The Treason of the Ghosts

Because of the likes of Deverell
the carpenter.
    Sorrel
pocketed the coins and grasped her stick. She noticed the chapman had left his
cloak in the corner and recalled his curses. She surreptitiously picked the
cloak up, and left by the rear door. She stopped to smell the herbs, relishing
the tangy scents of the mint and thyme. She went out through the lych-gate,
back into the high street and along to the alleyways which led down to Deverell
the carpenter’s workshop at the back of his house. The gate was closed so she
knocked with her stick.
    ‘Who
is it?’ a voice called.
    So,
you are frightened, Sorrel thought, detecting a note of tension.
    ‘I
have news, Master Deverell. It’s Sorrel!’
    ‘The poacher’s woman?’ The reply was sharp and harsh.
    ‘Yes,
the poacher’s woman.’
    Sorrel
paused. She was sure she’d heard a whisper, as if Deverell was telling someone
to keep quiet. She walked around but there was no other entrance. She returned
to knock at the high wooden gate.
    ‘Go
away!’ the voice called. ‘I am busy!’
    ‘What
are you frightened of, Deverell?’ Sorrel taunted.
    She
went round to the front of the house and stepped into the porchway. She noticed
the Judas squint on her right. Deverell must be frightened to be checking on
everyone who came here. She pounded on the door but there was no answer so she
went back to the gate and knocked again. This time Deverell pulled the bolts
back and swung it open. He was a tall, thickset man with a sallow, sharp-boned
face, thin-lipped and anxious-eyed. His sparse black hair was covered in dust
and he was nursing a cut on his right hand.
    ‘I
can treat that for you,’ Sorrel offered.
    ‘What
do you want?’ Deverell sucked at the bloody cut.
    ‘I’ve
seen the royal clerk.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘I
thought you would be interested. We can discuss it here in the street or I can
shout out what I know.’
    Deverell
sighed and beckoned her in. He led her across a cobbled yard; stacks of timber
lay about. Sorrel noticed how, near the back fence, the wood had been piled
high but then dragged away as if Deverell was anxious lest an intruder climb
the fence and use the wood to ease the drop into the yard. He led her into his
workshop, a long dark shed containing a work bench, stacks of wood, racks of
hammers and chisels. He gestured at a stool but kept looking over his shoulder.
    ‘What’s
the matter?’ Sorrel asked. ‘Are you alone?’
    ‘My
wife’s in the market,’ the carpenter replied. ‘You call yourself keen and
sharp-eyed, Sorrel. You know I have no maid or servant.’
    ‘That’s
what I want to talk to you about!’ Sorrel exclaimed, though that was a lie. She
knew little about Deverell’s private life but she was intrigued. Deverell was a
good carpenter, a master craftsman. Even Furrell had praised his work.
    ‘Why
does a wealthy man like you have no apprentice, maid or servant?’ she demanded.
    ‘That’s
the way I like it.’
    ‘Why?
What are you hiding?’
    ‘I
like my privacy.’ Deverell sat on the corner of the table as if he wanted to
block her view. ‘Now, what’s really your business? Why have you come here
bothering me?’
    ‘I
have seen the clerk, master carpenter! Sharp-eyed he is, with close-set lips.
He’s going to start asking questions...’
    ‘Then
I’ll give him the same answer I did on oath in court. On the night Widow Walmer
was killed, I saw Sir Roger Chapeleys fleeing along Gully Lane . He looked stricken and
worried.’
    ‘You
have got such sharp eyes at night?’
    ‘It
was a clear evening. You can tell from the way a man rides, how he wears his
cloak, if there’s something wrong.’
    ‘And
what were you doing out there that night?’ Sorrel taunted.
    ‘I
was bringing some wood into my workshop.’
    ‘I
thought you had timber delivered?’
    Deverell
struggled to control his temper. ‘I am a carpenter and the King’s loyal
subject,’ he replied. ‘If I want to go out to look for a certain type of wood,
then that’s my business.’
    ‘And
that’s when you saw Sir Roger? Furrell claimed you couldn’t possibly have seen
him, stricken, fleeing along Gully
Lane .’
    ‘Well,
he’s not here to contradict me, is he?’
    ‘No,
but Furrell gave his testimony in court as well. He claimed to have seen Sir
Roger that night, and he looked anything but stricken!’
    ‘Pshaw!’
The carpenter waved his hand. ‘I thought you had something to tell me.’
    ‘I
have. The clerk is going to ask the same