The Treason of the Ghosts

silent, ‘but he was also one of the King’s companions, a good
soldier. True, a man who liked his drink and a pretty face but that’s not a
hanging crime. Otherwise my good friend Ranulf-atte-Newgate would have been
hanged a hundred times.’ Corbett tapped his fingers on the coffin lid. ‘But
what happens if Sir Roger was totally innocent? After all, the murderer has
returned. Not only to rape and strangle young women but even to carry out
dreadful murders on those involved in the unlawful execution of Sir Roger
Chapeleys? These are serious crimes, sir: not only gruesome killings but a
total mockery of the King’s justice. Molkyn the miller and Thorkle were the
members, even leaders, of the jury against Sir Roger.’
    ‘As
you said,’ Blidscote growled, ‘they led the jury.’
    ‘But,’
Corbett continued, ‘why those two? Why not any of the other ten? Or has the
assassin only begun? Does he, before long, plan to kill all those involved in
Sir Roger’s death?’
    ‘In
which case,’ Sir Maurice Chapeleys scoffed, ‘I will follow my father to the
scaffold. The finger of accusation has already been pointed at me for carrying
out revenge.’
    ‘Yes,
that’s possible. I’m glad you mentioned it, rather than me.’ Corbett retook his
seat. ‘Can you tell me where you were in the early hours of Sunday morning a
fortnight ago? Or the night Thorkle died?’
    ‘I
was in church with the rest,’ Sir Maurice stammered. ‘And, as for the following
Wednesday evening,’ he swallowed hard, ‘I was in my manor house: my retainers
will swear to that.’ He coloured slightly and shifted uneasily. ‘It’s cold down
here,’ he added. ‘How long do you intend this to go on?’
    ‘One
person is missing.’ Ranulf-atte-Newgate swaggered into the pool of light,
thumbs stuck in his sword belt. ‘Blidscote, you received my master’s message.
Where is the justice?’
    ‘I
asked Sir Louis to be here.’ The bailiff shrugged. ‘I am not my brother’s
keeper, certainly not Sir Louis’s!’
    ‘Master
Blidscote!’ Corbett called across. ‘For the time being, let us concentrate on the
murder of these young women. In the last five years or so there have been six
such victims? And that includes Goodwoman Walmer?’
    ‘There’s
neither rhyme nor reason to it,’ the bailiff replied. ‘Local women, usually
pretty, coming or going to the market or town.’
    ‘Isn’t
that dangerous?’ Ranulf asked. ‘The trackways and lanes here are lonely. Copses
of woods, dark forests, hiding places for outlaws and wolfs-heads.’
    Blidscote
stared blearily back.
    ‘That’s
a good question,’ Corbett insisted. ‘Why should five young women, not including
Walmer, go out by themselves? If I understand correctly from the court record,
and the same applies to the two most recent deaths, all five were killed
outside the town. Now, if I follow the accepted story, Sir Roger was judged guilty
of four of the murders but he can’t very well have killed the last two, can
he?’ Corbett pointed to the coffin. ‘Take this poor woman. What’s her name?’
    ‘Elizabeth the wheelwright’s daughter.’
    ‘And
her corpse was found under a hedge?’
    ‘Yes,
she disappeared two nights ago.’
    ‘And
when was she last seen?’
    ‘I
have the father upstairs in the church,’ the bailiff replied.
    ‘Then
you’d best fetch him!’
    Blidscote,
breathing heavily through his nose, stamped off. They heard the sound of voices
and the bailiff returned, the wheelwright trailing behind him. A burly,
fat-faced man, his sallow skin discoloured with warts, he stood in the doorway
shuffling his feet, passing the staff he carried from hand to hand.
    ‘Come
in, Master Wheelwright!’ Corbett invited.
    The
man wasn’t listening. He was staring at the coffin. His shoulders began to
shake, tears raining silently down his weather-worn cheeks. He stretched out
one great red chapped hand as if he could draw his poor daughter back to life.
    ‘Come
in, Master Wheelwright.’
    Corbett
got to his feet and walked across. He opened his purse and put a silver coin
into the man’s outstretched hand.
    ‘I
know that’s little comfort,’ he said, ‘but I am sorry for your pain. Master
Wheelwright, my name is Sir Hugh Corbett. I am the King’s clerk—’
    ‘I
know who you are.’ The man lifted his head and glared balefully at Corbett.
‘And I am an earthworm, sir—’
    ‘No,
you are not,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘Master Wheelwright, you are a citizen