Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘He enjoys it,’ Corbett declared. ‘The killer enjoys the power.’

They call him the Jesses killer, Corbett reasoned, the Mummer’s Man, but he’s more like a chess player. He regards other people as pieces to move as he thinks fit. He likes to see them do what he wants. But who would have such power? Sir Louis? Sir Maurice? They were both manor lords. They would have spies and retainers listening to the chatter. But Sir Louis himself had been attacked. He also had played a major part in Sir Roger’s execution. And Sir Maurice? A man dedicated to clearing his father’s name, he’d have little love for the people of Melford. But which killer was he thinking about? Corbett shook his head. Then there were the others: Parson Grimstone with his drinking, his seclusion; Curate Robert with his hidden anxiety and deep feeling of guilt. Or Burghesh? Could Blidscote be a killer? A man who may not even like women? Or was it someone he had forgotten? Corbett beat his fist against his thigh. Two killers, he thought, or one? The murder of Molkyn and the rest had only occurred after the killings of the young women had begun again. So, what did that mean? Corbett sighed as he heard footsteps outside. Ranulf entered with Burghesh behind him.

‘I brought the Book of the Dead myself,’ the old soldier declared. He took it out of the leather bag and placed it on the stool beside Corbett’s bed.

‘I really shouldn’t allow it but,’ he grinned, ‘you are the King’s clerk. If I stay in the taproom below and take it back later. .?’

Corbett’s hand went to the purse in his belt.

‘No, no,’ Burghesh said. ‘I can pay for my own ale. Sir Hugh, I’ll be downstairs.’

Ranulf closed the door behind him. Corbett picked up the book and began to leaf through it.

‘Well, Chanson’s galloping after Sir Maurice,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘You are going down amongst the dead.’

Corbett smiled over the book. ‘If you were involved in Sir Roger’s death. .?’ Corbett paused. ‘No, let me put the question another way. Who has the most to fear?’

‘Sir Louis?’

‘But he’s a manor lord.’

‘Then Blidscote,’ Ranulf remarked.

‘I agree, and there’s little we can do to save him. But, go round Melford, Ranulf, see if you can track our fat bailiff down, then bring him back here for questioning.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘Ask young Adela to come up. Tell her she has nothing to fear.’

‘If the Lady Maeve got to know? Shouldn’t I stay,’ Ranulf teased, ‘and act the chaperone?’

‘Ask her to come up,’ Corbett repeated. ‘She has more to fear from the messenger than the message he carries.’

Ranulf collected his cloak and sword belt and went down the stairs. A short while later Adela tapped on the door of the chamber. She slipped in, nervous but still bold-eyed, pretending to stand in a docile fashion, hands hanging beside her.

‘Sit down.’ Corbett gestured to the stool. ‘I believe you know Ranulf?’

The tavern wench looked for sarcasm but found none. This clerk’s gaze was not lustful or mocking but rather gentle and sad.

‘What do you want, Master?’

‘Just a little of your time. I am sorry about the game Ranulf and Chanson played with you, bringing you out of the tavern,’ he added hastily.

Adela shrugged one shoulder.

‘What harm can a man do in a busy marketplace?’

‘Has any man tried to harm you, Adela?’

She smiled sweetly. ‘Most men are babies: they think with their codpieces.’

‘Do we now?’ Corbett laughed. ‘But you are able to look after yourself?’

‘A swift slap and an even swifter kick, Master, is a good defence.’

‘You were the last to talk to the wheelwright’s daughter, Elizabeth?’

‘Aye, but I have answered this. She was in a hurry to get away. I thought she was going home.’

‘Did she ever talk of the Mummer’s Man or any other creature?’

‘No.’

‘Tell me, Adela, if you met a man out in the countryside, riding a horse, wearing one of those masks they use in a miracle play. .?’

‘I’d run and hide,’ she laughed.

‘And if this evening you were going home and a voice called “Adela” from the shadows?’

‘I’d stop, if there was someone with me.’

‘And if this voice said that you must go to such and such a place, where some admirer was waiting for you or a gift had been left?’

‘I wouldn’t believe it. I certainly wouldn’t stand there. I’d see who it was.’

‘And if that man was wearing a mask?’

‘I’d scream and run. Why these questions? I’ve learnt my lesson about-’

‘What do you mean?’ Corbett asked sharply.

‘Oh, about four months ago, that fool Peterkin — well, he’s not as dull-witted as he looks — he brought me a message.’

‘What did this message say?’

She closed her eyes. ‘ “A gift awaits for the one I love at Hamden Mere. After the market horn, it will appear.”

Corbett asked her to repeat it.

‘It’s doggerel poetry,’ he murmured.

‘Peterkin’s like that,’ Adela remarked. ‘Hurrying hither and thither like a little rabbit. Ask the taverner: even as a lad, Peterkin was used as a messenger by lovesick swains.’

‘And did you go to Hamden Mere?’

‘Yes. It’s a marsh in a copse of wood on the south side of the town. I was impatient. I wanted to know who it was: the tavern becomes busy after the horn is sounded and the market’s ended.’

‘Why Hamden Mere?’ Corbett asked. ‘Why not Devil’s Oak or Gully Lane?’

She smiled. ‘It’s where I used to play as a child.’

‘And where you take your love swain?’

‘Yes, but don’t tell Taverner Matthew: he’s always boasting how he runs a good house.’

‘And what happened?’ Corbett demanded.

‘I went and waited. I searched and I looked but there was nothing — a cruel jape — so I came back.’

‘Did you later question Peterkin?’

‘Yes I did, quietly. I didn’t want to make myself look as big a fool as he is. He just gaped at me, said it was a poem he had learnt and didn’t say any more.’

‘But you believed him the first time?’

‘He showed me a coin: said he’d been paid to deliver it.’ She shrugged. ‘That convinced me.’ Adela became all nervous.

‘You know what I’m going to ask,’ Corbett said softly. ‘Is that how Elizabeth was trapped?’

‘But I had no proof,’ she hissed. ‘I was frightened. I did not want to become a laughing stock. The taproom would never let me forget the day I believed simple Peterkin. Even if I had said something — who would believe me? What proof did I have?’

Corbett took a coin from his purse, went across and pushed it into the wench’s hand.

‘What’s that for, Master?’ she asked cheekily.

‘Your company,’ Corbett replied. ‘If I were you I’d go across to the church. I’d buy a candle and light it.’

The young tavern wench looked puzzled. Corbett opened the door. She slipped out, he closed and locked it behind her.

‘You danced with death,’ he murmured, ‘and were allowed to walk away.’

Corbett went to the window and stared down at an ostler cooling horses off in the yard below.

Of course, Corbett thought. Poor Peterkin! Frightened of being taken away, so easily terrified, so quickly bribed. Who would pay much attention to him? The man may be a dullard but the same doggerel would have been taught to him time and time again, only the place changed. Corbett wondered how many other young women in the town had received such an invitation? Some would ignore it, dismissing Peterkin as mad as a March hare. Others, like Adela, would go, perhaps at the wrong time, and find nothing. Poor Elizabeth was not so fortunate. Of course, she’d tell no one. She wouldn’t want anyone to know about the secret or, as Adela said, be made to look a fool if there was nothing there.