Hugh Corbett 12 - The Treason of the Ghosts (24 page)

‘I know,’ Tressilyian replied. ‘But, according to Ysabeau, the knocking continued even after her husband was killed. She remembers that distinctly. She was in the bedchamber, heard the rapping on the door, the crash of her husband’s fall but the knocking continued.’

Corbett stood by the Judas squint. Try as he might, pretending to hold a crossbow in one hand, he couldn’t knock at the door: it was too far.

‘There would be another problem.’

Corbett peered through the Judas squint at Ranulf standing on the other side.

‘What’s that, Clerk of the Green Wax?’

‘Well,’ Ranulf’s voice sounded hollow, ‘Deverell was killed in the dead of night. It would be dark. How would you know when I appeared at the Judas squint? That’s why these spyholes exist, isn’t it? You’d only be allowed to loose one bolt and Deverell would be warned.’

Corbett asked them all to go back inside. He had the front door closed and stood in the porch. He knocked on the door. At the same time he pretended to hold a crossbow aimed at the Judas squint. Now he couldn’t reach that.

‘I can’t do both at once,’ he murmured.

He then told Ranulf to act the part of Deverell but this only complicated matters. He never knew when the soft-shoed Ranulf stood at the Judas squint. It would be even harder at night, Corbett confessed to himself. He opened the door and walked back into the kitchen. Were there two killers? he wondered. One who knocked at the door, the other positioned at the Judas squint, crossbow primed? But how would the killer know when Deverell approached?

‘You are sure,’ Corbett demanded of Blidscote, ‘that the knocking continued even as Deverell was killed?’

‘That’s what Ysabeau said.’

Corbett picked up the crumpled piece of parchment and turned it over. He noted the faint streaks of blood.

‘That’s Deverell’s?’

‘Oh yes,’ Blidscote replied.

Corbett walked back to the front door and stared out. The curious still thronged at the mouth of the alleyway. From where he stood Corbett could hear the hustle and bustle of the marketplace. Old Mother Crauford was standing in the front of the crowd, one hand resting on her stick, the other on the arm of the lank-haired, empty-faced, young man.

Peterkin, Corbett thought, the one who had found Molkyn’s head floating on the mere. The old woman raised her cane in greeting. Corbett was about to reply with a wave, then closed his eyes and laughed.

‘Master?’ Ranulf was standing behind him.

‘What I want, Ranulf, is a long piece of fire wood, a cloth and a small cup of wine.’

He followed his bemused companion back to the kitchen. Ranulf searched around and brought a long piece of kindling, a wet rag from the buttery and a pewter cup half-full of ale.

‘I couldn’t find a wine cask,’ Ranulf apologised.

‘Sir Hugh?’ Tressilyian, sitting on a bench near the fireside, got up.

‘Please sit here and see what happens,’ Corbett invited him. ‘Ranulf, you pretend to be the carpenter. When I knock on the door, do what you think Deverell did last night. Don’t flinch or delay.’

Ranulf agreed. Corbett went outside, pulling the door closed. He put the cup of ale down, rolled the wet cloth in a ball and pushed it down the Judas squint as far as he could. He then grasped the piece of kindling in one hand, the cup of ale in the other. He stood by the spyhole and used the stick to rap on the front door. He heard a movement within followed by Ranulf’s exclamation. The piece of rag was removed and, as it was, Corbett threw the contents of the cup into the spyhole. Ranulf’s curse was long and colourful.

‘That’s how it was done,’ Corbett declared, coming back into the kitchen. ‘There weren’t two killers, just one. He put that piece of parchment into the spyhole and brought the primed crossbow up to rest on the ledge, the bolt aimed to hit anyone who stood on the other side. It was dark, the killer knew about Deverell’s fears so he kept tapping insistently on the door with a stick or a cane. He wouldn’t hear him come to the spyhole but he’d hear and see the parchment being removed. Once it was, he let slip the catch and the crossbow bolt took Deverell full in the face.’

‘Is that possible?’ Blidscote stammered.

‘It’s logical,’ Corbett replied. ‘And very easy. Imagine Deverell being frightened. He hears a constant rapping at the door. He thinks he’s safe. Deverell knew his own house: you can’t knock on the door and stare through the Judas squint at the same time. He doesn’t realise the killer is using a cane. He goes to the spyhole to stare out but becomes confused. His view is blocked by that ball of parchment. He naturally pulls it out: that’s the sign for the killer. He sees a pale reflection of light from the kitchen, knows that Deverell is standing there, the crossbow bolt is primed. One simple touch of his finger and the bolt is sent speeding through. Deverell wouldn’t have known what was happening. He is still curious about the piece of parchment. Perhaps he thinks it’s a message. He has been drinking, his wits are dull, he doesn’t move away. In a few heartbeats he’s dead, staggering to collapse on the kitchen floor. The crumpled piece of parchment rolls out of his fingers. He didn’t even have time to read it.’

Sir Maurice clapped his hand gently. ‘Well done, Sir Hugh, but who is the killer and why?’

‘I don’t know who but I do know why. Deverell gave evidence at your father’s trial, how he saw Sir Roger fleeing along Gully Lane on the night Widow Walmer was killed. Sir Louis, I truly believe that was a lie and an innocent man was executed.’

‘So soon?’ Sir Maurice’s face had paled. ‘You have reached that conclusion so soon?’

‘Sir Maurice, you don’t have to be a scholar of great wit or learning: Molkyn and Thorkle have been murdered, now Deverell.’

‘Why?’ Sir Maurice asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Corbett replied, ‘whether it’s to punish them or to close their mouths for ever. What we have is a continuation of the horrid murders of young women and now the grisly deaths of some of those who played a prominent part in your father’s trial.’ Corbett rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t know whether we are dealing with one killer or two.’

‘And there was the attack on me,’ Tressilyian said sharply.

‘Yes, Sir Louis, there was.’ Corbett slapped Blidscote on the shoulder. ‘If I were you, master bailiff, I’d walk most warily at night. Sir Louis, you have the other jurymen?’

‘I told them to meet in the taproom of the Golden Fleece. There should be ten but only five remain. In the last few years the others have died.’ His face broke into a cold smile. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Sir Hugh, apart from Molkyn and Thorkle, they died of natural causes.’

Blidscote was now moving from foot to foot, nervously clasping at his groin.

‘Am I in danger, Sir Hugh? I did nothing wrong!’

Corbett went across. ‘Of wetting yourself, Master Blidscote,’ he whispered into his ear. ‘For all our sakes, if you wish to relieve yourself, go!’

Blidscote hurried down the passageway. Corbett wondered if he should question the bailiff now, but what proof of corruption or complicity did he have? Blidscote would deny any wrongdoing. He had to or he’d hang.

The clerk went and squatted down beside Ysabeau. She seemed more composed now, no longer talking to herself. She lifted her eyes and smiled slyly at him. Corbett was chilled by the look. The woman’s wits were certainly disturbed. Corbett felt a pang of grief, of deep regret. Deverell had died because of the King’s clerk’s arrival in Melford. Justice had to be done but the price would be heavy.

‘I am sorry,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Mistress, I deeply regret your husband’s death. God be my witness, I did not want his blood on my hands!’

Ysabeau just glanced at the bailiff, who’d returned.

‘Tell me,’ Corbett looked up at the neighbour, ‘how many people knew about the Judas squint?’

‘Not many,’ the neighbour answered. ‘Deverell, God rest him, was a man who kept to himself but, there again, people did call to place orders.’

Corbett looked over his shoulder. ‘Master Blidscote, did you know about this?’

‘I did and I didn’t,’ came the defensive reply. ‘True, I visited here but I’d always forget it.’

‘Sir Louis? Sir Maurice?’

Both knights shook their heads.

‘Have there been any strangers at the house?’ Corbett asked.

Ysabeau’s gaze didn’t shift.

‘I glimpsed a friar,’ the neighbour replied. ‘One of those wandering priests, ragged and dirty. He came here recently. Deverell called him a nuisance. He only left when he was given some food and drink.’

‘Anyone else?’ Corbett demanded.

The woman shook her head.

‘I’ll look upstairs,’ Corbett declared. ‘I want to view the corpse.’

He left the rest and climbed the broad polished stairs to the small gallery. The door to the bedchamber was open, a well-furnished room with gleaming furniture which matched the carved woodwork of the four-poster bed. Corbett went across and looked through the window. A crowd still gathered below. Burghesh had joined them. The church bell began to toll and Corbett realised St Edmund’s would be getting ready for the funeral of Elizabeth the wheelwright’s daughter.

He moved back to the bed and pulled aside the drapes. Deverell’s corpse was hidden beneath a bloody sheet. He carefully peeled this back and flinched at the terrible wound. The crossbow bolt had been shot very close, reducing one side of the carpenter’s face to a bloody pulp. The bolt had entered just beneath the eye: a piteous, hideous sight. Corbett murmured the requiem. Surely God would have mercy on this man, so full of fear, sent so quickly into the dark?

Although Corbett felt a deep regret, he knew the root cause of Deverell’s murder was Sir Roger’s death. Deverell had certainly lied at the trial, but why? What had forced this wealthy craftsman to perjure himself, to send a man to the gallows? Who in Melford could exercise such power, exploit fearful nightmares? Had Deverell himself begun to regret his sin? Was he the one who had daubed Chapeleys’ tomb, pinned the notice to the gallows post? Indeed, had Deverell been the stranger who had so mysteriously assaulted him the previous evening, a fearful man who had lashed out but then panicked and fled?

‘A terrible death,’ Corbett murmured, pulling over the blood-soaked sheets. He heard a sound behind him; it must be Ranulf. ‘I’ve seen many corpses but each time is different.’

Again the floorboard creaked. Corbett whirled round. Ysabeau was creeping towards him, a broad-bladed knife in her hand. Corbett was trapped by the bed behind him. He moved sideways. She moved with him. She shifted her grip. Those black eyes never left Corbett. The clerk knew he was in mortal danger. Ysabeau had one thought only: to kill the man responsible for her husband’s death. Corbett moved away. She moved with him. He feinted to draw her in but she kept on the balls of her feet like a dancer. Corbett had no choice. He moved closer. Ysabeau was quicker, the knife snaking out, but he caught her wrist: her strength surprised him. He put one hand on the wrist holding the dagger. He tried to cup his other hand beneath her chin to force her away. She was tense and taut as a bowstring.

Corbett began to panic. He wanted to defend himself but, try as he might, he could not hurt this woman. She was no footpad or outlaw, only demented with grief. He pushed her back against the half-opened door.

‘Ranulf!’ he screamed.

Ysabeau, eyes blazing with hate, suddenly brought her other hand round and clawed Corbett’s face. The clerk hit her, sending her out on to the gallery to collide with Ranulf. She turned. Ranulf lashed out with his boot, kicking the knife out of her hand. Others were hurrying up the stairs as Ranulf seized her in a vicelike grip, pinioning her arms to her side.

‘You whoreson!’ The froth flecked Ysabeau’s lips. ‘You gallows bird!’

She struggled against Ranulf. The clerk held her fast. The neighbour appeared, a cup in her hand. Ranulf dragged the unfortunate woman down the gallery, kicked open the door to a chamber and threw her in. The neighbour, accompanied by Blidscote, followed, slamming the door behind them. Corbett heard the bolts being drawn. He dabbed the cut on his face, then picked up the knife and tossed it down the stairs.

‘I am sorry,’ Sir Maurice gasped. ‘One minute she was sitting there, then she said she wanted to view her husband’s corpse and apologise to you. She must have had the knife hidden away.’

‘It’s all right. It’s all right,’ Corbett breathed.

He went back to the bedchamber, splashed water over his hands and face, drying himself on a linen cloth.

‘It’s only a small scratch,’ Ranulf declared briskly. ‘It will make you look more handsome.’

‘Thank you, Ranulf.’

Corbett wiped some water from his eyebrows.

‘She was strong. Sir Louis, you are the local justice, yes? I want you to send Chanson downstairs for an apothecary or physician. The woman needs a sleeping potion. She should be guarded day and night. At least,’ he added drily, ‘until I leave Melford. I am also going to search this house.’

‘You can’t do that,’ the justice retorted. ‘You have no warrant.’

Corbett tapped his pouch. ‘I have all the warrants I need. You can wait for me in the kitchen below. Ranulf will be your host.’

Once they had left, Corbett closed the door behind them and began his search: coffers, aumbrys, chests, but they contained nothing untoward. Most of what he found was connected with Deverell’s trade: receipts, ledgers, as well as different purchases. The bedchamber yielded nothing.

Corbett went downstairs. Ignoring the rest, he searched the kitchen and the small parlour. He found a little chancery or writing office behind it. The door was locked. Ranulf found the keys and Corbett went inside.

A narrow, dusty chamber with one small window high in the wall; a tall writing-desk and stool. Corbett lit the candles. He had to force the desk, but again nothing. The small coffer beneath it, however, with its three locks, looked more interesting. A search was made and the keys found in the dead man’s purse. Corbett undid the three locks and pulled back the lid. It contained a small breviary, a Book of Hours, not a collection of prayers but the Divine Office: Prime, Matins, Lauds. The writing was the careful script of some monk, the pages well thumbed.