have known Sir Roger more intimately than her husband would have liked. There is no doubt that Lucy, Thorkle’s wife, is dewy-eyed about the miller’s son. The one I would love to have questioned, and intend to do so, is young Margaret.’

‘Why?’

‘Why, Chanson, because I am suspicious. Somehow or other she knows a great deal. She was Molkyn’s daughter, a companion to Widow Walmer and she hated her father.’

‘So many theories,’ Ranulf whispered. ‘So many paths. Which one do we follow?’

‘I don’t know.’ The clerk spread his hands. ‘So many possibilities. Is the murderer of five years ago responsible for these last two young women’s deaths? Is he responsible for the killing of Molkyn, Thorkle, the attack on Tressilyian, those secret messages? Or are there two, perhaps even three, killers? Are the Jesses killer and the Mummer’s Man one and the same? How did this assassin, despite all our theories, entice his victims out to some desolate spot? Why was Walmer killed? What happened to Furrell? Were Blidscote, Deverell, Molkyn and Thorkle corrupted? If so, why and by whom?’

Corbett got to his feet, undid his jerkin, went across to the lavarium and splashed water over his face. He took a linen cloth and dried himself.

‘We should question Master Deverell but it will be as informative as talking to this bed post. I could go back to the mill and, of course, there are those two priests. Tomorrow, Chanson, Ranulf will come with me. You seek out Master Blidscote. Take him to the Guildhall. I want to know if there have been other reports about young women disappearing over the last ten years.’

‘And us?’ Ranulf asked.

‘We are going to the dawn Mass at St Edmund’s.’ Corbett looked down at the floor. ‘I was attacked tonight. I don’t see the logic behind that, or indeed what happened to Justice Tressilyian. Beneath the serene surface of this town seethe bloody passions and murderous urges. I need the Mass. I must take the sacrament.’

Ranulf watched his strange master.

‘In a matter of days,’ Corbett continued, ‘we celebrate All-Hallows Eve. They say the ghosts of the dead come back. When I was a boy, we used to light fires, a circle of bonfires around the village, to ward off the ghosts. Well, the ghosts have come back to Melford to haunt, to seek justice, perhaps even revenge. We not only deal with treasons of the living, Ranulf, but the treason of the ghosts. Old lies, deeply embedded, ancient sins quickened and festering. We should be careful as we walk. Perhaps that’s the last time I’ll journey around Melford under the cloak of darkness.’ He sat on the edge of the bed. ‘It’s best if we sleep. The morning will come soon enough.’

He bade his companions good night and ushered them out.

Ranulf led Chanson back to their own chamber at the end of the gallery overlooking the stable yard.

‘He’s in a sombre mood,’ the groom declared as they settled for the night.

‘He’s always in a sombre mood,’ Ranulf answered, sitting at the table, busily lighting more candles.

‘Aren’t you going to sleep?’

‘I have a letter to write,’ Ranulf declared proudly.

He opened one of the panniers and took out a sheet of vellum and laid it on the desk, then his portable writing-tray, quills, inkpot and pumice stone. Ranulf heard Chanson’s chatter but he wasn’t listening. He wanted to write to Alicia in that lonely convent in Wiltshire. This would be the sixth letter he had written and still he’d received no reply. Each occasion Ranulf found it more difficult. Was he writing because he missed her? Because he truly loved her? Or because he rejoiced in his new-found skills? He was now Master of the Cursive Script, the elegant phrase: Ranulf had a passion for scholarship. One day he would be a senior clerk in the Chancery of the Secret Seal.

He wrote the words: ‘My dearest Alicia,’ and then paused. Would he be a senior clerk? He smiled at his secret ambition: to take Holy Orders! And why not? He was a King’s man, wasn’t he? Time and again, old Edward at Westminster would take him aside, grasp him by the arm as if Ranulf was one of his boon companions. The King would share his sorrows and troubles; flatter Ranulf with praise and promises of things to come. It was the one part of Ranulf’s life he never shared with Corbett. Yet, sometimes, more frequently now than ever, Corbett would sit and stare at him. Was it mockery? Cynicism? Or sadness?

Ranulf sighed. He told Chanson to go to sleep and continued with his letter.

In his chamber Corbett lay on the bed, hands stretched out, staring up through the darkness at the embroidered tester. The wind rattled the shutters. Distant sounds of the tavern settling for the night drifted up. Images came and went: Maeve dressing for bed; little Edward, plump and pink, snoring softly in the cradle well away from window draughts; Uncle Morgan downstairs, busy baiting the servants. Corbett let these images go. He was standing under the Devil’s Oak in Falmer Lane. He was watching a young woman slip through the meadow to that copse of trees at the top of the hill. The Mummer’s Man or the Jesses killer would be waiting.

‘The bells!’ Corbett whispered to himself. ‘It wasn’t jesses. The Mummer’s Man wore a mask with bells on either side. So, who would do that? And why?’

Only a few streets away, Ysabeau, wife of Deverell the carpenter, was also concerned about the hideous murders which had taken place out in the countryside. She lay in bed staring into the darkness, straining her ears for sounds from downstairs. Since Sir Roger’s trial, nothing had been the same! Deverell, a surly man, had only grown more grim and withdrawn. He had never discussed his evidence but, when asked, would repeat it by rote like a chanteur telling a story. Had her husband told the truth? Why had he been so insistent he had seen Sir Roger that night? She could never understand Deverell’s unhappiness. He was a carpenter, a craftsman. He had done work as far as Ipswich. Merchants and burgesses visited his workshop. Why was he always sad? What did he have to hide?

Deverell had come to Melford some seven years ago. A travelling journeyman, he possessed skill with the hammer and chisel that had soon established him as a craftsman. He was definitely learned. He could read and write and, at times, betrayed a knowledge of Latin and French. On one occasion, in his cups, he had even discussed Parson Grimstone’s sermon on the body and blood of Christ. He was a good husband, loyal, faithful and, even when drunk, he never beat her. So why this great fear? And why now?