The Treason of the Ghosts

trial.’
    ‘Did
he speak on your father’s behalf in court?’
    Sir
Maurice flailed his hand. ‘Furrell was a vagabond, more drunk than sober. He
slept out in the ruins at Beauchamp
Place . Who’d give credence to his story? He
proclaimed his views in court and the Golden Fleece. He said my father never
fled along Gully Lane the night Goodwoman Walmer was murdered.’
    ‘Yes,
but your father,’ Blidscote spoke up, ‘did admit to visiting Goodwoman Walmer
that evening. Sir Roger must have passed Gully Lane on his way home.’
    ‘Are
you saying my father is guilty?’ Sir Maurice sprang to his feet.
    ‘Hush
now!’ Corbett ordered.
    ‘Well,
are you?’ Sir Maurice advanced threateningly on the bailiff.
    Ranulf-atte-Newgate
slipped quietly across the room and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
    ‘I
suggest you sit down,’ he smiled. ‘If my master says something, it’s best if
you obey.’ He pressed hard. Maurice’s fingers went to the hilt of his dagger.
‘Don’t do that.’ Ranulf shook his head. ‘I beg you, sir, please!’
    Sir
Maurice stared into those slightly slanted green eyes and swallowed hard.
Corbett he found daunting but this fighting man, smelling of a slight
fragrance, mixed with horse sweat and leather, and those green eyes which
smiled yet held his unblinkingly... Sir Maurice breathed in deeply and retook
his seat. Only then did he notice Ranulf pushing the throwing dirk back into
the leather sheath beneath his wrist.
    Ranulf
leant against the door and grinned. Old Master Long Face, he thought, was up to
his tricks again. Corbett had gathered them all here for a purpose. Not just to
view the corpse or be away from the Golden Fleece. He wanted them to feel free
to be at each other’s throats. To say things they’d later regret. Old Master
Long Face would scoop their words up, write them down and concentrate as if he
was playing a game of chess. Corbett ignored Ranulf and stared up at the
vaulted ceiling.
    ‘What
we have here,’ he measured his words, ‘are three sets of murders. The young
women killed five years ago, this year’s victims and, of course, the others. Molkyn the miller, whose head was sent floating across his
millpond. Someone struck him a silent, deadly blow. A difficult task,
eh? Molkyn, I understand, was a burly oaf: that’s how Matthew the taverner,
mine host at the Golden Fleece, described him. Strong as an
ox with a nasty temper. I would have liked to have seen his corpse but
it’s beneath the ground now.’ Corbett paused to chew the corner of his lip. ‘He
was killed a fortnight ago. A few days later, Thorkle the farmer was slain.’
    ‘Are
you saying all these deaths are linked?’ Adam Burghesh asked.
    Corbett
pulled a face as he studied this veteran of the King’s wars. Burghesh looked
sickly, skin the colour of parchment but the large sea-grey eyes were steady
enough. A soldier’s face with a crisscross of scars on the right cheek, thick
bushy eyebrows, clipped greying hair, moustache and beard. A good swordsman,
Corbett thought, with long arms and broad chest. He would also have been a good
master bowman, especially with the yew bow the English troops had brought back
from the war in Wales .
A captain of the royal levies, Burghesh had been warmly spoken of by the King
when he and Corbett had met in the Chamber of the White Wax at Westminster .
    ‘Do
you think the deaths are related?’ Corbett asked. ‘After all, you were all here
when Sir Roger was executed.’
    ‘Adam
has been my mainstay and strength.’
    Parson
Grimstone spoke up so abruptly Corbett idly wondered if the priest’s wits were
wandering. Had the shock and sudden turmoil broken his mind? Corbett ignored
the interruption.
    ‘Well?’
he repeated. ‘Are the deaths related? True, Thorkle and Molkyn weren’t maidens.
They were not garrotted.’ Corbett ran his thumbnail round his lips. ‘They were
not ravished. But, both were local men and served on the jury which convicted
Sir Roger. Isn’t this strange: the murders of young women begin again whilst
two of the men who convicted the supposed killer meet a very grisly fate?’
    ‘Why the King’s interest?’ Blidscote
spoke up.
    ‘I
think you’ve asked that before.’
    ‘But
you only half answered.’
    ‘Then
listen now.’
    Corbett
got to his feet. He grasped his gloves and slapped them against his leg.
    ‘Sir
Roger Chapeleys may have been a murderer,’ he waved the gloves as a sign for
Sir Maurice to be