The Treason of the Ghosts

entered. Both men were hurriedly dressed, unshaven,
their hair tousled. Ranulf brought in stools and Corbett asked them to sit.
Neither of them protested. Chapeleys looked nervous. Tressilyian had a
half-smile on his face as if he knew what was to happen.
    ‘You
have news?’ Sir Maurice began. ‘It must be urgent?’
    ‘No,
I don’t have news,’ Corbett retorted. ‘I have reached conclusions. Your father,
Sir Maurice, was guilty of no more than drinking and lechery. He didn’t murder
Widow Walmer. He didn’t rape and garrotte women of this town. He was sent to
the gallows by a cunning and evil assassin. You have petitioned both Court and
Chancery for an investigation, even a pardon for your father. One will be
issued.’
    ‘What
is this?’ Sir Maurice whispered.
    ‘Now,
four men knew your father was innocent,’ Corbett continued. ‘You,
himself, the assassin and Sir Louis Tressilyian.’
    Maurice
looked startled at the justice.
    ‘Five
years ago,’ Corbett continued in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘Sir Louis, quite
rightly, was summoned to the Guildhall: he took depositions and evidence
against your father. He may have had doubts but, on the basis of the evidence
supplied, Sir Roger seemed guilty. Sir Louis probably hoped that a jury, as is
their wont, would give the prisoner the benefit of the doubt. He was certainly
surprised when they did not. He delayed your father’s execution. He wrote to
the King. However, the significant aspect of a jury’s verdict is that it is
also seen as the verdict of the community. If Sir Louis continued his protests,
the finger of accusation would be pointed at one manor lord protecting another.
I am correct, Sir Louis?’
    ‘I
listen to what you say,’ the justice replied.
    He
spoke so evenly, Corbett wondered if his conclusion was truly correct:
Tressilyian seemed so unperturbed.
    ‘Your
father died,’ Corbett pressed on to Sir Maurice. ‘The murders stopped. Sir
Louis must have taken comfort from this: he did his best for you, treating you
like the son he never had. Perhaps he encouraged you to write to Westminster ?
Nevertheless, three things secretly reassured him about the rightness of the
sentence. The evidence, the verdict of the jury and the fact
that the murders had ceased. He would be curious, however: Furrell had
disappeared and Sir Louis must have known about Molkyn’s reputation, as well as
the deep dislike in the area for your father.’ Corbett paused. ‘And then the
murders began again. Sir Louis’s belief in your father’s guilt was severely
shaken. He may have also suspected that the real murderer could have even been
responsible, God knows how, for your father’s illegal execution. Sir Louis,
therefore, decided to take steps. He would carry out his own justice.’
    ‘What
are you saying?’ Sir Maurice asked. His face had paled. He kept running his
fingers round the collar of his tunic.
    ‘Sir
Louis,’ Corbett confronted him directly, ‘you, I believe, are responsible for
the murder of Molkyn the miller, Thorkle, Deverell, and, I wager, you know
where Master Blidscote’s corpse can be found.’
    ‘You
say I am a justice.’ Tressilyian spoke up. ‘And so I am. What evidence do you
have for all this?’
    ‘You
are a good man, Sir Louis,’ Corbett replied. ‘Mistaken, but
basically good. You suspected a miscarriage of justice had taken place.
You felt sorry for Sorrel, Furrell’s widow, so you gave her a pension, a silver
coin at certain times of the year. Why should such anonymous gifts be given at
specific times? Ever the lawyer, eh, Sir Louis? Those
dates mark the beginning of the law terms in the courts of Westminster . It was your way of reminding
yourself. You looked after Sorrel just as you looked after Sir Maurice.’
    Sir
Louis smiled, running a finger along his moustache.
    ‘Only
a justice could afford such generosity,’ Corbett declared. ‘As for that attack
on you in Falmer Lane ,
the day you rode into Melford to meet me, it was curious! Why did you come
alone? Why did you make an excuse to arrive late? You didn’t want Sir Maurice
riding with you, did you? You wanted to depict yourself as under the knife,
fearing attack because of that dreadful miscarriage of justice. You stopped on
the trackway. You looked around. No one was in sight. You cut down that sapling
to block the trackway. You walked into the trees, took off your boots and fired
those arrows. You then continued your journey.’
    ‘I
could have been