The Treason of the Ghosts

spent the greater part of the last hour riding the trackways
and lanes around Melford. He wanted to take his bearings: on a number of
occasions he had become lost.
    ‘It’s
a maze,’ he muttered.
    Melford
was not like those ancient towns along the south coast, or the royal boroughs
around the Medway, with their walls and gates. Melford had begun as a village, then spread as the wealth from its sheep increased. A
murderer could slip easily in and out of such a town. At one time Corbett would
be amongst cottages and houses, he’d then take a
turning down a muddy lane and be out in open countryside. But at last he had a
map in his mind and was already sifting possibilities. How and where the
murderer had carried out his crimes was still impossible to deduce. Corbett
could only form a vague hypothesis. Now he was intent on visiting Molkyn the
miller’s widow. He wanted to proceed quickly. The longer he stayed in Melford,
and the more time he gave people to reflect, the more they’d say what they
wanted him to hear rather than the truth.
    Corbett
urged his horse forward, passed the church and, following the direction he had
taken earlier, rode down a muddy lane. He entered the miller’s property and
reined in before the mere glinting in the moonlight. Corbett could imagine the
tray or platter bearing Molkyn’s severed head floating and bobbing on its
glassy surface. He dismounted and led his horse round the mere. Above him the
great mill soared, its canvas arms stretched out to the night. He glimpsed a
light and went on up the lane towards the house. A dog came snarling out of the
darkness. Corbett paused, stretching out his hand.
    ‘Now,
now,’ he whispered. ‘No need for that.’
    The
dog barked again. A door opened and Corbett glimpsed a shadowy form holding a
lantern.
    ‘Who’s
there?’ came the challenge.
    ‘Sir
Hugh Corbett, King’s clerk! I would be grateful if you would call your dog
off!’
    A
low whistle broke the darkness. The dog slunk away and Corbett went on. The man
carrying the lantern was young, broad-faced, red-haired, pugnacious and
aggressive. He was dressed in a cote-hardie which fell to his knees. Both that, and the leggings beneath, were dusty with flour.
    ‘What
do you want?’
    ‘A civil welcome!’ Corbett snapped. ‘I carry the
King’s commission.’
    ‘Ralph,
Ralph,’ a woman’s voice called from the doorway. ‘Take our visitor’s horse.’
The voice was low and warm. ‘You’d best come in, Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s
clerk, the night is freezing.’
    The
young man led off the horse. Corbett undid his sword belt and cloak and
followed the woman into the warm, stone-flagged kitchen, a long, sweet-smelling
room. The windows at the far end were shuttered, a
fire blazed merrily in the hearth and the air was rich with the smell of baking
from the ovens on either side of the fire. The woman who welcomed him was
blonde-haired and slender, with a smiling, pleasant face. Behind her two other
women sat at a table. One was undoubtedly Molkyn’s daughter. She had fair hair
and a sweet face. The other had coarser features: a flat nose, podgy cheeks, a watchful, hostile gaze. Her grey hair was hidden under a
dark blue veil, now slightly askew. She sat, the sleeves of her grey gown
pulled back, a sharp pruning knife in her hands. She was helping cut up some
vegetables. She dropped these in the pot on the table, her gaze never leaving
Corbett’s face.
    ‘I
am Ursula,’ the welcoming woman said.
    ‘The miller’s widow?’
    Smiling-eyed,
she studied Corbett intently. ‘Yes, I am the miller’s widow whilst you’re more
handsome than they said.’
    Corbett
felt himself blush. The woman laughed deep in her throat. She must have seen
Corbett’s surprise at the green gown she was wearing.
    ‘Widow’s
weeds are for mourning, master clerk. Molkyn’s dead and buried so that’s the
end of the matter. This is my stepdaughter, Margaret, and the lady staring so
boldly at you is another widow, Lucy, Thorkle’s wife.’
    Corbett
felt uneasy. Here were three women who had lost their men. Two
their husbands, the young one her father, but there were no funeral cloths
against the wall. No purple drape covered the crucifix, chests or
cupboards. The kitchen looked like one in the royal household, sparkling clean,
scrubbed and washed.
    ‘I
do not wish to intrude.’
    ‘You
are not intruding.’ Ursula’s blue eyes remained steady. ‘We’ve all heard of
your arrival. We’ve had King’s