Paul Doherty - A haunt of murder

‘What can I do?’ Ralph whispered. He stared up at the interlacing branches. The weather had turned cold, dark clouds scudded in to block out the sun. ‘If I drink, I become sottish. If I work, my mind becomes distracted.’ He beat his fist against his thigh. ‘Why?’ he screamed, his voice echoing round the empty glade. ‘Why, Beatrice, did you climb the parapet walk at night?’

Doubts pushed away his grief, and allowed reason to surface. Beatrice was not frightened of heights. She had often walked along the parapet at the dead of night. She knew the dangers. She was safe as long as she kept to the wall. The night had been calm. No rain or wind. So how had she fallen? He recalled her corpse, laid out in its coffin before the chapel altar. Lady Anne and her tiring-women had done their best to dress the body for burial. Ralph had inspected the wounds and bruises most closely. The terrible fall had left its mark. Father Aylred, however, had whispered about the great bruise on the right side of Beatrice’s head. Had that occurred before the fall? The priest seemed agitated so Ralph had questioned him.

‘Why, Father, do you think it is significant?’

They had been standing alone in the small sacristy. Father Aylred put his fingers to his lips; he closed the door, turning the key in the lock.

‘I am just worried, Ralph.’ The little priest’s face was pale and unshaven. ‘Nightmares plague my sleep; I am troubled by doubts and worries.’

Ralph had only half listened, eager to return and sit beside the coffin before the lid was sealed for ever. ‘Father, this is not the time or the place.’

‘No, no, it isn’t.’ And the priest picked up a pruning knife to trim one of the purple candles for the Requiem Mass.

Ralph pulled his cloak firmly about him. The grove was dark, it looked threatening. He half smiled as he recalled the frightening stories he had told Beatrice, more the work of his imagination than anything else. He heard a twig snap and whirled round. Someone was in the trees behind him.

‘Who’s there?’ he called.

‘Ralph!’ His name came in a loud whisper.

The clerk felt the hair on his neck curl with fear. He scrambled to his feet, his hand going to the knife in his belt. He peered through the gloom. The trees were so close together, the brambles and gorse sprouted high. Were his wits wandering?

Ralph cursed the wine he had drunk; he felt unsteady on his feet, slightly sick. He should leave here. The castle was already in uproar. Goodman Winthrop’s corpse had been brought back on a cart. The tax collector’s clothing was drenched in blood from the gaping wounds to his back and throat. Sir John had muttered about rebels and miscreants, and loudly cursed the stupidity of the tax collector for wandering alone around the taverns and ale-houses of Maldon. He’d sent urgent messages to London; the barons of the Exchequer would not be pleased, commissioners and soldiers would be sent. Sir John Grasse would feel their wrath until the killers were brought to justice. Were these same assassins in Devil’s Spinney now? wondered Ralph. A jay flew up in a flurry of black and white feathers. He must not stand like a maudlin sot; his grief, like his hands and his feet, were now part of him and he would have to bear it.

Ralph picked up the wineskin and, whirling it round his head, threw it into the undergrowth. As he staggered back along the trackway leading out on to the heathland, he quietly cursed his foolishness. ‘You should be careful what you drink,’ Beatrice had always warned him. ‘You do not have a strong head for ale or wine.’

The clerk paused, closing his eyes against the hot tears which threatened.

‘If you were only here, Beatrice! If you were only here, I’d let you nag me until the end of time!’

He stumbled on. The spinney was quiet, even the birdsong had died. Ralph recalled the stories and legends about the place. Wasn’t it near here that little Phoebe had been found murdered? He hurried on. His foot caught on something and he crashed to the ground. He twisted over, and even as he did, the club caught him on the side of the head. Ralph did not lose consciousness though the pain was intense. He struggled to get up but a kick to the stomach winded him and he collapsed, his face scored by the pebbled trackway. He was dragged, his cloak being used like a rope, tightening round his neck. He couldn’t resist. He was aware of brambles and briars ripping his hose. A boot came off. He tried to struggle but couldn’t. He was pushed, his body rolled, then he felt the ground beneath him give way. Was he dreaming? Was he falling? He tried to concentrate, to ignore the pain. He kicked out with his legs but it was hard. He stared down and noticed green slime oozing over his thighs. He had been knocked on the head and dragged only a few yards to one of the treacherous mires, the small but deep marshes which peppered Devil’s Spinney. The shock brought him to his senses. He was sinking. He flailed about, screaming and yelling.

‘Ah, sweet Jesu miserere!’ he prayed.

He remembered that the more he struggled, the quicker he’d sink. He tried to calm his mind, allow his body to float. He managed to turn over but the movement took him down a little further. The thick green mud was now pulling at his body as if invisible hands at the bottom of the marsh were clutching at him.

Ralph tried to ignore the pain, stretching his arms out to grasp the branches of a bush growing near the mire. He flung himself forward but the bush seemed to have a life of its own. His fingers missed. The mire crept above his stomach. Ralph was consious of sounds, strange noises; the sky was turning an eerie bronze. He lunged again, his hand caught the bush.

‘Oh, please!’ he prayed. ‘Please, God, don’t break!’

The bush was old and tough, it took his weight. Slowly but surely, Ralph pulled himself towards it, ignoring the pain. Then he was beneath it, grasping the broad stem. He pulled himself out, almost grateful for the way the harsh branches cut and marked him. At least he was alive. The bush had saved his life. He crawled up through the undergrowth then rolled on his side and stared back. The mire was now peaceful again, the green surface unmarked, its treacherous depths hidden.

Ralph lay sobbing for a while before pulling himself to his feet. His whole body ached. He was missing one boot, the other was so muddy he took it off and threw it into the trees. He touched his still bleeding face and felt his head where the assailant had struck him. He staggered along the path and out on to the heathland.

Beardsmore saw him first. Before Ralph had reached the drawbridge, Sir John Grasse, Father Aylred and Theobald Vavasour, accompanied by soldiers, hastened out to meet him.

‘I was attacked,’ Ralph stammered. ‘I don’t know who. In Devil’s Spinney. I was thrown into the mire.’

Sir John shouted out orders. Father Aylred helped Ralph across the bailey. They placed him in the guestroom. Father Aylred talked to him as if he was a child, pulling off his muddy clothes. Theobald helped. They washed away the mud from the cuts and bruises. The physician pushed a cup between his lips.

‘Drink,’ he urged. ‘Drink and then you will feel better.’

Ralph obeyed. He was aware of Adam coming into the room, Marisa behind him.

‘We heard what happened, Ralph. I was in the herb garden with Marisa.’

‘They tried to kill me,’ Ralph whispered. He felt his eyes grow heavy and he drifted into a deep sleep.

Later that day, as darkness fell, Ralph washed and dressed in new clothes, and joined the others in the great hall of the castle. He found the room more sombre than usual with its heavy hammer-beam roof and the axes, hauberks and shields nailed to the wall. The long trestle tables were bare, but glowing braziers kept the chill away and hunting dogs snouted among the rushes for scraps of food.