The Treason of the Ghosts

questions. Where were you standing?
How did you see Sir Roger? What were you really doing that night?’ Sorrel leant
forward. ‘And why should you, who loves to keep a
distance between himself and his fellow man, bustle forward so busily to swear
away another’s life?’
    ‘Sir
Roger murdered Widow Walmer.’ Deverell stood up. ‘He killed those other women.
Don’t forget, poacher woman, there was more evidence, whilst the jury, not I,
found him guilty.’
    ‘Aye,’
she replied. ‘A jury led by Molkyn and Thorkle, and you know what’s happened to
them. I have seen the squint hole,’ she continued, gesturing with her thumb
over her shoulder. ‘And the bolted gate.’
    Her
attention was distracted by Deverell’s hands as he pointed towards the door.
They were stained, covered in wood dust but she noticed how fine and long the
fingers were.
    ‘That’s
my business. Now, Mistress, you should be gone.’
    ‘Do
you sleep well at night?’ she taunted. ‘Or do you have nightmares about
Molkyn’s head floating across the mere?’
    Deverell
grasped her by the arm. ‘I think you’d better go.’
    Sorrel
shook him off. She walked back across the cobbles. The gate was still open and
she slipped through. She turned to make some parting remark but Deverell closed
the gate behind her, pushing home the bolts.
    The
carpenter listened to the woman’s retreating footsteps, sighed and crossed
himself. He went round the yard checking all was well, and felt his hair
prickle on the nape of his neck. He really should be more careful. Had his
other mysterious visitor gone as silently as he’d arrived?
    A
low whistle came from the workshop. Deverell walked hurriedly back. He sat on
the stool and stared further down the room towards the shadowy recess. His
heart beat quicker and he swallowed hard. He should lock everything more
securely; he’d been trapped so easily. Was his mysterious visitor still there?
His heart jumped as the cowled, hooded figure stepped out of the recess and
stood, hands up the sleeves of his voluminous gown. Deverell chewed his lip. He
had been busy here, sawing a piece of wood and, when he’d looked up, a man
dressed like one of those wandering friars was standing in his workshop, though
this one wore a mask as well as hood and cowl. As soon as he spoke, Deverell
recognised the voice he’d heard five years ago. Yet, what could he do? How
could he protest?
    ‘You
heard what was said?’ Deverell tried to break the ominous silence. ‘That
busybody—’
    ‘I’ll
take care of her,’ came the grating reply. ‘She’s
madcap and fey with it. No one believes her.’
    ‘She
asked the same questions the clerk will.’
    ‘And
you’ll give the same answer.’
    ‘How
did you get in here?’ Deverell made to rise.
    ‘I
wouldn’t come closer,’ the voice replied. ‘I just wanted to show you how
careful you must be, Master Deverell. I came across your fence. It’s not so
dangerous or so difficult. Your wife is in the market and you are always by
yourself.’
    ‘I
did what you asked,’ Deverell gasped.
    ‘And
you’ll do it again,’ came the hurried reply. ‘You saw Sir Roger that night,
hastening along Gully Lane .
You took an oath, you gave evidence. What more can you say?’
    ‘But,
but Molkyn, Thorkle...’ Deverell stammered. ‘They’re dead.’
    ‘Aye, and so they are. Perhaps they didn’t keep their
word, master carpenter. But, that doesn’t bother me. I have come to remind you
of the agreement we reached some years ago.’
    ‘I
fulfilled my part of the bargain,’ Deverell protested.
    ‘And
I have mine,’ came the hoarse reply. ‘I won’t bother you again. I just want to
remind you of what I know and what I can do. If the clerk comes, and he will,
have your story by rote, like a monk knows his psalms.’
    Deverell’s
mouth went dry.
    ‘You
have a good trade, Deverell,’ the voice teased. ‘Your work is admired, and your
wife hot and lusty in that great bed of yours? And what do the good burgesses
of Melford think of you? A master craftsman! Perhaps one day they will elect
you to the council or allow you to carry one of their stupid banners in their
processions. It’s a small price to pay.’
    ‘I’ll
do it,’ Deverell agreed.
    ‘Good!
Come, come, man,’ the voice continued. ‘Who can recall where you were five
years ago on a certain night? That’s the attraction of a man like you,
Deverell! You keep yourself to yourself, well away from the taproom of