The Treason of the Ghosts

as
well as elliptical references to the corpses of “Unknown“. Who were these
Unknowns? Poor travellers? Whores? Prostitutes? Runaways with the misfortune to come to Melford? You
preyed along those country lanes like a weasel hunting rabbits. No one was ever
caught for these murders, perhaps no one even cared. You were safe. To all
appearances you were the honest, bluff Burghesh, half-brother to young
Grimstone, who was destined for the Church. I wonder if you ever opened that
book and looked at your victims’ names? Do you ever
feel a pang of guilt?’
    Burghesh
just stared back.
    ‘You
trained as a mason but eventually the lure of wars drew you away: an
opportunity to exploit your bloodlust. God knows how many deaths you have been
responsible for up and down this kingdom. Along the Scottish and Welsh marches,
when whole villages and towns were put to the sword, who’d care about corpses?’
    ‘I
was a good soldier,’ Burghesh sneered. ‘Never once did the King’s marshals lay charges against me.’
    ‘Oh,
of course, they didn’t. Armies move quickly. No one would notice. I have met
soldiers like you, Burghesh, bluff and hearty, but killers to the bone. You
also earned yourself a pretty penny. You plundered the victims of war, didn’t
you? Not only those you murdered but anyone else you could lay your hands on.’
    ‘The
fortunes of war,’ came the cool reply.
    ‘And
you brought your fortune back to Melford to show everyone how well you had
done. You purchased the old forester’s house and, once again, became the
half-brother and prudent friend of Parson Grimstone.’
    ‘He
needed my help.’
    ‘Of
course he did! The years haven’t been kind to Parson Grimstone, have they? The
idealism, the dreams have faded. Lonely, a lover of red wine, Grimstone would
have welcomed you with open arms.’
    ‘I
told you. We are half-brothers and he was a good priest.’
    ‘Oh,
I am sure you did your best to hide your bloodlust. You may have even struggled
against the different demons which ravage your cruel soul. But old habits die
hard, eh, Burghesh? You are a clever soldier. You know how to muffle the hoofs
of a horse. Melford had also grown, become even more prosperous, the
countryside more lonely: copses, woods, forests, grass-filled meadows and
hedgerows, which turn the narrow lanes into little more than trenches, a place
crisscrossed by old footpaths and trackways. Melford is so easy to slip in and
out of, no walls or barred gates. So you go hunting again, dressed in your
mummer’s mask.’
    ‘Mummer’s mask?’
    ‘Yes,
a mummer’s mask. Something you had picked up on your travels or found here in
Melford. Usually you would carry it in your saddle horn, perhaps in a bag or
under a cloth. It was your disguise, just in case any of your victims ever
escaped. At first you were careful. You preyed on the vulnerable, the weak, the
traveller’s girl, the tinker’s wife or daughter, the occasional itinerant
whore. You attacked, raped and murdered. God knows where some of their poor
corpses lie, though I’ll come to that in a while.’
    ‘If
you have no corpses, you have no proof!’ Burghesh retorted. ‘Sir Hugh, you are
supposed to be a King’s clerk. All I hear are empty theories, hollow threats.
What you say about me could be said about many a man in Melford.’
    ‘True.’
    Corbett
spread his hands and wondered where on earth Ranulf was. Burghesh had closed
the thick heavy oaken door. Corbett hid his disquiet. If Ranulf came into this
church he would think it empty, perhaps go looking for him elsewhere?
    ‘You
are a hunter, Burghesh, of the soft flesh of innocents. You strut around
Melford as the friend and confidant of the parish priest. You sit here in
church and study the congregation like a fox eyes chickens in a farmyard.
Melford has changed,
hasn’t it? The young women are better fed, better clothed, have more time on
their hands. The market draws them in. You see them there with their pretty
faces, swelling bosoms. Your lust grows: no more the tattered traveller, the
dirty slattern. But how do you trap them?’
    Corbett
paused. He watched the weight on the bell rope slide a little further down the
recess.
    ‘So
you chose Peterkin the simpleton. You lured him into taking messages to this
woman or that. Peterkin was used to doing that. You taught him a simple
doggerel verse which few young women could resist, especially if Peterkin was
so urging, and showed that he had been paid to carry