The Treason of the Ghosts

neck and released his body. Curate Robert never
regained consciousness. Perhaps you tugged on his feet to hasten his death?
That’s what caused the second peal of bells that night. You hid the cup, an
easy thing in a place like this. You wiped poor Robert’s mouth with a cloth and
gazed around: all was well so you hastened back to the Guildhall to proclaim
the sad news.’
    ‘What
about the letter?’
    ‘What
letter?’
    ‘The
piece of parchment found hidden in Robert’s cuff?’
    ‘Oh,
you put that there. You brought the wine down to Curate Robert. Before you left
the priest’s house with Parson Grimstone, you searched Bellen’s chamber, while
he was in the church, and took away anything which might provoke suspicion. You
were also looking for such a scrap of parchment. I wager Curate Robert was well
known for writing out verses, quotations from the Bible on which to meditate.
The one you took suited your purpose though any of them would have done. You
put it into your wallet and went along to the Guildhall.’
    Burghesh
had now recovered his poise. He crossed his arms as if to show Corbett his hand
was nowhere near his dagger.
    ‘But
what if the weight hadn’t fallen? What if something had happened?’
    ‘In
which case Curate Robert would have woken up with a sore head, feeling guilty
as usual. You would have enjoyed a splendid banquet at the Guildhall and waited
for another opportunity.
True, you had been through Curate Robert’s chamber. Perhaps he would notice a
few papers missing, some disturbance. But, there again, he might blame himself.
He wouldn’t be able to remember very clearly, would he? Or he might blame
Parson Grimstone who, in his cups, is forgetful and wanders where he
shouldn’t.’
    ‘And
why should I kill Curate Robert?’
    ‘Because you are an assassin, Master Burghesh. You
like killing. You particularly like to watch some young woman’s terror as you
rape, then garrotte her.’
    Burghesh
swallowed hard. ‘I don’t have to listen to this web of lies!’
    ‘Where
can you go?’ Corbett lied. ‘My men are outside the church. They’ll arrest you
as soon as you leave. Do you want to know why you killed Curate Robert?’
    ‘You
have your theories,’ Burghesh scoffed. ‘Why should I kill a man whom I have
lived with for so many years? He was my friend.’
    ‘He
was also curate of this church,’ Corbett retorted, ‘and you were growing very
concerned. Parson Grimstone drank a lot, he was becoming forgetful. What really
concerned Curate Robert — and I admit I have no real evidence for this — was that
someone told him, God knows who, why or how, that sins confessed in the
shriving pew were known to others.’
    ‘So,
you have no proof?’
    ‘I
have proof of sorts. Curate Robert would be mystified by this, deeply alarmed.
Did he discuss it with Parson Grimstone who, of course, would tell you? Or, did
you go through the curate’s chamber and discover that he might be writing to
his bishop? Bellen was becoming dangerous, that’s why you killed him! At the
same time, he could be cast as a possible assassin. In truth, Curate Robert
knew little about the murders. However, any priest with a spark of conscience
would grow concerned if the seal of the confessional was being violated. I’ll
wonder to my dying day and so will you,’ Corbett added, ‘just who this person
was. Loud-mouthed Molkyn? His
daughter? Or Deverell, our furtive carpenter? Even
Blidscote?’
    ‘Are
you also going to accuse me of Molkyn’s and Deverell’s deaths?’
    ‘Of
course not,’ Corbett replied. ‘They were executed, or murdered, by Sir Louis
Tressilyian, who realised that, due to their false testimony, an innocent man
had been hanged.’
    Burghesh started, his agitation obvious.
    ‘Oh
yes, Sir Roger was innocent! You killed, Burghesh, and, because of you, others
lied, perjured themselves and were finally murdered to protect your sin.’
    Corbett
got to his feet and moved further up the steps, lengthening the gap between
himself and this bloody-handed assassin.
    ‘You’ve
always been an assassin, Burghesh: you will stand there and hear the truth. You
became a soldier to kill. You revel in hot, splashing blood, the stink of death, have done ever since you were a young man on a farm
near Melford. How many years ago would that be? Forty? Going back to the reign of our King’s father? I have studied the Book of the
Dead. It makes mention of two, three young women being murdered decades ago,