The Treason of the Ghosts

but wait to see if his theory worked. He went up to
the Lady Chapel, lit a candle and knelt on the cushioned prie-dieu, staring up
at the face of the statue.
    ‘You
remind me of Maeve,’ Corbett whispered.
    He
felt guilty at such distraction, crossed himself and returned to the back of
the church. The coffin door opened. A parishioner came in, an old woman who lit
a candle, said a prayer and left. Corbett grew anxious. He was about to return
to the belfry when the bell clanged and his heart leapt.
    ‘I
thought as much,’ he murmured and flung the door open.
    The
rope bearing the lead weight had slipped off the window recess and, falling,
had created a slight tremor, which sent the bells clanging. Corbett lifted the
rope up again and placed it further up the windowsill. He stood and watched.
The weight, made of copper or brass, was shiny and smooth. He noticed how it
began to slip very slowly along the ledge.
    ‘And
the further up I put it,’ Corbett told himself, ‘the more time it will take.’
Now, he thought, all I’ve got to do is wait.
    He
sat on the belfry steps and wondered where Ranulf was. The coffin door opened.
Footsteps echoed along the nave. The door was flung open and Burghesh came in.
    ‘What
on earth is happening?’ he exclaimed. ‘Why is the bell ringing?’
    He
glimpsed the bell rope and its weight in the window recess. He opened his mouth
and stepped back.
    ‘What
are you doing, Sir Hugh?’
    ‘I
wondered,’ Corbett replied, ‘how the church bells could be rung when no one was
up here? Last night when Curate Robert died, nobody was in this church. Do you
remember? We all were sitting at the Guildhall feeding our faces, revelling in
the civic wealth of Melford. Then the church bell rang. Up you jumped, Master
Burghesh, like a hare in spring, and off you ran to discover what caused it.
Some time later you come hastening back, all a-bother: Curate Robert has hanged
himself for all to see. No sign of violence, no evidence that someone had
hanged him. Moreover, up the cuff of his sleeve was a scrap of parchment, a
quotation from the Psalms about his sin always being before him. To all intents
and purposes, Curate Robert must have been the slayer of those young women.
Unable to confront his guilt, or fearful of being caught, he seized the
opportunity, when the church was deserted, to come into this belfry and hang
himself.’
    ‘That’s
what happened,’ Burghesh stammered.
    Corbett
leant his elbows on his knees and smiled back.
    ‘That’s
not true, Master Burghesh. First, why did you leave the Guildhall? Because a bell tolled? Couldn’t Curate Robert deal with that
and, if there was anything wrong, travel the short distance to the Guildhall to
inform Parson Grimstone or yourself?’
    ‘Curate
Robert liked his wine,’ Burghesh declared sourly. ‘It was one thing or the
other: whipping himself for his sins, praying prostrate on the cold flagstones
or drowning his woes in copious wine.’
    ‘No
doubt he did, Master Burghesh. Last night, however, he came here to pray and
think whilst you and Parson Grimstone prepared for the banquet. You joined him,
all solicitous, bearing a big bowled cup of wine mingled with a very strong
sleeping potion. You grow such herbs in your garden. Curate Robert wasn’t
invited to the celebrations and he probably would have avoided them. He wanted
to sit here in the dark feeling sorry for himself . If
the wine didn’t put him to sleep, the potion certainly did. Whilst he drank,
you busied yourself around the church like you always do. You came into the belfry,
took one of the ropes and placed it very, very high, as far as you could into a
window recess: something you learnt as a boy or noticed over the years. The
recess has a slight slope. Eventually, the rope, pulled by
its weight, slides off just like a man being hanged. The weight falls
and the tremor sets the bells ringing. I’ve just proved it myself. I suspect it
would take,’ Corbett pulled a face, ‘if pulled right back into the recess, a
considerable time before the weight actually fell.’
    ‘Nonsense!’ Burghesh exclaimed.
    ‘I
can prove it,’ Corbett murmured. ‘I didn’t study the mechanical sciences in Oxford but I know a little
bit about weights and measures. Anyway, you had your signal to come hurrying
back to the church. The house was all locked up. Poor Curate Robert had drunk
the wine and was fast asleep. You then took him into the belfry, up the steps,
tied the rope round his