Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

Sir Maurice clapped his hand gently. ‘Well done, Sir Hugh, but who is the killer and why?’

‘I don’t know who but I do know why. Deverell gave evidence at your father’s trial, how he saw Sir Roger fleeing along Gully Lane on the night Widow Walmer was killed. Sir Louis, I truly believe that was a lie and an innocent man was executed.’

‘So soon?’ Sir Maurice’s face had paled. ‘You have reached that conclusion so soon?’

‘Sir Maurice, you don’t have to be a scholar of great wit or learning: Molkyn and Thorkle have been murdered, now Deverell.’

‘Why?’ Sir Maurice asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied, ‘whether it’s to punish them or to close their mouths for ever. What we have is a continuation of the horrid murders of young women and now the grisly deaths of some of those who played a prominent part in your father’s trial.’ Corbett rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t know whether we are dealing with one killer or two.’

‘And there was the attack on me,’ Tressilyian said sharply.

‘Yes, Sir Louis, there was.’ Corbett slapped Blidscote on the shoulder. ‘If I were you, master bailiff, I’d walk most warily at night. Sir Louis, you have the other jurymen?’

‘I told them to meet in the taproom of the Golden Fleece. There should be ten but only five remain. In the last few years the others have died.’ His face broke into a cold smile. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Sir Hugh, apart from Molkyn and Thorkle, they died of natural causes.’

Blidscote was now moving from foot to foot, nervously clasping at his groin.

‘Am I in danger, Sir Hugh? I did nothing wrong!’

Corbett went across. ‘Of wetting yourself, Master Blidscote,’ he whispered into his ear. ‘For all our sakes, if you wish to relieve yourself, go!’

Blidscote hurried down the passageway. Corbett wondered if he should question the bailiff now, but what proof of corruption or complicity did he have? Blidscote would deny any wrongdoing. He had to or he’d hang.

The clerk went and squatted down beside Ysabeau. She seemed more composed now, no longer talking to herself. She lifted her eyes and smiled slyly at him. Corbett was chilled by the look. The woman’s wits were certainly disturbed. Corbett felt a pang of grief, of deep regret. Deverell had died because of the King’s clerk’s arrival in Melford. Justice had to be done but the price would be heavy.

‘I am sorry,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Mistress, I deeply regret your husband’s death. God be my witness, I did not want his blood on my hands!’

Ysabeau just glanced at the bailiff, who’d returned.

‘Tell me,’ Corbett looked up at the neighbour, ‘how many people knew about the Judas squint?’

‘Not many,’ the neighbour answered. ‘Deverell, God rest him, was a man who kept to himself but, there again, people did call to place orders.’

Corbett looked over his shoulder. ‘Master Blidscote, did you know about this?’

‘I did and I didn’t,’ came the defensive reply. ‘True, I visited here but I’d always forget it.’

‘Sir Louis? Sir Maurice?’

Both knights shook their heads.

‘Have there been any strangers at the house?’ Corbett asked.

Ysabeau’s gaze didn’t shift.

‘I glimpsed a friar,’ the neighbour replied. ‘One of those wandering priests, ragged and dirty. He came here recently. Deverell called him a nuisance. He only left when he was given some food and drink.’

‘Anyone else?’ Corbett demanded.

The woman shook her head.

‘I’ll look upstairs,’ Corbett declared. ‘I want to view the corpse.’

He left the rest and climbed the broad polished stairs to the small gallery. The door to the bedchamber was open, a well-furnished room with gleaming furniture which matched the carved woodwork of the four-poster bed. Corbett went across and looked through the window. A crowd still gathered below. Burghesh had joined them. The church bell began to toll and Corbett realised St Edmund’s would be getting ready for the funeral of Elizabeth the wheelwright’s daughter.

He moved back to the bed and pulled aside the drapes. Deverell’s corpse was hidden beneath a bloody sheet. He carefully peeled this back and flinched at the terrible wound. The crossbow bolt had been shot very close, reducing one side of the carpenter’s face to a bloody pulp. The bolt had entered just beneath the eye: a piteous, hideous sight. Corbett murmured the requiem. Surely God would have mercy on this man, so full of fear, sent so quickly into the dark?

Although Corbett felt a deep regret, he knew the root cause of Deverell’s murder was Sir Roger’s death. Deverell had certainly lied at the trial, but why? What had forced this wealthy craftsman to perjure himself, to send a man to the gallows? Who in Melford could exercise such power, exploit fearful nightmares? Had Deverell himself begun to regret his sin? Was he the one who had daubed Chapeleys’ tomb, pinned the notice to the gallows post? Indeed, had Deverell been the stranger who had so mysteriously assaulted him the previous evening, a fearful man who had lashed out but then panicked and fled?

‘A terrible death,’ Corbett murmured, pulling over the blood-soaked sheets. He heard a sound behind him; it must be Ranulf. ‘I’ve seen many corpses but each time is different.’

Again the floorboard creaked. Corbett whirled round. Ysabeau was creeping towards him, a broad-bladed knife in her hand. Corbett was trapped by the bed behind him. He moved sideways. She moved with him. She shifted her grip. Those black eyes never left Corbett. The clerk knew he was in mortal danger. Ysabeau had one thought only: to kill the man responsible for her husband’s death. Corbett moved away. She moved with him. He feinted to draw her in but she kept on the balls of her feet like a dancer. Corbett had no choice. He moved closer. Ysabeau was quicker, the knife snaking out, but he caught her wrist: her strength surprised him. He put one hand on the wrist holding the dagger. He tried to cup his other hand beneath her chin to force her away. She was tense and taut as a bowstring.

Corbett began to panic. He wanted to defend himself but, try as he might, he could not hurt this woman. She was no footpad or outlaw, only demented with grief. He pushed her back against the half-opened door.

‘Ranulf!’ he screamed.

Ysabeau, eyes blazing with hate, suddenly brought her other hand round and clawed Corbett’s face. The clerk hit her, sending her out on to the gallery to collide with Ranulf. She turned. Ranulf lashed out with his boot, kicking the knife out of her hand. Others were hurrying up the stairs as Ranulf seized her in a vicelike grip, pinioning her arms to her side.

‘You whoreson!’ The froth flecked Ysabeau’s lips. ‘You gallows bird!’

She struggled against Ranulf. The clerk held her fast. The neighbour appeared, a cup in her hand. Ranulf dragged the unfortunate woman down the gallery, kicked open the door to a chamber and threw her in. The neighbour, accompanied by Blidscote, followed, slamming the door behind them. Corbett heard the bolts being drawn. He dabbed the cut on his face, then picked up the knife and tossed it down the stairs.

‘I am sorry,’ Sir Maurice gasped. ‘One minute she was sitting there, then she said she wanted to view her husband’s corpse and apologise to you. She must have had the knife hidden away.’

‘It’s all right. It’s all right,’ Corbett breathed.

He went back to the bedchamber, splashed water over his hands and face, drying himself on a linen cloth.

‘It’s only a small scratch,’ Ranulf declared briskly. ‘It will make you look more handsome.’

‘Thank you, Ranulf.’

Corbett wiped some water from his eyebrows.

‘She was strong. Sir Louis, you are the local justice, yes? I want you to send Chanson downstairs for an apothecary or physician. The woman needs a sleeping potion. She should be guarded day and night. At least,’ he added drily, ‘until I leave Melford. I am also going to search this house.’