Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘There was more found.’ Blidscote opened his wallet and handed across a scrap of parchment squeezed into a ball. ‘Apparently Deverell held that. It was found near his corpse.’

Corbett undid the parchment: it was yellowing and dirty, tattered at the edges. The scrawled words were like letters from a child’s horn book.

‘It’s a quotation,’ Corbett murmured. ‘From the commandments.’ He smiled at Ranulf. ‘We seem to be having many of these. Have you read it, Master Blidscote?’

‘Aye, Sir Hugh.’

‘What does it say?’ Sir Maurice demanded.

‘ “Thou shalt not bear false testimony.”

‘He didn’t.’ Deverell’s wife half rose from the chair, her face a mask of fury. ‘He didn’t bear false testimony.’

Her neighbour coaxed her back, patting her gently on the shoulder.

‘There’s a true mystery,’ Blidscote continued, ‘about Deverell’s death.’

‘Explain!’

‘Well, Sir Hugh, the shutters were still barred, all the doors to this house were locked. So how was Deverell murdered? How did the killer manage to pass this message to the victim?’

Corbett stared at the pasty-faced bailiff. It was still early morning yet Blidscote had been drinking even though he hadn’t recovered from the previous night’s bout. You are frightened, Corbett thought: at the appropriate time I’ll squeeze your ear like a physician would a boil and see what pus comes out.

‘I mean, I had to force the door,’ Blidscote stammered.

Corbett looked behind him and saw the lock buckled. He walked across, opened the door and stood in the porch. On either side rose plaster walls. He glimpsed the Judas squint high on the right side.

‘Apparently Deverell refurbished this door,’ Blidscote explained. ‘It took a battering ram to force it.’

‘And there’s no other open entrance to the house?’ Corbett demanded, aware of the others joining him in the porch.

‘I tell you, Sir Hugh,’ the bailiff whined, ‘the back door and the shutters were all locked. The neighbour became concerned. She peered through a crack in one of the shutters and saw the body lying on the floor. She pounded and yelled. Eventually Ysabeau unlocked the door and the alarm was raised.’

‘So, why did you have to force it?’ Corbett asked.

‘Deverell’s wife was in a frightful state. She claimed the killer would come back for her. She relocked the door. We shouted and we reasoned.’ He pointed to a half-burnt timber lying on the cobbled yard. ‘We had to force an entry.’

‘The killer could have used the Judas squint,’ Corbett reasoned. ‘Look, it’s a handspan across and the same deep. You could rest an arbalest against it. A crossbow bolt would take whoever stood on the other side full in the face.’

‘I know,’ Tressilyian replied. ‘But, according to Ysabeau, the knocking continued even after her husband was killed. She remembers that distinctly. She was in the bedchamber, heard the rapping on the door, the crash of her husband’s fall but the knocking continued.’

Corbett stood by the Judas squint. Try as he might, pretending to hold a crossbow in one hand, he couldn’t knock at the door: it was too far.

‘There would be another problem.’

Corbett peered through the Judas squint at Ranulf standing on the other side.

‘What’s that, Clerk of the Green Wax?’

‘Well,’ Ranulf’s voice sounded hollow, ‘Deverell was killed in the dead of night. It would be dark. How would you know when I appeared at the Judas squint? That’s why these spyholes exist, isn’t it? You’d only be allowed to loose one bolt and Deverell would be warned.’

Corbett asked them all to go back inside. He had the front door closed and stood in the porch. He knocked on the door. At the same time he pretended to hold a crossbow aimed at the Judas squint. Now he couldn’t reach that.

‘I can’t do both at once,’ he murmured.

He then told Ranulf to act the part of Deverell but this only complicated matters. He never knew when the soft-shoed Ranulf stood at the Judas squint. It would be even harder at night, Corbett confessed to himself. He opened the door and walked back into the kitchen. Were there two killers? he wondered. One who knocked at the door, the other positioned at the Judas squint, crossbow primed? But how would the killer know when Deverell approached?

‘You are sure,’ Corbett demanded of Blidscote, ‘that the knocking continued even as Deverell was killed?’

‘That’s what Ysabeau said.’

Corbett picked up the crumpled piece of parchment and turned it over. He noted the faint streaks of blood.

‘That’s Deverell’s?’

‘Oh yes,’ Blidscote replied.

Corbett walked back to the front door and stared out. The curious still thronged at the mouth of the alleyway. From where he stood Corbett could hear the hustle and bustle of the marketplace. Old Mother Crauford was standing in the front of the crowd, one hand resting on her stick, the other on the arm of the lank-haired, empty-faced, young man.

Peterkin, Corbett thought, the one who had found Molkyn’s head floating on the mere. The old woman raised her cane in greeting. Corbett was about to reply with a wave, then closed his eyes and laughed.

‘Master?’ Ranulf was standing behind him.

‘What I want, Ranulf, is a long piece of fire wood, a cloth and a small cup of wine.’

He followed his bemused companion back to the kitchen. Ranulf searched around and brought a long piece of kindling, a wet rag from the buttery and a pewter cup half-full of ale.

‘I couldn’t find a wine cask,’ Ranulf apologised.

‘Sir Hugh?’ Tressilyian, sitting on a bench near the fireside, got up.

‘Please sit here and see what happens,’ Corbett invited him. ‘Ranulf, you pretend to be the carpenter. When I knock on the door, do what you think Deverell did last night. Don’t flinch or delay.’

Ranulf agreed. Corbett went outside, pulling the door closed. He put the cup of ale down, rolled the wet cloth in a ball and pushed it down the Judas squint as far as he could. He then grasped the piece of kindling in one hand, the cup of ale in the other. He stood by the spyhole and used the stick to rap on the front door. He heard a movement within followed by Ranulf’s exclamation. The piece of rag was removed and, as it was, Corbett threw the contents of the cup into the spyhole. Ranulf’s curse was long and colourful.

‘That’s how it was done,’ Corbett declared, coming back into the kitchen. ‘There weren’t two killers, just one. He put that piece of parchment into the spyhole and brought the primed crossbow up to rest on the ledge, the bolt aimed to hit anyone who stood on the other side. It was dark, the killer knew about Deverell’s fears so he kept tapping insistently on the door with a stick or a cane. He wouldn’t hear him come to the spyhole but he’d hear and see the parchment being removed. Once it was, he let slip the catch and the crossbow bolt took Deverell full in the face.’

‘Is that possible?’ Blidscote stammered.

‘It’s logical,’ Corbett replied. ‘And very easy. Imagine Deverell being frightened. He hears a constant rapping at the door. He thinks he’s safe. Deverell knew his own house: you can’t knock on the door and stare through the Judas squint at the same time. He doesn’t realise the killer is using a cane. He goes to the spyhole to stare out but becomes confused. His view is blocked by that ball of parchment. He naturally pulls it out: that’s the sign for the killer. He sees a pale reflection of light from the kitchen, knows that Deverell is standing there, the crossbow bolt is primed. One simple touch of his finger and the bolt is sent speeding through. Deverell wouldn’t have known what was happening. He is still curious about the piece of parchment. Perhaps he thinks it’s a message. He has been drinking, his wits are dull, he doesn’t move away. In a few heartbeats he’s dead, staggering to collapse on the kitchen floor. The crumpled piece of parchment rolls out of his fingers. He didn’t even have time to read it.’