Hugh Corbett 12 - The Treason of the Ghosts (32 page)

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.’

‘Skilful,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Everyone’s trapped. Peterkin must deliver the message. He’s told to show the victim a coin so she’ll believe him. Now, do you understand, Mother?’

‘I do.’ The old woman’s eyes brimmed with tears. ‘God knows, poor Elizabeth wouldn’t dream of telling anyone else. They’d either follow her to the place or race her to it. Of course, no one really believes poor Peterkin. It might be some madcap notion. She wouldn’t want to appear foolish . . .’

‘Yes, but Elizabeth, like the other victims, had her curiosity whetted. Peterkin’s message was so clear yet so mysterious. The town’s simpleton had been paid to carry it so it must mean something. She wouldn’t dare tell anyone and so sealed her own fate.’

‘What was his voice like?’ Ranulf asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Peterkin wailed. ‘A soft voice.’

‘Have you ever heard it before?’

‘For God’s sake, Sir Hugh!’ Mother Crauford exclaimed. ‘The man wore a mask!’

‘Did you ever follow him out?’ Ranulf asked.

Peterkin, eyes terrified, shook his head.

‘After the first death what could I do?’ he wailed. Peterkin rubbed his hands together, tears streaking his dirty face. ‘I was frightened, I was frightened. Where could I go to? Poor Peterkin!’ He beat his chest.

Corbett glanced at Ranulf and shook his head. Peterkin acted more stupid that he really was but what he said possessed its own logic. He was like a trained dog, governed by greed and fear, sent hither and thither on his master’s commands.

‘You’ll catch him.’

Mother Crauford glanced up at Corbett, who now got to his feet, tightening his war belt.

‘Oh, I’ll catch him. Like a bird in a net. And then I’ll hang him, Mother Crauford, on the scaffold outside Melford, like the cruel soul he is.’

Corbett walked to the door. He put his hands on the latch.

‘And now you know why I call this place Haceldema?’ she called after him.

‘Oh yes, Mother, I do.’

Corbett glanced back. Mother Crauford had dried her tears.

‘You had your suspicions from the start, didn’t you?’

Mother Crauford blinked away her cunning look.

‘Couldn’t you have done something?’ Corbett asked.

‘I am an old woman, clerk. I haven’t got a bullyboy.’ She plucked at her dusty gown. ‘I don’t carry sword and dagger. Nor can I produce the King’s Writ, with a piece of wax on the end, telling everyone to stand aside and bow their heads. You talk of help? How could I mumble my suspicions? Have you ever seen a woman burnt for witchcraft, Sir Hugh? Watched her old body hang above the flames whilst her eyes bubble and her skin shrivels like that of rotten fruit? Don’t act the preacher with me!’

Corbett smiled grimly and nodded in agreement. They went out to where Chanson was holding their horses. Corbett refused to answer Ranulf’s questions but swung himself into the saddle, riding ahead during their short journey up to the mill.

This time Corbett did not stand on ceremony. When Ralph the miller came out, shouting and gesticulating that he was a busy man, Corbett rapped out an order. Ranulf drew his sword and brought the flat of its blade down on the young man’s shoulder.

‘Keep a civil tongue in your head!’ the Clerk of the Green Wax warned. ‘My master has a terrible temper.’

Corbett swung himself out of the saddle, gave the reins to Chanson and pushed open the kitchen door. Ursula was standing by the fire. She was not fully dressed but wearing a dark-brown robe fringed with squirrel fur, tied round the waist by a cord. She didn’t look so pretty now, her face heavy-eyed with sleep. She pushed the hair away from her face.

‘I thought you were Molkyn,’ she said archly. ‘He used to come charging in like that.’

‘Molkyn’s dancing with the devil!’ Corbett snapped. ‘And what a dance it will be, eh, Ursula? Your husband was corrupt, a dishonest bullyboy, and those are just his petty crimes.’

‘What do you mean?’ Ursula’s face paled.

‘Why did you send Margaret to be Widow Walmer’s companion? To get her out of the house? Away from Molkyn?’

‘Why?’ she stuttered.

‘I’ve been to many towns and villages, Mistress. I have seen what happens to men who commit incest with their daughters, who abuse their own children! A sin which stinks in the eyes of God and man!’

‘How dare you?’

‘Oh, I dare,’ Corbett replied. He stared round the kitchen. ‘You are Molkyn’s second wife, aren’t you? How old was Margaret when Molkyn lurched into her bedchamber? Twelve, thirteen?’

‘How do you know all this? It’s a lie!’

‘Is it?’ Corbett asked. ‘Molkyn may have killed his first wife. He certainly abused his daughter and, when you married him, you stumbled on his little nest of hideous secrets. But you are a good woman, aren’t you, Ursula, behind the bold glance and pert reply? You protected Margaret. You warned Molkyn. Someone else learnt the miller’s secret. When Molkyn was chosen by that lazy, dishonest bastard Blidscote to sit on the jury and try Sir Roger Chapeleys, the time of retribution had arrived. Molkyn was blackmailed: find Chapeleys guilty or all of Melford would discover his secret sin.’

Corbett sat down on a chair at the table.

‘And what else was Molkyn told? Suspicions about his first wife’s death? Or that his second wife, pretty and winsome, had entertained Sir Roger on more than one occasion when Molkyn was away?’

Ursula swayed slightly on her feet. She went across to a cupboard and, opening it, splashed wine into a goblet. She drank it greedily, the drops running down her chin.

‘I wonder who knew,’ Corbett said. ‘For the first time in Molkyn’s life, he was trapped. Motivated by fear and the lust for vengeance, he hammered the nails into Sir Roger’s coffin, he and Thorkle.’

Ursula sat down and clutched the table.

‘It’s a pity Lucy isn’t here.’ Corbett rose and slammed the door shut. ‘She has a lot to hide as well, doesn’t she? Molkyn was told other secrets. How Lucy lusted after young Ralph, Molkyn’s son. Thorkle was more pliant. No man likes to be proclaimed a cuckold. Molkyn wanted Sir Roger’s death and he had been given information about Thorkle. I can imagine it happening. Do what I say, Molkyn would bully Thorkle, or they’ll be planting cuckold horns on you for as long as you live. I don’t think Thorkle would need much persuasion. He, like Molkyn and the rest, had no love for Sir Roger.’

‘You have no proof.’ Ursula tried to reassert herself.

‘Yes he does, Mother.’

Margaret, in a nightshift, a cloak about her, sandals in her hands, had crept quietly down the stairs to stand in the shadows. She came forward and crouched by the fire, stretching out her hands.

‘You are well, master clerk?’

She looked over her shoulder, her pale face lit by a smile. Her beauty looked fragile in the morning light, blonde hair cascading down to her shoulders.

‘When you first came here I thought you’d be back. The King’s crow, ready to pick at the rottenness in our lives. Oh yes, that’s what they call you,’ she smiled. ‘The King’s crow: dark-eyed and sharp-beaked, eh?’

She got to her feet and sat on the bench between Corbett and her mother.

‘Our Father who art in Heaven,’ she intoned. ‘Do you know what my idea of a father is?’ Margaret’s blue eyes filled with tears, lips quivered but she controlled herself. ‘What was your father like, Corbett? Did he come to tuck you into bed at night? My father joined me in mine. Molkyn with his big, burly body and heavy hands.’

‘And you confessed this?’ Corbett asked. He hid his own sorrow at the hurt in this young woman’s face.

‘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.’