Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘You can’t do that,’ the justice retorted. ‘You have no warrant.’

Corbett tapped his pouch. ‘I have all the warrants I need. You can wait for me in the kitchen below. Ranulf will be your host.’

Once they had left, Corbett closed the door behind them and began his search: coffers, aumbrys, chests, but they contained nothing untoward. Most of what he found was connected with Deverell’s trade: receipts, ledgers, as well as different purchases. The bedchamber yielded nothing.

Corbett went downstairs. Ignoring the rest, he searched the kitchen and the small parlour. He found a little chancery or writing office behind it. The door was locked. Ranulf found the keys and Corbett went inside.

A narrow, dusty chamber with one small window high in the wall; a tall writing-desk and stool. Corbett lit the candles. He had to force the desk, but again nothing. The small coffer beneath it, however, with its three locks, looked more interesting. A search was made and the keys found in the dead man’s purse. Corbett undid the three locks and pulled back the lid. It contained a small breviary, a Book of Hours, not a collection of prayers but the Divine Office: Prime, Matins, Lauds. The writing was the careful script of some monk, the pages well thumbed.

‘A carpenter who understood Latin?’ Corbett murmured.

There was also a white cord with three knots in it and a brown scapular, two pieces of leather on a coarse string. Corbett slipped this over his own head, allowing one piece of the leather to lie on his chest, the other on his back. The cord looked well used, slightly fraying in places. He went through the other items: a medal, Ave beads, a small pyx for carrying the host.

‘So, that’s what you were?’ Corbett declared. ‘No wonder you kept yourself to yourself!’

He took off the scapular and put all the contents back in the coffer, closed and locked it and returned to the kitchen.

The two knights and Ranulf were sitting at the kitchen table. Chanson came through the front door, a stout man striding behind him who introduced himself as a local physician. He brusquely told Corbett to get out of his way and went upstairs to see his patient.

‘We should be gone,’ Corbett declared, picking up his cloak.

‘Did you find anything?’ Sir Maurice asked.

‘Is Blidscote still here?’ Corbett asked Chanson.

‘Oh yes, but he prefers to be as far away from you, Master, as possible.’

‘I’ll have words with him soon,’ Corbett replied.

‘What have you found, Corbett?’ Tressilyian demanded.

‘Deverell may have been a carpenter but, once upon a time he was a monk.’

‘A monk!’ Sir Maurice exclaimed.

‘A defrocked priest,’ Corbett replied. ‘A monk who ran away from his monastery. It’s not so unusual. He could never really close the door on his past so he kept a few mementoes: Ave beads, the scapular some monks wear beneath their robes, his psalter and his cord with the three knots symbolising the vows of Chastity, Poverty and Obedience. I suspect Master Deverell, as a monk, showed tremendous skill as a carpenter. Perhaps he got tired of his vocation. Perhaps he quarrelled with Father Abbot. So he fled. He arrived in a prosperous town like Melford, married and settled down.’

‘And what has this got to do with my father’s death?’

‘A great deal, Sir Maurice. Remember Deverell was a craftsman, a worthy burgess of this town. His word would carry a great deal of weight.’ Corbett lowered his voice. ‘On oath his evidence would be believed by a judge and jury. Yes, Sir Louis?’

The justice, tight-lipped, nodded. Corbett glimpsed the anger in his eyes. Judges and justices made mistakes. Sir Louis would not be the first, and certainly not the last, to regret a sentence passed.

‘I appreciate, sir, this is difficult for you,’ Corbett apologised.

‘In the end, Sir Hugh, justice will be done. If Deverell gave false testimony, and any others, then let it be upon their heads. I can only accept the verdict of the jury. God knows, I pleaded for Sir Roger’s life.’

‘I know.’ Corbett glanced over his shoulder towards the stairs. ‘Deverell, God rest him, lied and perjured himself. But why? Gold or silver?’ He pulled a face. ‘A man like Deverell wouldn’t risk his life and reputation for that. No, Deverell was being blackmailed. Someone here knew he was a runaway monk, which means his marriage wasn’t valid. The summoner could arrive from the Archdeacon’s court: Deverell could either be excommunicated or dragged back to his monastery to do penance on bread and water.’

‘So, Deverell perjured himself?’

‘Yes, he perjured himself. The problem is, who knew his secret? I wonder about Deverell,’ Corbett continued. ‘Was he the one who sent Molkyn the miller that verse from Leviticus?’

‘What verse?’ Sir Louis asked.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ Corbett replied.

They walked out into the sunshine. Corbett heard his name called. Sorrel came out of one of the alleyways.

‘So, Deverell’s dead!’ she murmured, eyes gleaming. ‘Fitting punishment for a perjurer.’ She offered Corbett the coin he’d given her the previous evening. ‘I shouldn’t have taken that.’

‘Why not?’ Corbett steered her away from the rest.

‘I didn’t tell you,’ she confessed. ‘I’m well furnished with silver.’

‘How?’

‘Three times a year,’ she said, ‘at Beauchamp Place a silver coin appears wrapped in a piece of parchment. No messages: it’s been the same since Furrell died. Every January, Easter and Michaelmas.’

‘Keep it.’

Corbett closed her fingers round the coin. He was about to join the rest but Old Mother Crauford hobbled forward, cane tapping the cobbles, one hand grasping Peterkin. She shooed a scavenging cat out of her way.

‘More deaths, royal clerk. They should rename Melford, Haceldema.’

‘The Field of Blood,’ Corbett translated. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Always been deaths,’ she declared.

‘What’s the matter?’ Corbett glanced at Peterkin, who was jibbering with fright.

‘He lives with me,’ the old woman explained, ‘and he’s all a-feared. He thinks you’ve come to take him away to a house of simpletons, where he’ll be fed bread and water and given the whip.’

Peterkin’s face was dirty and unshaven, his eyes full of terror, his lower lip quivering. If Old Mother Crauford hadn’t held him by the wrist, he would have bolted like a rabbit. Corbett took a coin out of his wallet and, grasping the man’s hand, made him accept it.

‘I have not come to take you,’ Corbett said softly. ‘Peterkin is my friend. Old Mother Crauford is my friend. Buy some sweetmeats, a hot pie or join me in the Golden Fleece. Have a tankard of ale.’

The change in the simpleton’s face was wonderful to behold. He shook himself free and danced from foot to foot, humming under his breath.

‘Peterkin’s rich! Peterkin’s rich!’ he slurred.

‘Aye, Peterkin’s a friend of the King,’ Corbett added.

He was about to walk away when Mother Crauford caught him by the fingers.

‘That was kind of you, clerk,’ she whispered. ‘But, be careful as you walk through Haceldema!’

The jurors were a nondescript group of petty trades-men and farmers. They sat in a corner of the taproom, shuffling their feet, looking rather woebegone, frightened of meeting the royal clerk. They had fortified their courage with stoups of ale. Tressilyian cleared the taproom of everyone else. Sir Maurice Chapeleys sat some distance away, feet up on a stool, drumming his fingers on the table. Chanson went to check on the horses. Ranulf sat beside Corbett. Tressilyian took charge. He introduced the clerk and smiled sadly.