The Treason of the Ghosts

You’d
have to surround it with a circle of steel.’
    ‘Ah,
but the French will never come,’ Burghesh smiled. ‘That’s one of the joys of
this place, Corbett. You can wander in and out.’ He lifted the tankard. ‘God
knows there are enough people in this taproom who will keep an eye on what you
do and where you go.’
    ‘But what about the chapmen and tinkers?’
    Corbett
pointed across to where a group of these sat with their trays carefully stacked
on the floor beside them. One was busy feeding a pet squirrel, a small red ball
of fur on his shoulder which prettily gnawed on the offered scraps. Now and
again the squirrel would break off to chatter at the vicious-looking ferret
held by another.
    ‘I
mean,’ Corbett continued, ‘they can wander in and out when they like and not
pay the market toll.’
    ‘They
can try,’ Blidscote slurred. ‘But who’ll buy from them? They’ll only get
reported, put in the stocks and banned for a year and a day. They are only too
willing to come into the market square and pay the tax.’
    ‘And
you are responsible for that?’ Corbett asked.
    He
studied the chief bailiff’s fat, sweaty face, weak chin, slobbery mouth and
bleary eyes. Corbett recalled his conversation at the mill. Blidscote was a
dangerous man: weak, boastful but, if threatened, dangerous in a sly, furtive
way.
    ‘I’m
chief bailiff,’ Blidscote replied. ‘I do my job well.’
    Corbett
sipped from his tankard. ‘And you were one of the first to see Widow Walmer’s
corpse?’
    ‘Aye.’ The bailiff shook his head. ‘I’ll never forget that
evening. I was here in the taproom, wasn’t I, Burghesh, with you and Repton the
reeve?’
    ‘Tell
me exactly,’ Corbett demanded.
    ‘I’ll
do it,’ Burghesh offered. ‘Do you remember, Blidscote, we gathered here early?
There was you, me, Matthew the taverner and Repton.’
    ‘Who’s
this Repton?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘He’s
over there.’
    Corbett
followed his direction.
    ‘The
fellow with the lank hair, thin as a beanpole. A widower, he had lustful
thoughts about Widow Walmer — wanted to marry her, he did.’
    Repton
was tall, thin, angular ; a sallow, bitter face, lank
brown hair down to his shoulders. He was dressed in a dark green cote-hardie. A
choleric man, he was deep in heated discussion with his fellows.
    ‘Anyway,’
Blidscote continued, ‘Repton was talking about visiting Widow Walmer. “Ah ,“ says Matthew the taverner, “Sir Roger Chapeleys is
fishing in that pond tonight.“ ‘
    ‘And
how did Matthew know that?’ Corbett demanded, though he suspected the answer.
    ‘Why,
Sir Roger had been here earlier in the day and said as much in his cups!’
Burghesh took up the story again. ‘Anyway, Repton was all a-sulk, muttering to
himself for some time. He wanted to go and see her. The reeve had been acting
strangely all evening. He went out and then came back.’
    ‘How
late was this?’
    Burghesh
pulled a face. ‘Oh, it must have been between ten, eleven o’clock at night. I
remember looking at the hour candle.’ He pointed to where it burnt fiercely
under its bronze cap near the kitchen door. ‘Repton was in his cups. He asked
me to go with him.’ Burghesh sipped from his tankard. ‘So I agreed. It was a
pleasant enough evening. We went down Gully
Lane . I realised something was wrong as we
approached the cottage: the front door was off its latch, one of the shutters
was still open. Inside, Goodwoman Walmer was lying on the kitchen floor, a
dreadful sight! Dress and petticoats all askew, legs stuck out, head strangely
twisted, her dress had been torn, dark blue marks round her throat. In Scotland I’d
seen men who had been garrotted with bowstrings. She was the same — face a
bluish-black, eyes popping, mouth all twisted. I told Repton to stay there and
came back for Blidscote.’
    ‘Master bailiff ?’ Corbett interjected.
    ‘I’d
drunk a good bit,’ the man confessed. ‘I took some of the men from the tavern
and went down. It was, as Burghesh described: hideous and ghastly. I was sick
outside. We searched the house. Nothing was stolen but, under the kitchen
table, we found Sir Roger’s knife, a small stabbing dirk with his arms
emblazoned on the ivory handle and sheath.’
    ‘And
what did Sir Roger say when this evidence was offered?’
    ‘He
said he’d given it as a gift to Widow Walmer.’
    Corbett
hid his disquiet. Any theory that this corrupt bailiff, or anyone else, had
deliberately left