The Treason of the Ghosts

his fists or his cudgel.
As for enemies, go down to Melford, knock on each
door, particularly the bakers’. They’ll tell you about Molkyn’s false weights
and measures, the dust and chalk he added to the flour. The
way he short-changed farmers and fixed his prices. He wouldn’t give a
cup of water to a dying man. I am pleased he’s dead. As far as I am concerned
he can rot in Hell!’
    The
young man stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
    ‘Does
he speak for you all?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘Yes
he does,’ Margaret replied swiftly and incisively. ‘He certainly speaks for
me.’ She glared defiantly at her mother.
    ‘And
you, Mistress?’
    Ursula
ran a finger along her lower lip. ‘Margaret,’ she commanded, ‘ leave those, go upstairs! Make sure the warming pans are
ready!’
    The
girl was about to refuse.
    ‘I
said go!’
    The
young woman threw the knife down and flounced out as angrily as her brother.
    ‘They
are not my children,’ Ursula explained.
    ‘I
beg your pardon, Mistress?’
    ‘I
am Molkyn’s second wife.’
    ‘His
first wife died in childbirth?’
    Lucy
stifled a laugh. Corbett refused to look in her direction.
    ‘She
fell.’ Ursula pointed to the stairs. ‘An unfortunate
accident.’
    ‘Do
you know, Mistress, I am tired.’ Corbett sipped from the tankard. ‘Of
lies, of hidden laughter, of shadow games as if we are children. She didn’t
fall, did she? There is a suspicion that she was pushed. Is that what you are
saying?’
    ‘Molkyn
was free with his fists. His first wife fell, bruised her face and broke her
neck. Molkyn claimed he was working at the mill when it happened.’
    ‘But
you don’t believe that, do you?’
    ‘No,
sir, I don’t. He was a bully: he would have done the same to me. I fought back.
I told him that I would stand on the market cross and proclaim what he really
was and — I’ll be honest — if he ever hit me, one night I’d slip across to that
mill and slit his drunken throat. But,’ she tossed back her hair, ‘before you ask, I didn’t. Molkyn may have been a big man
but he had the mind and belly of a greedy child. Of course, I don’t grieve for
him. As for bed sport,’ she hid a giggle behind her hand, ‘I’d have a better
game with that whey-faced curate of Parson Grimstone’s.’
    ‘And
is that the view of Thorkle’s widow?’ Corbett asked.
    Lucy
sliced a vegetable, then wiped her mouth on the back
of her hand.
    ‘If
Molkyn was a roaring dog,’ she replied, ‘Thorkle was a mouse of a man. And, as
for his death, come down to my farm, master clerk. Or even
better, ask young Ralph. He was in my house when Thorkle was killed,
sitting in the kitchen, talking to me and my children. I don’t know why Thorkle
died. Like a little mouse he kept his mouth shut. He always was in fear of
Molkyn.’
    ‘And your daughter, Mistress?’ Corbett asked.
‘She’s not upset?’
    ‘Ah!’
Ursula got to her feet, wiping her hands slowly on the breast of her taffeta
gown. ‘If she’s upset, master clerk, it’s because you mentioned Widow Walmer.
Didn’t you know she often acted as her maid?’ She laughed at Corbett’s
surprise. ‘Well, not maid — don’t forget she was only a young girl of twelve —
more as a companion. She often slept there, spent the evening, kept the good widow company.’
    ‘And
the night Sir Roger supposedly murdered her?’
    ‘Well,
the widow was expecting company, wasn’t she? Margaret was told to stay away,
that’s all she knew and that’s all I can tell you.’
    Corbett
stared across at the fire. He’d learnt enough. He had picked up pieces which he
must arrange in some form of order, but, perhaps, not tonight. He pushed back
his stool, picked up his cloak and sword belt, thanked his hosts and went out
into the yard.



Chapter 9
     
     
    The
wind had picked up, whirling the branches, scattering the dry leaves. Clouds
raced across the moonlit sky. Corbett dug his heels in, guiding his horse
across the bridge and up the lane leading back to the church.
    ‘The
devil’s night,’ Corbett whispered.
    He
recalled boyhood stories. His mother used to sit him on her knee and talk about
the wild woodman, all tangled hair and glaring eyes, who supposedly lived in
the forest, an arrow-shot from their farm. Corbett closed his eyes and smiled.
Such stories! Every tree, every bush, hid a fantastical world of evil goblins,
malignant forest people; dragons, griffins and man-sized hawks. He’d started
telling the same to