Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘Time passes quickly,’ he declared. ‘Five of the jury which tried Sir Roger Chapeleys have died.’ His smile disappeared. ‘Two have been murdered. Now, you remember the days of the trial well, yes? The trial took place in the Guildhall?’

They all nodded like a group of obedient mastiffs.

‘I’ve never asked you this,’ Tressilyian continued. ‘The deliberations of the jury are usually secret but why did you return a verdict so swiftly, in less than an hour?’

‘It was your summing up.’ A burly tradesman, a butcher by the blood on his apron, spoke up.

‘Yes it was,’ Tressilyian conceded. ‘Your name is Simon, isn’t it? You are a flesher?’

‘That’s right, my lord.’

‘Please answer my question!’

‘I can’t remember every detail,’ the flesher replied, ‘but the evidence was clear: Sir Roger went down to Widow Walmer. He was seen by Deverell the carpenter — and yes, we now know he’s dead.’ He gazed round at his companions. ‘And, by the way, what protection do we have? It wasn’t our fault Sir Roger was executed.’

‘No one said it was,’ Corbett replied. ‘Do continue.’

‘Sir Roger was seen hurrying away from the widow’s cottage. He possessed belongings of the other women who had been murdered.’

‘What I’m interested in,’ Tressilyian declared, ‘and what Sir Hugh wants to know, is what happened in the jury room after you retired. Molkyn was your leader, Thorkle his deputy?’

‘Well, I’ll be honest,’ Simon replied. ‘Molkyn was a bugger. I didn’t like him alive, I don’t like him dead. He was all hot for Sir Roger being hanged. Guilty, he said, as soon as the door was closed. Thorkle, of course, followed suit.’

‘And the rest of you?’ Corbett asked.

He stared round at these men with their chapped faces and raw red hands. He felt sorry for them. It was common for juries to be intimidated but, there again, they could prove surprisingly stubborn, particularly when a man’s life was at stake.

‘Some of us objected. I am not going to say who. Rein in your horse, we told Molkyn. You could see he didn’t like Sir Roger.’

‘It was Furrell.’ One of Simon’s companions spoke up. ‘I was very concerned about Furrell’s evidence. He claimed Widow Walmer was alive after Sir Roger left. He also hinted at how others were seen going down to her cottage.’

‘Ah yes.’ Simon took up the story. ‘But Molkyn told us to shut up. He alleged Furrell had been bribed by Sir Roger. The knight could have gone back, whilst the people Furrell had glimpsed going down to Widow Walmer’s cottage were probably Repton the reeve and others who discovered the corpse.’

‘How did you vote?’ Corbett asked.

‘By a show of hands.’

‘And what convinced you?’

Corbett moved on the stool. He wished Ranulf, sitting beside him, would stop humming softly under his breath. His manservant glanced at him and winked. Corbett wondered what was wrong. He turned back to the flesher.

‘The evidence? You mentioned the justice’s summing up at the end of the trial. I asked how you voted?’

‘It was Deverell’s testimony.’ The flesher sighed.

‘The visit to Widow Walmer and the goods being found in Sir Roger’s manor. Molkyn was urging us on; eventually we all had to agree.’ He shrugged. ‘The verdict was returned.’

‘And since then?’ Corbett asked.

‘Oh, we’ve discussed it — when the murders began again.’ Simon nodded. ‘Yes, we wondered if an innocent man had been executed.’ The flesher shuffled his feet and looked at the floor.

‘What is it?’ Corbett asked. ‘You have something else to say, haven’t you?’

Simon wiped his sweaty brow on the back of his wrist. ‘I’d like to make a confession.’ The words came blurting out. ‘Sir Louis, I should have told you this before.’

‘What?’ Corbett asked.

‘About two years after the trial I was in an alehouse, the Gooseberry Bush at the far end of the town. Molkyn came in. He’d just made a delivery of flour and was drinking the profits. Now most times, Molkyn was a surly bastard, always looking for a fight — fists like hams he had. He calls me over. I was delivering some meat. He was quite insistent so I joined him. He was deep in his cups. We talked about this and that. “Do you believe in ghosts?” Molkyn suddenly asked. “What do you mean, Molkyn?” I said. “Sir Roger Chapeleys,” he replied. “Do you think he can come back and haunt us for what we did?” Now I was troubled, I didn’t like that sort of talk. “He was guilty,” I replied. “What if I say he wasn’t,” Molkyn jibed-’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Corbett interrupted. ‘Molkyn said that?’

‘Aye. I became frightened. I questioned him but Molkyn grew all coy and sly, tapping his fleshy nose and winking. He then told me about a quarrel he had had with Furrell the poacher. “What quarrel?” says I. It appears that after the trial, Furrell had approached Molkyn, saying Sir Roger was innocent and he could prove it. Molkyn told him to go hang. Furrell also accused Molkyn of being a perjurer, then Furrell said something very strange. He claimed there was proof in Melford who the real killer was and that it was plain as a picture for anyone to see.’

‘And?’ Corbett asked.

‘That’s all Molkyn told me. He was fuddled in his wits and deep in his cups so I left him.’

‘Is there anything else?’ Corbett demanded.

A chorus of denial greeted his question. Corbett thanked them and the men left, eager to be away from the sharp-eyed clerk and his probing questions.

‘You are rather quiet, Sir Maurice?’ Corbett asked.

The young man gazed sullenly back. ‘Sir Hugh, what can I do? I was only a boy when my father was hanged. How can I go round Melford asking questions?’ His face became hard. ‘I can see it in their eyes, Sir Hugh. They still regard him as a killer, an assassin.’ His gaze softened. ‘But I have trust in you. Justice will be done.’

‘Sir Louis,’ Corbett glanced around to make sure there were no eavesdroppers: Matthew the taverner, however, had the sense to keep his slatterns and tapboys well away, ‘at Sir Roger’s trial, were you uneasy?’

‘Of course, but what could I do? The only evidence Sir Roger truly denied was Deverell’s.’

‘And Furrell’s evidence?’ Corbett asked.

Sir Louis sighed and sat down on a stool opposite. The justice hadn’t slept well; his eyes were heavy and red-rimmed.

‘Sir Hugh, Furrell was patronised by Sir Roger.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And there’s something else. Three young women were killed before Widow Walmer’s death, yes?’

Corbett nodded.

‘Now, whatever Sorrel has said to you, and I saw you talking to her, Furrell was a rogue. He was a thief. He poached on my land, as he did on everybody else’s but, of course, we ignored him. He only took what he wanted and there was little malice in the fellow. Except,’ Sir Louis continued, ‘Furrell was a lady’s man himself. When it came to maypole dancing or mummery on the green, Furrell, in his cups, was hot and lecherous as a sparrow. Now, when these murders occurred both Blidscote and I investigated. The finger of suspicion pointed strongly at Furrell. He was well known for talking to the girls. He did solicit, albeit well out of sight of Sorrel, and, above all, he knew the country roads and lanes.’

‘But Furrell’s dead.’

‘Is he, Corbett? Where’s the corpse? What sign or proof do we have of his death? How do we know that he is not living in the forest or hidden away at Beauchamp Place? He could return to his killing spree. He may be responsible for the deaths of Molkyn, Thorkle and Deverell. Furrell knows this town, its bylanes and its trackways. He was often knocking on this person’s house or that: he’d know about Deverell’s spyhole.’