The Treason of the Ghosts

attempt to hide her hate. ‘I am a young woman.
My courses have already started. I don’t like the mill.’ She paused briefly.
‘I’ve never liked the mill! Those grinding stones, the scampering of the mice,
and that mere — even in summer it looks dank.’
    ‘My
daughter is still upset,’ Ursula intervened quickly.
    Corbett
nearly replied she was the only one that was, but bit back the reply.
    ‘So,’
he continued, ‘we have Molkyn relaxing after his labours on a Saturday
afternoon with a firkin of ale. Surely you became worried when he didn’t
stagger into bed?’
    ‘Why
should I object?’ Ursula smiled. ‘He stank like a pig and snored like a hog.’
    ‘Surely
you’d send someone across to the mill to see all was well?’
    ‘He
had a bed there. Why should I ask him to soil clean sheets?’
    ‘Did
this drinking become worse after Sir Roger’s execution?’
    ‘No.
For a while Molkyn seemed happy, if that was possible, that Sir Roger was
gone.’
    Just
for a moment the woman blinked quickly, a slight quiver to the mouth. Corbett
went cold. It was the way Ursula had pronounced Sir Roger’s name — not harshly,
not dismissing him as a great killer. Corbett decided to change tack.
    ‘Mistress,
did you ever meet Sir Roger?’
    The
laughter disappeared from her eyes.
    ‘Did
you?’ Corbett insisted.
    ‘I — ‘ she glanced quickly at Ralph — ‘I saw him sometimes
in church.’ She shook her head. ‘Now and again in the town. He was someone I knew by sight.’
    Again
a lie, Corbett thought. More pieces of the puzzle; at least, he was making
sense of it. Ursula was a hot-eyed woman, well favoured and comely. No wonder
Sir Roger had been dispatched to the gallows. How many other men in Melford had
he cuckolded, planting pairs of horns on their heads? A charming, sweet-tongued
knight, Sir Roger could ride round the town and pay courtesy to any lady of his
choice. They would be flattered. Perhaps open to seduction. Was that why Molkyn
had decided on the verdict? Revenge against both Sir Roger
and his wife who had cuckolded him?
    Ursula
got up and, without asking, took Corbett’s tankard and refilled it. She came
back and in one look Corbett knew he had the truth. Despite her petty errand,
the blush still tinged her cheeks.
    ‘Who
empanelled the jury?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘Ask
Blidscote,’ Lucy sneered. ‘Isn’t that the task of the chief bailiff?’
    ‘But
he doesn’t choose them,’ Corbett insisted. ‘According to the law, it’s supposed
to be done by lot.’
    ‘Is
it now?’ Lucy asked sardonically. ‘All I know is that they gathered in the
taproom of the Golden Fleece. The names of those on the electoral roll were
inscribed on pieces of parchment. Twelve were drawn out. Molkyn
and Thorkle first. Surely,’ Lucy added sweetly, ‘such a system cannot be
corrupted?’
    Ralph
put his head in his hands and quietly snorted with laughter. Lucy was openly
mocking Corbett.
    Time
and again the royal council had issued denunciations of the empanelling of
juries, and their corrupt management. Such practices were a constant theme of
strident petitions by the Commons. Corbett scratched the sweat on his neck. He
certainly looked forward to his meeting with Sir Louis Tressilyian the
following evening.
    ‘So,
Molkyn was killed, his head sheared off and placed on a tray, which was pushed
out on to the mere? He was a strong man?’
    ‘He
was drunk as a sot.’ Ralph got to his feet. ‘Are you a numbskull, master
clerk?’
    Corbett
gazed at him steadily.
    ‘The
mill is some distance away. The dog only barks if someone approaches the house.
I’ll take you there if you want.’
    Corbett
shook his head. ‘So, what do you think happened?’
    ‘Molkyn
was lying like a pig on his bed,’ Ralph explained. ‘Sometime in the early hours
the killer walked up the steps and entered the mill. He carried a sword, an
axe, a cleaver. He sliced off my father’s head,’ he pointed to Lucy, ‘as she
slices an onion. One swift blow. The head was put on a
tray, the body thrust up into a chair, a tankard between his hands. The killer
left. As he does, he takes the tray with Molkyn’s head on it and sends it floating
across the mere. That’s where poor Peterkin later found it.’ The young man,
hands on the table, pushed his face close to Corbett’s. ‘God forgive me, master
clerk. I know what you are thinking. We do not grieve. Do you know why? Because
we are not hypocrites! Molkyn was an oaf, quick with