Hugh Corbett 12 - The Treason of the Ghosts (7 page)

‘Master Blidscote,’ Corbett turned to the bailiff, ‘when the young woman’s corpse was found, you went out?’

‘I took the cart. I put the corpse in, brought it back and sent one of my men for the wheelwright.’

‘And the corpse?’ Corbett insisted. He patted the wheelwright gently on the shoulder as the man began to sob. ‘There was no sign of the killer, or the garrotte he used?’

Blidscote shook his head.

‘And did you see anything untoward around the corpse?’

Corbett hid his anger: Blidscote’s bleary glance told him he hadn’t even looked.

‘Where is this spot?’ Corbett demanded testily.

‘At Devil’s Oak. It’s a big, ancient tree on Falmer Lane.’

‘But that doesn’t lead to her father’s house?’

‘No, it doesn’t.’

‘So, Elizabeth was found in a place she shouldn’t have been. Out in the countryside?’

‘Yes, yes, that’s right.’

‘In which case,’ Corbett concluded, ‘either she went out to meet somebody or was taken there, either before she was killed or after. Correct?’

Blidscote burped and nodded.

‘And the corpse itself?’ the clerk continued.

‘The young woman’s kirtle and smock were pushed well above her stomach,’ the bailiff mumbled. ‘I think she was killed very near where her corpse was found.’

‘And the other murder?’ Corbett asked.

‘Down near Brackham Mere.’

‘And her killing?’

‘The same.’

Blidscote was now wiping his sweaty palms on his thick, stained hose. He felt distinctly uncomfortable sitting in a cold crypt before this royal clerk with his remorseless list of questions. All he found were corpses: he’d brought them back but now he realised he had made mistakes: he should have been more careful.

‘And that victim?’ Ranulf asked.

‘Her name was Johanna,’ Blidscote declared. ‘She was the same age as Elizabeth. They were friends. She was on an errand for her mother to buy something in the market. People saw her, talked to her, then she disappeared until her corpse was found near Brackham Mere.’

Corbett patted the wheelwright on the shoulder and slipped another coin into his hand.

‘Go back into the church,’ he urged. ‘Light a candle for yourself and Elizabeth in the Lady Chapel. When you wish, you may go.’

The wheelwright shuffled out. Corbett stared down at his hands. He waited until the door at the top of the steps closed.

‘Parson Grimstone, these two young women - they were decent girls?’

‘Yes, of good families. Oh, they flirted and they laughed, but they came to church. Minds full of dreams, of falling in love with some handsome knight. Ever ready to dance and celebrate, whisper secrets to each other. Even,’ the parson smiled to himself, ‘when they should have been listening to me.’

Corbett got to his feet and stretched. ‘Both of these last victims,’ he declared, ‘were found in places they did not usually go. I suspect they knew their killer. But what would lure a woman out to some desolate spot?’

‘Money,’ Ranulf replied.

‘Are you saying they were strumpets?’ Burghesh asked sharply.

‘No, sir, they were like you and I, greedy! Acquisitive! They were good country lasses, red-cheeked wenches.’ Ranulf tapped his fingers on the hilt of his dagger.

‘But they were poor. You heard the wheelwright. To buy a ribbon or a gewgaw . . .’

‘And they were prepared to sell their favours.’ The curate’s thin, pallid face flushed, red spots of anger appeared high on his cheeks.

‘I don’t mean to insult their memory,’ Ranulf retorted, ‘but they were country girls. Such as they share the same bedchamber as their parents and their brothers. They know what pleasure the love act gives. It doesn’t mean they are strumpets. God forgive us all. It only means they could be easily gulled or tricked.’

‘I don’t believe this!’ The curate sprang to his feet.

‘Don’t you?’ Ranulf snapped. ‘You’re a priest, aren’t you? You should know your own people.’

‘Sit down! Sit down!’ Grimstone got up, tugging at his curate’s robe. ‘Our
guest
,’ Grimstone emphasised the word sardonically, ‘speaks the truth.’

‘Just what are you saying, Ranulf?’ Corbett asked.

‘Here we have two young women, Master. They come from poor families; their little noddles are stuffed with dreams and fancies. They go round the market buying bread and cheese, the necessities of life. Then they pass some chapman’s tray or pedlar’s stall, with blue and red ribbons, perhaps a brooch, a ring, a bracelet? To us they are trifles, but to them, more precious than the King’s jewels. Perhaps the killer lured the bait? A free gift? Buy this, buy that. In return for a kiss? The token is given. The young woman, of course, is sworn to secrecy and so the second trap is laid. Only this time in some lonely, desolate place. The young woman thinks why not? She has never earned such money so easily and so lightly, so off she goes to meet her death.’

Corbett stared at his manservant. ‘But where is this money?’

‘If our master bailiff,’ Ranulf went over and squeezed Blidscote’s shoulders, ‘went to the houses of both victims and searched from floor to ceiling, I wager a silver coin to a silver coin, that the girls’ hiding places would be found as well as the money they were given or what they bought with it.’

‘Do that, Blidscote,’ Corbett ordered. ‘If Master Ranulf is telling the truth, you will find me in the Golden Fleece. And where are you going, sir?’ Sir Maurice Chapeleys had got to his feet.

‘I have answered your questions, sir,’ the young knight replied. ‘My father’s grave.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I wasn’t given leave to take his body back to our manor but, Parson Grimstone was gracious enough . . .’

Corbett didn’t know whether the young knight was being sardonic or not.

‘You wish to visit your father’s grave?’

Sir Maurice nodded. ‘This has provoked memories. If you have further questions, our good parson knows where I am.’

Corbett let him go. He briefly recapped on the meeting’s progress and was about to adjourn when the door at the top of the crypt opened and shut with a crash, followed by the sound of running footsteps.

‘In God’s name!’

Ranulf stepped hurriedly aside as a tall, white-haired knight, swathed in a dark blue cloak, flung himself into the crypt. His face was cut and bleeding, clothes mud-stained.

‘I have been attacked!’

‘Sir Louis!’ Parson Grimstone sprang to his feet.

The newcomer took off his remaining glove and threw it on the ground.

‘I was attacked!’ he repeated.

‘Outlaws?’ Corbett asked.

‘I don’t know.’ Tressilyian sat down on a chair, mopping his face with the hem of his gown. ‘Thank God Chapeleys isn’t here.’

‘Why’s that?’ Corbett asked.

‘I’d swear it was his father’s ghost!’

The justice took some time to calm down. Parson Grimstone went up to his house and brought back a jug of ale as well as a bowl and cloth. Tressilyian quaffed the ale in a few gulps, then wiped his face. He had a cut high on his cheek, small scars on the backs of his hands.

‘What happened?’ Corbett asked.

‘I was coming down Falmer Lane,’ the justice replied. He paused. ‘You must be Corbett?’

There was more confusion as Corbett made the introductions.

Tressilyian studied him from head to toe. ‘I suppose you’ve already been asked,’ he smiled, ‘why you are here? The King could have asked me to investigate.’

‘Aye, sir, but you were the principal justice who tried Sir Roger. Today’s events prove that this is a matter for royal concern. After all, you, the King’s justice, were attacked on his highway. You were telling us what happened.’

‘I was riding down Falmer Lane,’ Tressilyian explained. ‘There was a fallen tree across the lane, just a sapling. You know how such things frighten horses? Bare branches, dry leaves? I thought nothing of it. I climbed down, took off my gauntlets to grasp it, that’s where some of these cuts came from. Suddenly an arrow came flying through the air.’ Sir Louis tapped the cut high on his cheek. ‘It missed, just skimming my face. I sheltered in the sapling; its twigs and branches cut me. I had no bow. My horse had become frightened and was skittering away. Two more arrows were loosed. I decided that I wasn’t going to wait. I gauged where the mysterious bowman must be, drew my sword and charged as if I was on the battlefield.’

‘But your assailant escaped?’

‘I never even saw him, just a crackle of bracken and then the voice.’ Tressilyian paused, staring across at the coffin. ‘God’s teeth, Corbett, this is a sombre place.’ He flung his hand out. ‘And that poor woman!’

‘What did your voice say?’ Corbett insisted.

‘ “Remember.” That’s what it said. A man’s voice. “Remember, royal justice, how you hanged an innocent man! You and the others will pay for it.” Tressilyian shrugged. ‘Then there was silence. There was nothing more I could do. I returned to my horse and rode here. I saw young Chapeleys going across God’s acre. He’s visiting his father’s grave?’

‘Yes,’ Grimstone replied.

‘Why did you think it was a ghost?’ Corbett asked.

Tressilyian looked at him blankly.

‘When you came in here,’ Corbett insisted, ‘you said you thought you’d been attacked by a ghost.’

‘Well, it’s obvious,’ Tressilyian retorted, his light blue eyes dark with anger. ‘A young woman lies dead, another has been murdered. Members of the jury who found Sir Roger guilty have also paid with their lives.’

‘Yes, but Sir Roger was hanged?’ Ranulf asked. ‘You were present at the execution?’

‘Yes I was. However, after I had passed sentence, before the cart was taken away,’ Tressilyian wiped the sweat from his broad brow and sunken cheeks, ‘Sir Roger protested his innocence. He claimed his name would be vindicated. He would make a settlement with God and return to settle with us.’

Sir Louis’s eerie words in such sombre surroundings created a tense silence. Grimstone and Burghesh looked at each other. Bailiff Blidscote opened and closed his mouth, smacking his lips as if wishing he could drink, forget what was happening.

Corbett glanced around. Including the justice, these were all nervous men. Sir Roger Chapeleys had been a manor lord, a knight, a warrior, a man who had done good service in the King’s armies both at home and abroad. True, a lecher and a drinker but what if he had been wrongly executed?

‘Sir Hugh!’

Corbett sprang to his feet at the voice calling from the top of the stairs.

‘Master clerk!’

Corbett hurried to the door. Chapeleys, wide-eyed, was halfway down the steps.

‘Sir Hugh, you had best come and see this.’

Corbett and Ranulf, followed by the rest, left the crypt and went up into the church, through the coffin door and out across the cemetery. Daylight was fading. The sky was sullen and overcast. The first tendrils of the evening mist were curling about the gnarled yew trees, creating a shifting haze around the crosses and tombs. The silence was shattered by the raucous cawing of rooks in the bare-branched trees. If the crypt was a dismal place, the cemetery was no better. Corbett hid his annoyance at being thus summoned, pulling his cloak more firmly about him. Chapeleys led them along a beaten trackway, down into a small dell in the far corner of the graveyard.

‘We call this “Strange Hollow”,’ Grimstone explained breathlessly, coming up beside Corbett. ‘It’s where we bury the bodies,’ he lowered his voice, ‘of executed felons.’

Chapeleys was striding ahead. He stopped at a burial mound. Corbett followed and stared at the weathered lettering on a stone plinth. It gave Sir Roger Chapeleys’ name, the dates of his birth and death, with the invocation ‘
Jesu Miserere
’ carved beneath.

‘What’s wrong?’ Corbett asked, quickly crossing himself as a mark of respect.

Chapeleys, standing on the other side, beckoned him round. Corbett quickly looked. Someone had scrawled the word ‘REMEMBER’. He touched the still-wet liquid, rubbing it between his fingers.

‘It’s blood,’ he declared. ‘And done quite recently.’

‘Whose blood?’ Grimstone asked.

‘I don’t know.’ Corbett bent down and wiped his fingers on the wet grass.

‘I’ll have it cleaned up. Perhaps it’s some game.’

‘It’s no game,’ Chapeleys retorted. He then went across and clasped the justice’s hand, as if they were close acquaintances, the best of friends.

Corbett was intrigued and Tressilyian caught his look of puzzlement.

‘There’s no bad blood between us, clerk. Sir Maurice knows I simply carried out my duty.’ He spread his hands. ‘Over the years I have done my best for the lad.’ His harsh, severe face broke into a grin. ‘Now he repays me by falling in love with my daughter.’

Corbett nodded and stared across the cemetery. He noticed the building work, sections of cut stone, a mound of masonry peeping out from beneath a leather awning.