Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘Oh my God!’ Mother Crauford groaned. ‘Oh, sweet Mary and all the saints!’ The old woman was now following Corbett’s logic.

‘A simple ruse,’ Corbett continued, pressing his point. ‘Peterkin delivers the message. A short while later that young woman’s corpse is found out in the countryside-’

‘Peterkin wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ Mother Crauford interrupted.

‘I didn’t say he did but Peterkin is now truly trapped. He must have remembered the victim was the same young woman to whom he delivered the message. But you can’t tell anyone, can you, Peterkin? The Mummer’s Man, the next time he approached you, reminded you of that. Ah well.’ Corbett sighed. ‘Peterkin is now very frightened. This dreadful Mummer’s Man truly has him by the neck. If he confesses what has happened, who will believe Peterkin? People will start pointing the finger. You wouldn’t be the first man, Peterkin, to be strung up like a rat on the town gibbet.’

Peterkin’s jaw was now trembling. He started to shake, one hand going out towards Mother Crauford.

‘He’s just a fool,’ the old woman repeated.

‘Not as dull as you think, Mother Crauford. And you know that! Haven’t you ever wondered why Peterkin is eating a pie or a sweetmeat? Or how he bought some gewgaw from the market stalls?’

‘People are kind,’ she retorted.

‘Oh, I am sure they are,’ Corbett declared. ‘But let’s go back five years. Sir Roger Chapeleys was accused of the murders. He died on the gibbet. The murder of the young women abruptly ended and so did the visits from the Mummer’s Man, or at least I think they did. But, late in the summer of this year, the Mummer’s Man reappears. Peterkin has no choice but to obey his instructions. Somehow or other you took the message to Elizabeth the wheelwright’s daughter, didn’t you?’

Mother Crauford seized Peterkin’s hand, rubbing it between hers.

‘You have no proof of this,’ she whispered to Corbett. Her hand went out and clutched Peterkin’s face.

Corbett wondered about the true relationship between these two. Some blood tie? Some kinship? Everybody in Melford acted their roles. Blidscote, the pompous master bailiff, Adela the bold-eyed tavern wench. Why not Mother Crauford and Peterkin? She, the old crone, but in reality her mind and memory were sharp and fresh as anyone’s, as Corbett’s study of the Book of the Dead had proved. And Peterkin? In truth, he led quite a comfortable life: dull in his wits but not the fool he pretended to be.

‘They could hang you.’ Ranulf spoke up, wondering how his master had discovered this information.

‘What do you mean?’ Mother Crauford snapped. ‘They couldn’t hang Peterkin!’

‘They would,’ Ranulf retorted. ‘And you beside him. Don’t you understand the word “accomplice”? Sir Hugh is correct. Some people might even allege Peterkin’s the murderer. You can tell from his face he is being confronted with the truth.’

‘You could hang.’ Corbett leant forward. ‘You must have known what the Mummer’s Man really intended. But, there again, you were frightened, weren’t you, whilst, after the first murder, you had no choice.’ He glanced at Mother Crauford. ‘And I wonder how much you knew? Did Peterkin ever tell, or begin to tell you, what had happened? Did you press your finger against his lips and so help the Mummer’s Man in his murderous games? Oh, you knew Peterkin wouldn’t hurt a fly. After all, such murders were taking place in Melford long before Peterkin was born. Yet, I tell you this,’ Corbett concluded briskly. ‘If Peterkin tells the truth he gets rewarded. Some coins and a letter, with the King’s Seal on it, proclaiming he is never to be troubled by anyone. And when the new priest arrives. .’ Corbett paused: he could have bitten his tongue off. ‘In future years, perhaps, even a small annuity for Peterkin and Mother Crauford from the parish chest?’

Peterkin stopped his gibbering, a calculating look in his eyes.

‘And, before Mother Crauford starts talking about the truth,’ Corbett added, ‘Peterkin must also be puzzled: sometimes he delivered the message but nothing happened because the young woman concerned didn’t go or went too soon or too late.’

‘Like whom?’ Mother Crauford demanded.

‘Adela the tavern wench.’

‘Oh no.’ Mother Crauford tightened her grip on Peterkin’s hand. ‘Not that bold-eyed, loud-mouthed hussy. It’s a wonder she wasn’t suspicious.’

‘Nothing happened to her,’ Corbett smiled. ‘So why should she be? And everyone knows Peterkin. Isn’t it true, Mother Crauford, some years ago, long before this spate of murders began, Peterkin was used by love swains to take messages to their sweethearts? That’s why the Mummer’s Man chose him in the first place. However, if I went back to the Golden Fleece and told Adela the true story. .’

‘Peterkin’s been stupid,’ the simpleton mumbled, head down. ‘Peterkin’s been wicked.’

‘Look at me!’ Corbett ordered.

The man raised his head. Corbett judged the woebegone look genuine: beneath the dirt and stubble, Peterkin’s face had paled.

‘Where did he meet you?’ Corbett demanded.

‘He’d wait for me,’ came the stumbled reply, ‘at the bottom of the lane. At first I was curious.’

‘How tall was he?’ Corbett asked.

‘I don’t know. He made me stand behind an oak, he was on the other side. Sometimes his face would peep round. The mask was hideous, red like blood. He carried. .’ Peterkin imitated a bracelet round his wrist.

‘A cord?’ Corbett asked. ‘With a bell on it?’

‘Yes. That’s why I knew he was there. I’d go out early in the morning. Most times there’s a mist. I’d hear the bell tinkle. At first I thought it was some silly jape. He told me how he knew who I was. He said he had the ear of Justice Tressilyian. Yes.’ Peterkin licked his lips. ‘That’s how he put it. He knew about the way I spied on the young women. How in summer I followed couples out into the countryside. He also claimed I had stolen things: that he’d tell Master Blidscote, who would put me in the stocks.’

‘So, he taught you the rhyme?’ Corbett asked.

‘Yes, he did, but no name was mentioned at first. He returned a few mornings later; ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling his bell would ring. He asked me to repeat the rhyme and I did so. Then he told me to take a message to this person or that.’ He shook his head. ‘I forget who.’

‘Then, eventually, the name of his first victim?’

‘Yes.’ Peterkin blinked. ‘I thought it was all a harmless game. Poor Peterkin.’ He clasped his hands together and stared beseechingly at Corbett. ‘Poor Peterkin didn’t know.’

‘And what did the Mummer’s Man order you to do?’

‘I must find the young woman by herself: I had a great secret for her so she was to tell no one. Only when she had solemnly promised and crossed herself did I give the message.’

‘What happened?’ Ranulf asked, getting up and coming forward, intrigued by how this cunning murderer had worked. ‘What happened?’ he repeated. ‘Young Elizabeth, the last victim — what did she do?’

‘I found her in the lane coming from the marketplace.’ Peterkin closed his eyes. ‘ “Elizabeth,” I said, “I have a great secret for you.” “Oh, Peterkin, don’t be silly,” she replied. “No, no,” I whispered. “It’s true.”

‘Then you showed her a coin, didn’t you?’ Corbett asked.

Peterkin, now terrified, nodded.

‘You said how an admirer had given you that coin so Elizabeth knew you weren’t jesting? Yes?’

The simpleton agreed. ‘ “Oh, Peterkin,” she said. “Who is it?” I shook my head. I was sworn not to tell her. I delivered the message and ran away.’