Paul Doherty - The Treason of the Ghosts

‘I felt dirty. When Molkyn married Ursula I told her. Who else could I confide in?’

‘And I protected you,’ Ursula retorted. ‘Whenever I could, I sent Margaret hither and thither. Widow Walmer helped. I think she suspected.’

‘I liked it there,’ Margaret continued dreamily. ‘She was very pretty. I think she was in love with Sir Roger and he with her.’

‘So you think he was innocent?’

‘I do.’

‘And did you tell your father that?’

‘I never spoke to my father. We were strangers. When someone cut his head off, I was glad that this terrible stranger was dead.’

‘Widow Walmer — ’ Corbett tried to ease the tension — ‘who do you think killed her?’

‘The day she died,’ Margaret replied, ‘she sent me a message not to come that night. I half suspected the reason why. I also knew about Sir Roger’s gift to her. After she was killed, I just thought Melford was a wicked place where people commit mortal sins.’

Corbett studied the girl closely. He wondered if the terrible abuse had slightly unhinged her wits, turned her mind.

‘Molkyn’s dead,’ he murmured. ‘He’ll answer to God for his crimes. Whom did you tell?’

‘I nearly told the priest, the young one, the one who died last night.’ She shook her head. ‘But who would believe me?’

‘I did,’ Ursula declared.

Corbett placed his elbows on the table. ‘And?’

‘I let you speculate, clerk, on my relationship with Molkyn: a drunk, a beater, an oaf, a man who abused his own daughter. Sometimes I felt as if I wanted to be sick in his face.’

‘That’s why you refused to go across to the mill on Saturdays?’

‘Of course! Let Molkyn drink, let him sleep like a hog. Do you know something, clerk, sometimes I considered killing him myself and setting the whole place alight. I used to pray that one evening he would stagger out and fall in the mere.’

‘And whom did you tell? Did you ever accuse Molkyn openly?’

‘I hinted at it.’

‘You confessed, didn’t you?’ Corbett murmured. ‘You found all these burdens too heavy: your marriage with Molkyn, Margaret’s abuse, Lucy and Ralph?’

She nodded. ‘Six years ago, on Ash Wednesday, I went to the shriving pew.’

‘With Curate Robert?’

‘No, no, he was too young. He was frightened of me,’ she added with a half-laugh. ‘There was a visiting friar but he wasn’t there so I sat in church crying. Parson Grimstone came in. I told him everything: my marriage, Margaret, Molkyn, Ralph and Lucy.’

‘And would he tell anyone else?’

‘How could he? He was under the seal of confession.’

‘Did Molkyn ever accuse you of telling anyone else?’

‘No.’ She placed her hands on the table. ‘But sometimes I’d catch that murderous look in his eyes. He’d sit where you are, glaring down at me. It was a matter we never talked about and I never went back to Parson Grimstone.’

‘And the night Molkyn died?’

‘We’ve told you the truth,’ Ursula replied. ‘We were happy. Molkyn went over to the mill, finished his work and settled down like the pig he was to drench his belly in ale. Someone came in, took his head and placed it on a tray which was sent floating across the mere. I am glad he has gone. So is Margaret.’

‘And have you,’ Corbett turned back to where the girl sat listlessly, ‘ever discussed your secret, Margaret?’

‘Never!’ Her head snapped back, eyes blazing with anger. ‘Do you know something, master clerk, I feel as if I’ve come back from the tomb. Molkyn’s rotting in his grave. I want to meet a good man and marry. I don’t want my shame proclaimed throughout Melford.’

Corbett got to his feet. ‘In which case I shall not trouble you again.’

He walked round, crouched beside the bench and took Margaret’s fingers in his. ‘Your hands are cold,’ he said softly. ‘Rest assured, your secret’s safe with me. Parson Grimstone will be leaving: God’s justice is going to be done and so is the King’s.’

He let her hands go, got to his feet, kissed her on the top of the head and went out into the yard.

‘Where’s Ralph?’

‘Locked himself in the mill,’ Ranulf smiled. ‘Said he had better things to do than argue with busybody clerks.’

‘And we are busybody,’ Corbett smiled.

They mounted their horses and went back along the trackway. Corbett was about to round the bend when a figure stepped out of a thicket so swiftly, Corbett’s horse shied. Corbett talked to it quickly, patting its neck.

‘I am sorry. I am sorry. .’ Sorrel pulled back her hood. A crude bandage covered the gash on her neck.

‘You’ve been hunting?’ Corbett asked, pointing to the sack she carried.

‘Rabbit snares.’ Her weather-beaten face creased in concern. ‘Another murder, clerk? Curate Robert? They say he’s hanged himself. Did he kill my poor Furrell?’

‘No, I don’t think he did. Tell me, Sorrel,’ Corbett grasped the reins and leant down, ‘couldn’t Furrell’s corpse have been hidden in a mire or swamp? I meant to ask you this yesterday.’

‘Spoken like a townsman,’ Sorrel retorted. ‘The swamps and marshes round here aren’t all that deep. And what goes down eventually comes back. Why?’ she asked. ‘Do you know where he’s buried?’

‘Yes, yes, I do. I know the exact place.’

‘Where?’ Sorrel dropped the sack and grasped the reins, her other hand clawing at Corbett’s knee.

Corbett smoothed the hair away from her face.

‘Trust me,’ he whispered. ‘Let me play this game out. Until then, stay in Melford!’

Sorrel let go of the reins. Corbett urged his horse forward and, followed by Ranulf and Chanson, rode along the trackway back into the town. On its outskirts, just past the church, Corbett reined in.

‘Ranulf, Chanson, I’ll break my fast in the Golden Fleece. You are to go out to Sir Louis Tressilyian and Sir Maurice Chapeleys. Bring them both to me. Tell them they must come on their loyalty to the King.’

‘Chapeleys and Tressilyian!’ Ranulf exclaimed.

‘Just bring them,’ Corbett declared. ‘Tell them I have matters to discuss!’

Corbett returned to the Golden Fleece where he broke his fast on salted pork, freshly baked bread, slices of cheese and a tankard of light ale. The taproom was fairly empty though, as he finished, others entered, calling in on their way to the market. The usual travellers: a relic-seller, with his tray of so-called blessed goods; tinkers selling ribbons attached to a pole; a travelling coppersmith; two hucksters with a badger, hoping to bait it against a dog. Strangers to the town, they shuffled in and kept to themselves. When Repton and others entered, Corbett decided it was time to leave. He went back up to his chamber and sat at the table, going through the conclusions he had reached earlier that morning. He’d only had a few hours’ sleep: his mind couldn’t settle but he felt pleased at the way his plan was unfolding. He was sorry for Margaret. Her pain he could not truly understand, but he might have brought her some measure of peace. Corbett thought about little Eleanor and wondered how any father could abuse his own daughter. To distract himself, he prepared the room for his visitors, ensuring both sword and dagger were within easy reach.

For a while Corbett dozed and was awoken by Ranulf’s loud tapping on the door. Chapeleys and Tressilyian entered. Both men were hurriedly dressed, unshaven, their hair tousled. Ranulf brought in stools and Corbett asked them to sit. Neither of them protested. Chapeleys looked nervous. Tressilyian had a half-smile on his face as if he knew what was to happen.

‘You have news?’ Sir Maurice began. ‘It must be urgent?’