Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘It’s the tocsin,’ the burgess murmured. ‘In God’s name, what’s happened now?’ He glared down the table at Parson Grimstone.

The good priest was already deep in his cups. He tried to stagger to his feet but Burghesh gently pulled him down.

‘I will go,’ he declared. ‘Something’s wrong at the church, but I am sure it’s nothing.’ And, dangling a set of keys, he hurried out.

His departure was followed by dark scowls and muttered conversations. Corbett repressed a smile. He had seen the same thing happen in many a prosperous town. The burgesses grew wealthy, they no longer were in awe of the priest or his church whilst Parson Grimstone was, perhaps, not the man they would have chosen to be their pastor. These wealthy burgesses would eventually build their own church, create a separate parish. They would lavishly adorn their new house of prayer, using it to emphasise their own power and dignity. Corbett grasped his wine cup and listened to the burgess’s ill-concealed attack on the King’s military ambitions.

‘He should capture Wallace, hang him and then negotiate. If there is peace in the north it will create new markets. .’

The bells of St Edmund’s tolled again, just for a short while. The assembled merchants simply grinned at each other. The festivities continued unabated, as did the warlike burgess, who now delivered a long speech against the Scottish rebels.

‘Aye.’ Ranulf stopped his thieving to intervene. ‘But catching the Scottish rebel is like trying to trap moonbeams in a jug. Everyone says it can be done but no one knows how to do it.’

Corbett winked at Ranulf in grateful appreciation. Ranulf continued his teasing for a while. Corbett was about to intervene when the door was flung open. Burghesh entered, shouldering the liveried servant aside.

‘Sir Hugh!’ he shouted. ‘You’d best come!’

Corbett made a sign for Ranulf to follow. Burghesh hurried up and whispered at Sir Louis to look after Parson Grimstone. He led the two clerks down the stairs, not saying anything until they were out in the cold night air.

‘It’s Curate Robert,’ he whispered. ‘He’s hanged himself.’

They hastened across the marketplace and through the dark entrance of the church. Burghesh grasped a spluttering sconce torch just inside the porch and led them into the bell tower. In the poor light the curate’s corpse, swaying slightly on the end of a bell rope, sent the shadows dancing.

‘I didn’t cut him down. I came in, lit the torch and. .’

Corbett ordered Ranulf to bring candles from the sanctuary. These were hurriedly lit to reveal the full garish scene. Curate Robert dressed in his gown and sandals, hung, hands down, neck twisted. His face was pallid, mouth open, tongue slightly out, eyes staring in a look of horror. Corbett went up the steps and pulled the swaying body towards him. The knot had been expertly tied behind the curate’s left ear.

Using his dagger, Corbett prised the knot loose. Ranulf and Burghesh took the corpse and laid it out on the cold flagstones outside the bell tower. Corbett grasped a torch and moved further up the steps. The tower was dark and freezing. He heard the squeak of rats, their scampering feet further up the darkness. He looked into a large window embrasure and, going back down, carefully examined the other three bell ropes. Each had a heavy weight tied to the bottom to keep it secure. The one Bellen had used had its weight removed. Corbett found this behind the door of the tower.

‘Master!’

Corbett went out. Ranulf handed him a piece of parchment.

‘This was up the cuff of his gown.’

Corbett undid the piece of crumpled parchment. ‘It’s a quotation from the Psalms,’ he remarked. ‘ “I have sinned and my sins are always before me.”

He went and knelt over the corpse, made the sign of the cross and said a quick prayer.

‘Is it suicide?’ Ranulf asked.

‘It must have been.’ Burghesh pointed to the door of the bell tower, a set of keys hung in the outside lock. ‘He must have waited till we’d gone, came in, locked the door behind him and went up into the bell tower. He removed a weight, tied the rope round his neck and then simply jumped off the steps.’

‘And that caused the bells to ring?’ Corbett asked.

Burghesh nodded. ‘It would be swiftly done. Look!’

He led them back into the bell tower, grasped the rope and climbed the steps. He then jumped down, clearing three or four steps, holding on to the rope and, as he did, the bell clashed and clanged above him.

‘You probably heard them ring again,’ he added. ‘That’s when I came in. I tugged on the corpse, feeling for a life pulse in his neck or wrist. There was nothing so I hastened back to the Guildhall.’

‘He’ll need the last rites,’ Corbett declared. ‘You’d best get Parson Grimstone.’

‘He’s in his cups.’

‘He’s still a priest,’ Corbett replied. ‘And he’s the only one we have. Master Burghesh, I would be grateful if you’d do what I ask!’

Corbett waited until he had gone and closed the door behind him. He went back into the bell tower and scrutinised the bell rope and steps before returning to kneel beside the corpse. He examined the red weal round the neck and then the curate’s wrists. The corpse was not yet cold.

‘Do you think it was suicide?’ Ranulf asked.

Corbett turned the body over. He could find no other wound or cut except that ugly scar round the throat.

‘It must have been,’ he declared. ‘Bellen came in here.’ He sniffed at the man’s mouth. ‘He’d drunk some wine, then God knows what happened. Perhaps this cold darkness finally tipped his wits? There was no struggle, no sign of binding round the wrists or a blow to the head. Master Burghesh is correct, Curate Robert must have come in here intending suicide.’ He tapped the piece of parchment lying beside the corpse. ‘He put this into the cuff of his sleeve, made sure the church door was locked and went into the bell tower.’ Corbett paused. ‘He then removed the weight from one of the ropes, tied the rope round his neck, climbed the steps and jumped: that’s the bell we heard. Burghesh came across and discovered the corpse.’

‘Could Bellen have been the murderer?’ Ranulf declared. ‘He was strong enough to kill Molkyn and Thorkle and, being a priest who visits parishioners, would know about the squint hole in Deverell’s house. He was also a flagellant, punishing himself for secret sins, maybe such as the murder of those young women. Perhaps,’ Ranulf added, ‘the Mummer’s Man was Curate Robert in disguise? Or, there again, a woman might go out to the countryside to meet a priest?’

‘True,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Bellen also heard confessions. He’d know all the secrets of the parish and could blackmail as he wished.’

The door swung open. Tressilyian and Sir Maurice, Parson Grimstone between them, followed Burghesh into the church. Grimstone was near collapse. He took one look at his curate’s corpse, groaned and had to be helped to sit on a stone plinth. Burghesh sat next to him, talking quietly.

‘Suicide?’ Tressilyian asked.

‘It would appear so,’ Corbett replied. ‘Sir Maurice, my groom, Chanson, brought you a message?’

‘I can’t find it.’ Sir Maurice shook his head. ‘I have searched my father’s records but. .’ He spread his hands.

Corbett hid his disappointment. He had hoped to discover details about the mysterious painting Sir Roger had given to the parish church.

‘Ah well,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s tend the dead.’

Burghesh left them. He brought back the holy oils and gently persuaded Grimstone to whisper the words of absolution and anoint the dead man.

Corbett watched. It was a truly piteous sight: the young priest sprawled on the flagstones, his face still twisted by his violent death.