The Treason of the Ghosts

such a message. How could
any young woman not be curious? Yet, she’d keep quiet, wouldn’t she, lest
others find out or the message proved false? She would not wish to be made a
fool of. After all, who would blame poor Peterkin? Your first victim rose to
the bait. She went to some lonely spot and you were waiting. Most of the
murders apparently occurred in the early evening. You raped, you murdered with
that damnable mask over your face. You hid the corpse and then slipped back
into Melford.’ Corbett shrugged.
    ‘The
nightmare had begun!’



Chapter 18
     
     
    ‘Don’t
you suffer guilt?’ Corbett taunted. ‘In the early hours of the morning, or at
night, do the ghosts gather round your bed? Have you no fear of God or
justice?’
    ‘I
like a good story,’ came the mocking reply.
    ‘Elizabeth
the wheelwright’s daughter — ‘ Corbett continued
matter-of-factly — ‘her ghost is here. As I came into church I prayed to her.
Perhaps she is the best example to use. You approached poor Peterkin, as you
always did, gave him a coin, made him repeat the
message. Normally Elizabeth would ignore Peterkin but she’s young, full of wayward notions. Peterkin is
earnest and has been paid to deliver a message. So, on that fateful evening,
she goes to her secret place in the copse of woods near Devil’s Oak. She meets
her death: you, with that heinous mask across your face, the belt-bracelet you
wear jingling on your wrist. You attacked, raped and murdered her. Once the
bloodlust was past, you carefully removed the corpse to a hedge, near Devil’s
Oak. Perhaps you intended to come back and hide it. If you had your way, maybe
you would have hidden all the corpses, except for Widow Walmer’s.’
    ‘So,
I am guilty of her death as well?’
    ‘Yes,
five years ago, you killed at least three women. You would have killed again
but something strange happened. Sir Roger Chapeleys gave the church a triptych.
God knows why. A gift? An expression
of guilt and remorse?’ Corbett undid the wallet on his belt and drew out
the crude drawing he had found in Curate Robert’s room.
    ‘Do
you recognise this, Burghesh? In the background, a picture of Christ crucified;
in the forefront, three figures. The central one is a priest, the man on his
right looks like a clerk; he might be a curate or perhaps an angel. The one on
his left is this figure wearing a mask. Do you see it? Jerkin,
leggings and boots and, on his face, a mask similar to a mummer’s. You
thought Chapeleys was poking fun, hinting at the truth. The
central figure being Parson Grimstone, the clerk Curate Robert and this
mummer’s figure, your good self.’
    ‘True,
I never liked the painting,’ Burghesh sneered. ‘I was glad when someone burnt
it.’
    ‘No,
you burnt it lest someone read the same message you did. Do you know, Burghesh,
I don’t think Roger Chapeleys was hinting at anything. Such drawings are quite
common in London churches. The man on the priest’s right represents the wisdom of the world and
the figure on the left its foolishness. It’s a reference to a quotation from St Paul . It underlines
temptations facing many priests and exhorts them to ignore both.’
    Corbett
could tell from Burghesh’s eyes that he had struck home.
    ‘You
are a fool,’ Corbett continued. ‘It wasn’t an accusation levelled against
anyone. You took it as a personal insult, a subtle accusation of your bloody
deeds. I wager you realised that later. If Sir Roger had truly suspected you,
he would have accused you in open court.’
    Burghesh
opened and closed his mouth.
    ‘Sir
Roger Chapeleys had difficulty with drinking. He was well known as a lecher and
a toper. He was an unpopular figure. You decided to destroy him!’ Corbett
didn’t wait for an answer. ‘On that fateful night Sir Roger visited Widow
Walmer. After he left, you went down. Perhaps you had visited before. You knew
her house, Sir Roger’s gift of a knife. She allowed you in and then you killed
her.’
    ‘I
was in the taproom of the Golden Fleece.’
    ‘Oh,
of course, you were, both before and after the murder. No one took careful note
of your comings and goings. Like Lucifer you sidled up to Repton the reeve. He,
too, knew about Sir Roger’s visits and was drowning his sorrows. Go on, you
urged, confront the woman with her infidelity, tell her about your love. Repton didn’t need much encouragement. Down he went but he
had the wit to realise the danger when he found her dead. He was