Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘He could have run away.’

‘Nonsense!’ Corbett glared at Curate Robert. ‘God knows Sorrel loves him and, undoubtedly, he loved her. She believes that he has been murdered and I accept that. Let’s go back to Molkyn the miller.’ Corbett sat down on one of the chests. ‘Do you remember those puzzles we used to play as children? Jumbled words which carry a message? Or pieces which, rearranged, form a picture of a knight on a horse or a maid in a castle? My mother, God rest her, always taught me to look for one particular word or piece, that was the key.’

He rubbed his boot against the shiny wooden floor and gazed under his eyebrows at Ranulf, who had his head down, trying to stifle a laugh. Whenever old Master Long Face indulged in whimsy, it was a sign that matters were becoming dangerous. The Clerk of the Green Wax wondered what curious dealings were forming in his master’s teeming, busy mind.

‘And Molkyn the miller is such a piece?’ Curate Robert asked.

‘Very good, sir! Very good indeed!’ Corbett breathed. ‘Molkyn the miller — an oaf, a wife-beater, a bullyboy.’

‘That’s no way to speak of the dead!’ Parson Grimstone snorted.

‘Very true, sir. But that’s not what I say, that’s his family’s opinion. I visited the mill last night. A less grieving group of people couldn’t be found, especially his young daughter, pretty Margaret. How old is she — eighteen, nineteen summers? Did she ever come and ask to be shriven?’

‘Robert spends more time than I do in the shriving pew.’

‘And I am bound by the seal of confession.’

‘So you are, so you are.’ Corbett crossed one leg over the other and played with the rowel of his spur. ‘And her father, Molkyn the miller? A man who feared neither God nor man.’

‘We’ve told you about him.’

‘And I am asking you again, on your loyalty to the King. Did Molkyn the miller ever come here and speak to you about matters not covered by the seal of confession? Curate Robert, God knows you are an honest priest and your face is like an open book.’

‘Aye, he came one afternoon, about five years ago, around the same time Sir Roger Chapeleys was arrested. He knocked at the door of the priest’s house and said he wished to see the Bible.’

‘The Bible!’ Ranulf exclaimed.

‘Yes, he asked about certain verses from Leviticus. I was surprised but he was so insistent. Now Molkyn could read but not Latin. It was about ten verses in all. I can’t remember the actual chapter but it was the Mosaic prescription about a man not sleeping with his brother’s wife, animals, you know.’ Curate Robert waved his hand. ‘I went through, translating the verses for him. Molkyn listened very carefully then spun on his heel and walked out.’

‘And why do you think he was so interested in Leviticus?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Didn’t you ever wonder why a miller was so curious about obscure verses from the Old Testament?’

‘Sir Hugh,’ the curate replied, ‘if you knew how many odd requests are made of us. . But, at the time, yes.’

‘Well, here’s a strange thing. .’ Corbett got to his feet and walked to the door leading out to the garden. ‘We have a miller,’ he continued, ‘who couldn’t give a fig about church. However, about the same time he became foreman of a jury which would send a man to the gallows, he became very curious about obscure verses from Leviticus. Now, wouldn’t you say, sirs,’ Corbett spoke over his shoulder, ‘that the miller knew what God’s teaching was? Good Lord, the humblest peasant in the kingdom, unlettered and unschooled, knows you don’t sleep with your brother’s wife or his sheep or goat. So why should Molkyn make his way up here and ask such a question?’ He turned and stared.

Grimstone was still shaking. Curate Robert’s face was ashen. Burghesh stood mouth gaping.

‘We could,’ Corbett whirled his fingers, ‘turn this round and round like a spinning top. I wager if I went down to the Golden Fleece, no one would recall Molkyn talking about scripture.’

‘What are you implying?’ Parson Grimstone demanded querulously. ‘Sir Hugh, you go up and down like a hare caught in the garden.’

‘This is my theory,’ Corbett replied, ‘and I have yet to reflect on it. I think Molkyn the miller was threatened. Someone brought verses from the Book of Leviticus to his attention. Molkyn was frightened. A surly man, he wouldn’t have given a pennyworth of flour for what people thought, but this was different. So he comes up to this church. Molkyn’s no dullard. He doesn’t give the actual chapter and verse but a whole collection of verses which he asks Curate Robert to translate.’

‘And in that passage?’ Ranulf asked.

‘In that passage,’ Corbett replied, ‘was a warning: that’s what disturbed Molkyn. It’s like me leaving a quotation from Scripture on the table beside Curate Robert’s bed: Matthew’s Gospel, Chapter thirteen, Verse five. You’d be intrigued, wouldn’t you?’

Curate Robert nodded.

‘And that’s interesting.’ Corbett smiled. He emphasised the points with his fingers. ‘Who would warn Molkyn the miller? Why should they warn him? And how many people know the Book of Leviticus?’

‘You are not accusing the priests, are you?’ Burghesh’s face flushed.

‘Hush, man,’ Corbett remarked. ‘Even if I was, it wouldn’t make them murderers.’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ Burghesh replied hotly. ‘I am tutored and schooled in the Bible. So are many people in Melford: Sorrel can read; Deverell the carpenter; Master Matthew the taverner-’

‘All I am saying,’ Corbett interrupted, ‘is that someone said something to Molkyn which disturbed him. It doesn’t make that person a murderer but it is interesting.’

‘I am confused.’ Parson Grimstone rested his head in his hands. ‘Sir Hugh, are there any other questions? I don’t feel well.’ He got to his feet. ‘Master Burghesh, if you could look after our visitors. . Robert?’

And, without waiting for an answer, the priest, helped by the curate, left the sacristy.

‘Is Parson Grimstone a well man?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Oh, he’s well enough,’ Burghesh replied, picking up the Book of the Dead. He put it back in the chest and secured the lock. ‘He’s a little older than me, past his fifty-fifth summer, and sometimes his mind becomes forgetful.’

‘He drinks, doesn’t he? Quite heavily?’

Burghesh got to his feet and came back.

‘Yes, master clerk, he drinks. He’s a priest, he’s lonely, he’s made mistakes, he becomes confused. But, he has no woman, he does not dip his fingers into the poor box. He goes out at night to anoint the dying. Parson Grimstone tries to be a good pastor but, yes, he drinks. In his youth he was a very fine priest.’ Burghesh’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘A very scholarly man. He could have become an archdeacon, even a bishop. He has a fine house but he lives sparsely as a soldier. His one weakness is the claret, a petty foible; his parishioners allow it.’

‘Do you know him well?’ Corbett asked.

‘Hasn’t anyone told you?’ Burghesh laughed. ‘We are half-brothers. Different names but the same blood.’ He grimaced. ‘I know there’s no likeness between us. We grew up here — well, not in Melford itself, but in a farm nearby. Our father married twice. John’s mother died in childbirth. We were both sent to school in Ipswich. I always wanted to be a stonemason. I remember when they finished part of this church. I used to come up here and help the builders until a soldier’s life beckoned. I became a master bowman, a sergeant-at-arms. I helped myself to plunder, gave my money to the Lombards and, when I’d seen enough of fighting, came back here.’