Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

An hour passed. Ranulf came up but Corbett was so immersed he simply mumbled good night and went back to his studies. The taproom below emptied. Corbett lay on his bed for a while, thinking, trying to study each person, each death. Blidscote could have helped.

‘That was a mistake,’ Corbett murmured. ‘I should have questioned him before. But, there again, he wouldn’t have told the truth.’

He returned to his writings: slowly but surely a pattern emerged.

‘Let’s take one murder,’ he murmured. ‘Deverell’s. No.’ He shook his head.

He wrote down Molkyn’s name. Molkyn the miller? A drunkard, an oaf, frightened by a verse from Leviticus? Corbett was now certain two assassins were loose in Melford: Molkyn was the bridge between them. He had been specially elected to that jury, therefore he must have been blackmailed. But was he killed to keep his mouth closed? Or executed for his role in Sir Roger’s death? Corbett underscored the word ‘executed’. He sat and reflected, half dozing. He slipped into a dream and woke with a start. For a moment he was back in the cold, stark belfry with that grisly corpse swinging by its neck.

He got up and splashed water over his face. He had his suspicions but who could help? Peterkin? He would have to wait until the morning. Matters, however, were proceeding too fast. The hostility in the taproom might spill over and, as the news of Bellen’s death spread, people would say the murderer had confessed and hanged himself. So, why should this clerk be poking his long nose into other people’s affairs?

Corbett was about to strap on his sword belt and go out but then thought of Maeve, her face pale and anxious, eyes studying him. Her departing words echoed in his mind. She had whispered them as she put her arms round his neck and kissed him on the cheek.

‘Be careful of the shadows,’ she’d murmured. ‘Remember, if you hunt murderers, they can hunt you.’

Corbett paused, hand on the latch, and changed his mind. Instead he went to sit on the bed and thought of that bell tower, the hanging corpse and those other ropes with the weights at the end. If he could resolve that, he might trap the killer and, with the help of Molkyn’s daughter, bring these deaths in Haceldema to an end.

Corbett returned to his studies. He put Bellen’s murder to one side for the moment and returned to his theory of two murderers loose in Melford.

‘Not Furrell and his wife,’ he murmured — he was now sure of that — so who? He examined, once again, the parchment from Bellen’s chamber and recalled Furrell’s song about the angel and the devil. What else had Sorrel told him? If she was not exacting vengeance then who? There was something about her story? Corbett worked on and, as he did so, the mystery began to unravel.

‘Who is the Mummer’s Man?’

Corbett sat in Old Mother Crauford’s small, mud-packed earth cottage. It was smoky and dark. The fire in the makeshift hearth was lacklustre, the green logs gently resisting the licking flames. Old Mother Crauford put down the bellows and looked over her shoulder at Peterkin sitting on a three-legged stool. The simpleton was cradling a bowl of leek soup on his lap. He dropped his horn spoon with a clatter, frightened eyes still on Corbett. He slowly put the bowl on the ground beside him.

‘What nonsense is this?’ Old Mother Crauford asked. ‘It’s barely dawn and you come knocking on my door? We have nothing to do with Haceldema.’

‘I know why you call it that, Mother,’ Corbett replied. ‘No, no. .’ Corbett put out a hand.

Peterkin was now staring at the doorway but that was blocked by Ranulf.

‘You mustn’t run,’ Corbett said gently. ‘I’ll only catch you. Hush!’ He held up a hand to fend off more questions from the old woman. ‘Look, Peterkin.’ Corbett held a silver coin between his fingers.

The slack face relaxed. Peterkin smiled, opening his mouth, tongue coming out as if he could already savour the sweetmeat he’d buy.

‘He’s a poor, witless fool,’ Mother Crauford mumbled.

‘He’s not as stupid as you think,’ Corbett retorted. ‘You know that, Mother, and so does he. It’s not really foolish Peterkin, is it? Or simple Peterkin? Or witless Peterkin?’ Corbett caught it — just a shift in the eyes, a gleam, a knowing look. ‘You understand what I am saying, don’t you?’ Corbett continued.

‘Peterkin does not know.’ The reply was low, throaty.

‘Yes you do. I’ll tell you and Mother Crauford a story. But first I do wonder where you have your secret place, Peterkin? Where do you hide the coins the Mummer’s Man gives you?’

‘What secret place?’ Mother Crauford demanded.

She pulled across a stool and studied Peterkin rather than Corbett, as if the clerk’s words had jolted a memory.

‘What I’ll do,’ Corbett declared, ‘is tell you my story, then I’ll threaten. I’ll bully you with all sorts of dire punishments, Peterkin, but, if you help me,’ he smiled, ‘it will be a silver coin for wise Peterkin. St Edmund’s parish in Melford,’ Corbett continued. ‘Well, it’s a strange place for a man like you, Peterkin. People are growing wealthy, travellers arrive, merchants, traders, pedlars and chapmen. Your world is changing, isn’t it, Mother Crauford? Forty years ago, who cared about Melford, when the plough ripped the earth and the peasants spent every hour wondering what the harvest would be like? Now it’s all different: broad meadows cut off by hedgerows where sheep graze and everyone becomes fat on the profits. Peterkin has to be careful. He has no family: people say he has no wits. He acts the part but Peterkin is quite cunning. He has to protect himself from the goodly, newly rich people. Peterkin is frightened of one thing: that he will be taken away and put in some Bethlehem house. No one knows this better than the Mummer’s Man. Where does he meet you, Peterkin? Does he come to this desolate lane? And has he taught you a poem?’

Mother Crauford was now staring at Corbett.

‘He did, didn’t he, over the years — take a message to this or that young woman? How a lover or admirer has left a gift, a token of their appreciation near Devil’s Oak, Brackham Mere or some place along Gully Lane. Peterkin takes the message. Everyone ignores you, running up and down, backwards and forwards across the marketplace.’

‘That’s true,’ Mother Crauford intervened. ‘But it’s only poor Peterkin. He often talks to young women yet he means no harm. No one takes offence.’

‘Of course they don’t,’ Corbett replied. ‘Look at him: innocent as a lamb. He wants to be accepted and chatters. Our killer recognised this. So, five years ago, young Peterkin is approached. He’s taught the doggerel, given the message-’

‘And why should he obey?’ Mother Crauford broke in.

‘Because the Mummer’s Man is frightening. He has a hideous mask. He threatens: if Peterkin doesn’t do what he says, the masters of the Bethlehem house will come with a cart and a whip. Poor Peterkin has seen that, haven’t you? When the parish gets rid of some beggar? Peterkin’s frightened.’

Corbett paused and glanced at Ranulf. In this dank cottage everything he had concentrated on the previous night now hung in the balance. He studied Peterkin’s sallow, unshaven face. The mouth hung slack but the eyes were not so frightened, more watchful.

‘Peterkin is also rewarded. Because the Mummer’s Man holds a rod in one hand but a coin in the other. All Peterkin has to do is go into Melford, seek out a certain young woman and deliver the message. Peterkin may have refused but, there again, why should you? Never, in all your woebegone days, have you earned a penny so quickly. You are given simple instructions. You are to approach the young woman when she is alone, never in a group. You are to tell her to keep quiet but, there again, she’s not going to tell anyone, is she?’