Hugh Corbett 12 - The Treason of the Ghosts (35 page)

‘I told you. We are half-brothers and he was a good priest.’

‘Oh, I am sure you did your best to hide your bloodlust. You may have even struggled against the different demons which ravage your cruel soul. But old habits die hard, eh, Burghesh? You are a clever soldier. You know how to muffle the hoofs of a horse. Melford had also grown, become even more prosperous, the countryside more lonely: copses, woods, forests, grass-filled meadows and hedgerows, which turn the narrow lanes into little more than trenches, a place crisscrossed by old footpaths and trackways. Melford is so easy to slip in and out of, no walls or barred gates. So you go hunting again, dressed in your mummer’s mask.’

‘Mummer’s mask?’

‘Yes, a mummer’s mask. Something you had picked up on your travels or found here in Melford. Usually you would carry it in your saddle horn, perhaps in a bag or under a cloth. It was your disguise, just in case any of your victims ever escaped. At first you were careful. You preyed on the vulnerable, the weak, the traveller’s girl, the tinker’s wife or daughter, the occasional itinerant whore. You attacked, raped and murdered. God knows where some of their poor corpses lie, though I’ll come to that in a while.’

‘If you have no corpses, you have no proof!’ Burghesh retorted. ‘Sir Hugh, you are supposed to be a King’s clerk. All I hear are empty theories, hollow threats. What you say about me could be said about many a man in Melford.’

‘True.’

Corbett spread his hands and wondered where on earth Ranulf was. Burghesh had closed the thick heavy oaken door. Corbett hid his disquiet. If Ranulf came into this church he would think it empty, perhaps go looking for him elsewhere?

‘You are a hunter, Burghesh, of the soft flesh of innocents. You strut around Melford as the friend and confidant of the parish priest. You sit here in church and study the congregation like a fox eyes chickens in a farmyard. Melford has changed, hasn’t it? The young women are better fed, better clothed, have more time on their hands. The market draws them in. You see them there with their pretty faces, swelling bosoms. Your lust grows: no more the tattered traveller, the dirty slattern. But how do you trap them?’

Corbett paused. He watched the weight on the bell rope slide a little further down the recess.

‘So you chose Peterkin the simpleton. You lured him into taking messages to this woman or that. Peterkin was used to doing that. You taught him a simple doggerel verse which few young women could resist, especially if Peterkin was so urging, and showed that he had been paid to carry such a message. How could any young woman not be curious? Yet, she’d keep quiet, wouldn’t she, lest others find out or the message proved false? She would not wish to be made a fool of. After all, who would blame poor Peterkin? Your first victim rose to the bait. She went to some lonely spot and you were waiting. Most of the murders apparently occurred in the early evening. You raped, you murdered with that damnable mask over your face. You hid the corpse and then slipped back into Melford.’ Corbett shrugged.

‘The nightmare had begun!’

‘Don’t you suffer guilt?’ Corbett taunted. ‘In the early hours of the morning, or at night, do the ghosts gather round your bed? Have you no fear of God or justice?’

‘I like a good story,’ came the mocking reply.

‘Elizabeth the wheelwright’s daughter -’ Corbett continued matter-of-factly - ‘her ghost is here. As I came into church I prayed to her. Perhaps she is the best example to use. You approached poor Peterkin, as you always did, gave him a coin, made him repeat the message. Normally Elizabeth would ignore Peterkin but she’s young, full of wayward notions. Peterkin is earnest and has been paid to deliver a message. So, on that fateful evening, she goes to her secret place in the copse of woods near Devil’s Oak. She meets her death: you, with that heinous mask across your face, the belt-bracelet you wear jingling on your wrist. You attacked, raped and murdered her. Once the bloodlust was past, you carefully removed the corpse to a hedge, near Devil’s Oak. Perhaps you intended to come back and hide it. If you had your way, maybe you would have hidden all the corpses, except for Widow Walmer’s.’

‘So, I am guilty of her death as well?’

‘Yes, five years ago, you killed at least three women. You would have killed again but something strange happened. Sir Roger Chapeleys gave the church a triptych. God knows why. A gift? An expression of guilt and remorse?’ Corbett undid the wallet on his belt and drew out the crude drawing he had found in Curate Robert’s room.

‘Do you recognise this, Burghesh? In the background, a picture of Christ crucified; in the forefront, three figures. The central one is a priest, the man on his right looks like a clerk; he might be a curate or perhaps an angel. The one on his left is this figure wearing a mask. Do you see it? Jerkin, leggings and boots and, on his face, a mask similar to a mummer’s. You thought Chapeleys was poking fun, hinting at the truth. The central figure being Parson Grimstone, the clerk Curate Robert and this mummer’s figure, your good self.’

‘True, I never liked the painting,’ Burghesh sneered. ‘I was glad when someone burnt it.’

‘No, you burnt it lest someone read the same message you did. Do you know, Burghesh, I don’t think Roger Chapeleys was hinting at anything. Such drawings are quite common in London churches. The man on the priest’s right represents the wisdom of the world and the figure on the left its foolishness. It’s a reference to a quotation from St Paul. It underlines temptations facing many priests and exhorts them to ignore both.’

Corbett could tell from Burghesh’s eyes that he had struck home.

‘You are a fool,’ Corbett continued. ‘It wasn’t an accusation levelled against anyone. You took it as a personal insult, a subtle accusation of your bloody deeds. I wager you realised that later. If Sir Roger had truly suspected you, he would have accused you in open court.’

Burghesh opened and closed his mouth.

‘Sir Roger Chapeleys had difficulty with drinking. He was well known as a lecher and a toper. He was an unpopular figure. You decided to destroy him!’ Corbett didn’t wait for an answer. ‘On that fateful night Sir Roger visited Widow Walmer. After he left, you went down. Perhaps you had visited before. You knew her house, Sir Roger’s gift of a knife. She allowed you in and then you killed her.’

‘I was in the taproom of the Golden Fleece.’

‘Oh, of course, you were, both before and after the murder. No one took careful note of your comings and goings. Like Lucifer you sidled up to Repton the reeve. He, too, knew about Sir Roger’s visits and was drowning his sorrows. Go on, you urged, confront the woman with her infidelity, tell her about your love. Repton didn’t need much encouragement. Down he went but he had the wit to realise the danger when he found her dead. He was terrified. He fled back to the Golden Fleece. He’d make excuses, say he had changed his mind. He really wanted someone to accompany him back. What an ideal opportunity for you. Good friend Burghesh accompanied him down and the rest is known.’

‘Has Repton told you this?’

‘No,’ Corbett smiled. ‘But he will do. When we fasten his hands and allow the King’s questioners to interrogate him, it’s wonderful what he will remember. You were with Repton, weren’t you? Good old Burghesh slipping in and out. I suspect it was you who attacked me near the mill on my first night in Melford. You were trying to confuse me. When I reached the Golden Fleece, you were sitting there cradling a tankard, jovial and hearty, beyond any suspicion.’

The weight on the bell rope reached the end of the ledge and fell off. Corbett ignored the jangle of the bell.

‘All was now ready. Sir Roger’s house was searched. You’d sent the keepsakes of those other victims to Sir Roger. You knew the mind of the man. He’d regard them as gifts or tokens from some of his conquests. He’d throw them in a chest and think nothing of them.’

‘And Deverell?’

‘Ah, now we come to the rest of your stratagem. I said Parson Grimstone is a toper. He is also lonely. He’s a well-meaning man but garrulous in his cups.’ Corbett tapped the side of his nose. ‘He knows all the secrets of the village, doesn’t he? Especially Molkyn’s. The death of his first wife, as well as his illicit relationship with his own daughter, Margaret. The same is true of Thorkle. How his wife was planting a pair of cuckold horns with young Ralph? And, of course, about the carpenter Deverell, in truth a monk who’d fled his monastery, enjoying an illicit marriage whilst hiding from the eyes of the Church.’

Beads of sweat glistened high on Burghesh’s forehead. ‘Those are confessional secrets!’ he spluttered.

‘Some are, some are not.’ Corbett sighed. ‘But Parson Grimstone is lonely. He’s drinking with his close friend and half-brother Burghesh, who has collected such juicy morsels over the years. You do know about such scandals?’

‘I will say nothing,’ Burghesh retorted.

‘I wonder how you approached your blackmail victims. Was it scribbled on a piece of parchment? Some quotation from the Bible? Like the one Molkyn received, quoting Leviticus, which strictly condemned incest? Was it a personal visit in the dead of night or along some alleyway? Do this, do that or face the consequences. They would all be terrified: Deverell faced ruin, Thorkle ridicule, Molkyn public anger.’

‘I didn’t choose them for the jury. Blidscote did!’

‘Blidscote?’ Corbett asked. ‘Good God, you didn’t have to be a friend of the parish priest to know about Blidscote. He’s a byword for corruption, or rather was. He’s dead now. Did you learn about his passion for little boys? What united all your victims of blackmail was not only their secret fears but their open dislike of Sir Roger. You, the Mummer’s Man, the Jesses killer, had set the stage.’

Corbett emphasised the points on his gloved fingers: ‘Chapeleys had been with Widow Walmer the night she died; the knife; his ownership of some of the dead women’s jewellery; Deverell’s testimony; popular dislike against him and, finally, a jury really controlled by you. What chance did the poor man have?’

Corbett moved on the step. He took some comfort from a sound outside, a slight footfall. He hoped it was Ranulf and not Parson Grimstone.

‘The only fly in the ointment was Furrell the poacher. He knew the comings and goings of the countryside. On the night Widow Walmer died, he saw Sir Roger leave her safe and sound. He talked of other people slipping through the darkness to that poor woman’s cottage. We know Repton went down twice. I suspect a third was you, the killer.’ Corbett leant forward and jabbed a finger. ‘And it will be Furrell who hangs you, Burghesh, and hang you shall! He became very curious about what he had seen, the lies told about Sir Roger. I am sure you had a hand in the whispering campaign.’ Corbett paused. ‘Above all, Furrell had seen that triptych: he began to wonder if the truth was as clear as a picture. So, where does a man go who is troubled?’ Corbett pointed to the floor. ‘Why, Master Burghesh, he comes to church. I warrant he spoke to Parson Grimstone, or did he approach you directly? Accuse you openly? Whatever, he never left this church alive.’

‘Nonsense! Furrell was a drunk. He fled from that woman of his and went elsewhere.’

‘I promised Furrell would hang you. Master Burghesh, the busybody around the church, the man who burnt the triptych, who cleans, rings the bells and digs graves.’

Burghesh was now clearly agitated, a hand resting on the hilt of his dagger.

‘Where do you put a corpse like Furrell’s,’ Corbett continued, ‘when you have a woman like Sorrel who knows the countryside like the back of her hand? You put him with the other corpses. I’ll go through the Book of the Dead again to trap Burghesh the grave-digger. In the evening you dig a plot for a funeral the following morning. Only sometimes, you dig it a foot deeper and bury one of your victims, someone like Furrell or one of the wandering women. I’ll get half of Melford up here with mattock and hoe and we’ll go through that Mortuary Book. We’ll dig up coffins then go deeper. The dead will convict you. The treason of the ghosts, eh, Burghesh? They’ll represent evidence you cannot challenge. After all, only you dig the graves. We’ll also question Parson Grimstone, search your house, particularly the little stable behind. We’ll look for cloths filled with straw to deaden the sound of your horse’s hoofs. And, of course,’ Corbett knocked the bell rope, ‘we’ll go back to Curate Robert.’

Corbett got to his feet. ‘We’ll hold a court here in church. I carry the King’s Seal. I’ll call on the dead to betray you. How thronged the nave will become! You are a killer, Burghesh. You deserve death.’

Burghesh leant his head back against the door, watching Corbett from under hooded eyes.

‘Sorrel called you a weasel, Burghesh. I wonder what’s the full tally of your victims. How many secret graves lie around Melford? Furrell and his woman discovered some: that poacher was your nemesis. Do you know what that means?’

His opponent simply sneered.

‘It’s God’s judgement,’ Corbett explained. ‘I suspect Furrell brought that triptych back from Ipswich for Sir Roger and remembered it after the poor knight was hanged. Furrell certainly suspected you. He made up a song, about being between the devil and an angel, he was referring to Chapeleys’ triptych.’