The Treason of the Ghosts

when the river becomes full, it’s
drained,’ Sorrel explained.
    Corbett was more concerned with his horse, nervous
and skittish as its hoofs clattered on the wooden slats. At last they were across under the old gatehouse
and into the cobbled inner bailey. By some coincidence — perhaps the builder had planned it — the bailey seemed
to trap the moonlight, increasing the manor’s ghostly appearance.
    ‘A haunted place!’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘Don’t its ghosts
trouble you?’
    ‘Oh,
people say there are ghosts,’ Sorrel grinned. ‘And I embroider the stories to
keep them away.’
    ‘Aren’t
you nervous?’
    ‘Of
the ghosts!’ she exclaimed. ‘True, strange sounds can be heard at night. I
often wonder if Furrell comes looking for me but it’s the living who concern me. And, before you ask, clerk, I am not really
frightened of strangers or outlaws. Why should they hurt the likes of me?
Especially,’ she called out as she crossed the yard, ‘as I have a cudgel, a
dagger, not to mention a crossbow and bolts.’
    She
led Corbett into the ruined hall. Most of its roof had gone, leaving the beams
open to the elements. Sorrel lit sconce torches and, in their flickering dance,
Corbett glimpsed faded paintings on the far wall. The dais at the top had once
been tiled but most of the stone had been ripped away.
    ‘You
can hobble your horse here,’ Sorrel explained.
    Corbett
did so and followed her across the dais. The door in the wall at the back had
been repaired and rehung on leather hinges. The large room inside must have
once been the solar, or family room, for the manor lord and family. Its roof
was still sound; the plaster had been refurbished. Corbett was surprised how
clean and neat it was. There were stools, a bench, trestle table, two large
chests, an aumbry and, in the far corner, a
four-poster bed shrouded by faded red curtains. Candlesticks in iron spigots
were placed round the room as well as sconce torches which Sorrel immediately
lit.
    ‘Take
your ease,’ Sorrel offered.
    Corbett
looked around and whistled under his breath. ‘It’s very comfortable.’
    ‘Of
course it is,’ Sorrel called.
    She
went into a small adjoining room and wheeled back a metal-capped brazier.
Corbett watched as she expertly fired the coals and, taking a small pouch of
ground herbs, sprinkled some powder across the top. A warm sweet perfume
pervaded the room.
    ‘Who
did all this?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘Why,
Furrell. You see, sir, no one owns Beauchamp
Place . People are terrified of the ghosts and, if
the river spills, it can be dangerous but, the hall, solar and my buttery are safe.’ She added proudly, ‘Furrell was a good
poacher. I was in Melford earlier with three pheasants for the Golden Fleece.
People pay well for good, fresh meat, finely gutted and cleaned. Furrell bought
the bed from a merchant who was leaving for London . The other sticks of furniture came
from the likes of Deverell. That’s how people paid him.’
    Corbett
noticed the paintings on the far wall. He got up and went across. They had been
done in charcoal, filled in with rough paints, small scenes from country life;
most of them depicted a man or woman netting a hare or catching conys in the
hay. Others were more vigorous: a pheasant burst up from the gorse, its head
going back as it was hit by a slingshot; a roe deer, antlers high, knees
buckling as an arrow dug deep into its neck.
    ‘Who
did these?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘Furrell. Don’t forget, you may work by day but my man worked
at night.’
    Corbett
continued to study the rough paintings. Sorrel brought in two pewter cups. She
filled these with wine and, grasping a small poker, thrust it into a now fiery
brazier. She then took it out, warmed the wine and sprinkled each with nutmeg.
She wrapped a rag round one cup and handed it to Corbett.
    ‘ It’s good wine, isn’t it?’ she said, sitting down on the
bench opposite, her eyes bright and expectant.
    Corbett
felt a little uncomfortable.
    ‘Tell
me,’ he said. ‘Do you really believe that I can discover the truth?’
    ‘You
must do.’ Sorrel pointed across to a small niche containing a statue of the
Virgin, a candle fixed in wax before it. ‘Every day I pray to her. You’re God’s
answer.’
    Corbett
sipped at the wine. It was warm and mellow. He felt relaxed, slightly
flattered. Most strangers couldn’t stand the sight of him. A royal clerk,
particularly the keeper of the Secret Seal, was regarded as dangerous: a