The Treason of the Ghosts

man
who had the ear of the King.
    ‘Right.’ Corbett sipped again. ‘Five years ago Sir Roger Chapeleys was hanged.
Furrell went before the justices and pleaded on his behalf?’
    ‘I’ve told you all that.’
    ‘And
then what happened?’
    ‘Well,’
Sorrel pulled a face, ‘Sir Roger was in prison for a while. Sir Louis
dispatched pleas to London but the King sent the order back. Sir Roger had been found guilty by a jury.’
Sorrel sipped at her own wine. ‘The poor man even offered to purge himself by
trial by combat but that was refused. Sentence of death was confirmed and he
was hanged.’
    ‘Did
you attend the execution?’
    ‘Oh
no, nor did Furrell.’
    ‘And
when did your husband disappear?’
    Sorrel
narrowed her eyes. ‘About a month after Sir Roger’s
execution. Furrell was a strange one. He had many faults. I wondered if
he did lie with other women but, in his own way, he was loyal. As I said, we
took a vow under the yew tree and he looked after me. He was kind and tender,
never raising his hands to me, even in his cups. He could be garrulous, at
other times he would sit and brood, barking out short statements like when he
mentioned the Mummer’s Man.’ She pointed to the wall. ‘I think that’s why he
liked painting. He always had a great fear, did Furrell, that his wits would wander, that the loneliness would darken his mind.’
    ‘And Sir Roger’s execution?’ Corbett
brought her gently back to the matter in hand.
    ‘Ah
yes.’ She shifted her hair away from her face with her wrist then held the cup
against her chapped cheek. ‘After the hanging my man was not the most popular
person in Melford: dark looks at the Golden Fleece, cold shoulders in the
marketplace. Furrell, however, was a ferret of a man: he had his mind set on
Sir Roger’s innocence. He became obsessed with it. I wish,’ she sighed, ‘I had
listened more carefully to his ran tings and ravings. He never changed the song
he sang: Sir Roger did not attack Widow Walmer. He left her cottage peaceably,
full of wine and love whilst she was alive and hearty.’
    ‘And?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘Furrell
went back to the widow’s cottage. Now, you can imagine what happened after her
death. The town council seized her property as tax. It’s now been sold to
another so you won’t find anything interesting. Anyway, Furrell went back
there. From the night of her death, the council put guards and bailiffs on her
property. You know the way it is: windows and doors were sealed though that
didn’t stop people rifling her hen coops and taking what livestock they could filch.
There’s nothing like a funeral,’ she added wistfully, ‘to bring the greed out
in people. Now Furrell made very careful enquiries.’ She pointed to the door of her own chamber. ‘Much as I boast about my crossbow
and dagger, when I sleep at night I draw the bolts across. Wouldn’t you, master
clerk?’
    Corbett
agreed.
    ‘Well,’
Sorrel continued eagerly, putting the cup on the floor and using her hands to
illustrate what she was saying, ‘on the night she died Widow Walmer entertained
Sir Roger, yes?’
    Corbett
nodded.
    ‘And
when he went, what would she do? She’s drunk wine,
she’s made love, she’s tired. If I were her, I would douse the fire and
lamps...’
    ‘Fasten
the shutters and bolt the door,’ Corbett finished the sentence for her.
    ‘Exactly! Especially if she was alone. Now, if someone had come to attack, ravish and slay her?’
    ‘They’d
force the door,’ Corbett declared.
    ‘Furrell
found this hadn’t happened. No damage to the doors or shutters. So our widow
must have known her visitor.’
    ‘I
am not a lawyer,’ Corbett replied, ‘but I would argue that perhaps Sir Roger
paid a second visit. Widow Walmer would let him in.’
    ‘True,’
she agreed. ‘But why leave in the first place? And, if he was going to kill
her, why return, why not do it earlier?’
    Corbett
cradled the cup in his hands. ‘Then let me act the lawyer, Mistress. For the
sake of argument let’s assume that Sir Roger left and did not return. The
killer comes tripping down the lane.’ He paused. ‘So what would happen? The
murderer tapped on the door, Widow Walmer must have been so assured that she
opened it and let her assassin in. So sure of him, she probably turned her back
and that’s when he slipped the garrotte string around her throat. I have seen
similar murders in London .
It doesn’t take someone long to learn how to use the