Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘I don’t think Furrell was talking about any map!’

He walked over to the other paintings and began to study them carefully. Sorrel joined him.

‘I can see nothing,’ Corbett shook his head, ‘nothing at all. Where else would there be paintings, Sorrel?’

‘In a church, though Furrell rarely went there. The Golden Fleece, Chapeleys’ manor, the Guildhall, Sir Louis Tressilyian?’ Sorrel spread her hands. ‘Furrell roamed all over the countryside. He even carried out errands for Sir Roger, travelling as far as Ipswich and the coastal towns.’

Corbett stared round the room.

‘And Furrell had no Book of Hours, a psalter?’

‘No.’ Sorrel laughed abruptly. ‘He knew his letters like I do but he was no scholar.’

Corbett walked to the door. ‘Let’s go back to the chapel,’ he demanded. ‘I want to re-examine that skeleton.’

Sorrel shrugged and took him across the yard. Corbett paused to see that his horse was well. By the time he’d climbed the steps, Sorrel had removed the bricks and pulled the skeleton out.

‘What are you looking for?’ she asked.

Corbett picked up the skull, feeling its texture.

‘I have a friend,’ he said, ‘a priest, who is also a subtle physician at the great hospital of St Bartholomew in Smithfield in London. He often talks to me about the property of things.’

Corbett glimpsed the puzzlement in Sorrel’s face.

‘The way things are and how they change. The bones of this skeleton are dry, yellowing, which means it has lain in the earth probably more than five or six years.’ He tapped the skull. ‘This is thin, the flesh is gone, the bones are dry. If they’d been allowed to lie, they would have eventually crumbled to a powdery dust. Now, my good friend,’ Corbett continued, ‘has also been given special licence by the Church to examine the cadavers of men hanged on the nearby gibbet.’ Corbett picked the skull up. He walked to the window and, holding it up, looked inside. ‘When a man is hanged,’ Corbett explained, ‘if he’s lucky, the fall will break his neck. Death is instantaneous. If he’s not, he’ll slowly strangle.’

‘Like the garrotte?’

‘Yes, Sorrel, like the garrotte. Now, according to this physician, the humours in the brain break down and the skull is filled with blood like an internal wound.’ Corbett tapped the skull. ‘This fills like a swollen bruise, the fetid blood leaving a mark.’ Corbett peered closer. He glimpsed a faded russet stain.

‘And this one?’ Sorrel asked.

‘There is certainly a mark here but whether it’s blood or the effect of decomposition I don’t know.’

‘What are you trying to prove?’

‘Old Mother Crauford’s right. Melford is a place of blood. I suspect young women have been murdered here for many a year. Some bodies are found, others are hidden out in the countryside. The questions are who and how?’ He placed the skull tenderly back. ‘Now, Mistress, I have to return. You are to come with me.’

‘I’ll be safe here,’ Sorrel replied. ‘The killer will not strike again.’

‘Come with me,’ he urged.

Sorrel agreed. ‘I have friends I can stay with.’

She pulled a pair of battered saddlebags from the chest and hurriedly began to fill them. Corbett sat and, to break the silence, hummed a hymn, the ‘Ave Maria Stella’.

‘You have a fine voice.’ Sorrel dropped the saddlebags. ‘That’s it!’ she exclaimed. ‘My man, Furrell, always sang, sometimes filthy songs.’ She stood, mouth open, suddenly remembering. ‘In the weeks following Sir Roger Chapeleys’ execution, he was always singing the same words, as if he was intent on reminding himself.’

‘What was it?’ Corbett asked.

Sorrel, finger to her lips, stood and stared at the statue. She wouldn’t take that, she thought: if she moved the statue, this sharp-eyed clerk would notice the piece of parchment. Sorrel did not want to excite his suspicions. ‘That’s it!’ she exclaimed. ‘About being between the devil and an angel. I never asked him what it meant.’

Corbett walked to the door. ‘We’d best hurry,’ he said. ‘The day is drawing on. Tonight I feast with the high and mighty.’

He went back into the yard and unhobbled his horse. Sorrel joined him. It was still early afternoon but the mist was curling in thickly now, and the breeze was colder. A bird shrieked as it wheeled against the sky. Corbett, holding the reins, stared across at the river, which wound its way through thickets and tall grass. He was glad he had come here. Had he not, Sorrel would have been killed. Two assassins were busy in Melford but what was the solution? He’d go to the banquet tonight but tomorrow. .? If only Ranulf could trace Blidscote. The bailiff had last been seen at Deverell’s house, but as Corbett set out for Beauchamp Place, Ranulf had reported him missing. Corbett scratched his chin. But what good would such questioning do? He felt a little guilty. It was easy to interrogate the likes of Sorrel, but Blidscote? The bailiff would scarcely confess he’d perjured himself and convened a corrupt jury. And what about the two priests? If Corbett questioned them and really pressed matters, they would protest about their rights under Canon Law. The English Crown was ever conscious of Thomas a Becket’s martyrdom and the Church’s resolute defence of the rights of priests. Perhaps Burghesh could be persuaded?

‘No, no,’ Corbett whispered. ‘He’d never betray his friends.’

He felt Sorrel beside him.

‘You are becoming like me,’ she smiled, ‘talking to yourself. We could make a good countryman out of you, royal clerk.’

‘I doubt it,’ Corbett replied. ‘There was something else I wanted to ask you but, for the moment, it escapes me.’

They walked across the bridge, their clatter shattering the silence. Corbett stared down at the filth-strewn moat. Sorrel let go of his hand and went before him. She reached the end and suddenly tripped, sprawling into the grass. Corbett’s horse shied, going up on its hind legs. For a few seconds Corbett wondered if both of them would plunge into the moat but the horse was well trained. Sorrel stood up, nursing her ankle.

‘That whoreson murderer!’ she shrieked.

Corbett’s horse trembled.

‘Quiet,’ the clerk soothed.

He stood for a while until the horse calmed down. Sorrel took a knife out of her bag and cut something at the end of the bridge.

‘It’s safe!’ she called.

Corbett led his horse across and allowed it to graze.

‘An old poacher’s trick,’ Sorrel declared, holding up the strong twine.

Corbett knelt beside her: because of the undergrowth on either side of the bridge, this place couldn’t be seen from the old manor house.

‘An old poacher’s trick,’ he confirmed, ‘and quite a deadly one. The twine is strong and taut.’

‘Was it meant for me?’ Sorrel asked.

‘No,’ Corbett replied. ‘You were attacked, I came in to Beauchamp Place, the assassin slipped by me across the moat. He expected me to follow in full pursuit. And,’ he smiled thinly, ‘years ago I might have done.’ He pointed back to the empty gatehouse. ‘I would have come charging through there and across the bridge: my horse would have tripped and I would have been thrown, wounded, even killed. The assassin was protecting himself whilst also hoping I’d suffer some hideous accident.’

Sorrel, limping, got to her feet. Corbett grasped her by the arm.

‘Come, my lady, you’ll enter Melford like a princess, led by the King’s own clerk.’

Sorrel allowed him to help her up. Corbett grasped the reins and they made their way back across the meadow.

Who could the killer be? Despite the loneliness, Melford was only a short distance. Corbett studied the land and recalled Sorrel’s words: the assassin could creep stealthily along the lanes or hedgerows. He could reach Beauchamp Place without breaking cover. Corbett strode on.