The Treason of the Ghosts

me,’
he muttered. ‘He was also in Sir Roger’s pocket.’
    ‘What
do you mean by that?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘Well,
Sir Roger was kind. I think Furrell knew more than he should have done about
Sir Roger. Our good knight didn’t go to church often — more interested in
matters of the dark.’
    ‘Are
you saying he was a witch or a warlock?’ Corbett scoffed.
    ‘There’s
some truth in that,’ Burghesh interjected.
    ‘Oh,
come, come!’ Corbett sipped from his tankard. ‘If I’m to believe you, Sir Roger
had no virtues. Are you now claiming he danced with the Queen of the fairies in
moonlit glades? Or made bloody sacrifices to the demons of the woods?’
    Burghesh
grinned. ‘No, no. Sir Roger was interested in magic: in those twilight areas
where the light and dark are not so pronounced. He would sometimes talk about
it in here.’
    ‘But Furrell’s evidence?’ Corbett
demanded, steering the conversation on to firmer ground. ‘Here was a man
prepared to go on oath that Sir Roger left Widow Walmer alive and well.’
    ‘He
could have gone back,’ Blidscote replied.
    ‘But
Furrell also hinted that he glimpsed others going down Gully Lane towards Widow Walmer’s
cottage.’
    ‘Ah
well.’ Blidscote grinned over the tankard. ‘How do we know it wasn’t Sir Roger
returning? We have also got Deverell the carpenter’s evidence.’
    ‘And the jury?’ Corbett decided to change tack.
    ‘They
were selected as usual by ballot here in the taproom.’
    ‘But,
isn’t it strange, master bailiff, that the foreman and
the deputy of that jury...’ Corbett paused, ‘... well, certainly Molkyn, was no
friend of Sir Roger?’
    ‘What
are you implying?’ Blidscote’s face turned ugly. ‘That I am guilty of
embracery?’ The bailiff stumbled over the official term for the corruption of a
jury. ‘The ballot was open and fair. Sir Roger had no friends, I’ve told you
that. Moreover, I’m only the bailiff, not the justice. Sir Louis Tressilyian
could have sent Sir Roger for trial before King’s bench in London .’
    ‘Yes,
yes, he could have done.’ Corbett cradled the tankard. ‘I wondered about that.’
    When
Corbett had met the King at Westminster ,
he had asked the same question: Edward, who loved arguing about the subtleties
of the law, had simply shaken his head.
    ‘I think
Sir Louis,’ the King had replied, ‘tried to do that but I refused. It sets a
precedent, Corbett. Can you imagine what would happen if every murder case was
referred to Westminster ?
The courts would be as clogged as a wheel on a muddy day.’
    ‘Sir
Hugh Corbett! Sir Hugh Corbett!’
    The
clerk turned. A royal messenger, his surcoat emblazoned with the snarling
leopards of England ,
stood in the doorway, boots and spurs caked with dirt. He carried a wallet in
one hand, his white wand of office in the other.
    ‘I
am here!’ Corbett called out.
    The
man wearily made his way forward. He thrust the wallet into Corbett’s hand.
    ‘Messages
from Westminster ,’
he declared.
    Sir
Hugh looked at the man’s red-rimmed eyes. ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘Varley, sir.’
    ‘Well,
Varley?’ Corbett then called across the taverner.
    ‘I’m
to be away at first light,’ the messenger added warningly.
    ‘At
this moment I have no reply to make,’ Corbett declared. ‘Master taverner, give
this man a clean bed, something to eat and drink.’
    ‘All
our beds are clean,’ the taverner replied, his square, red-whiskered face
breaking into a grin. ‘But I know what you mean.’
    He
led the messenger off. Corbett broke the seals and undid the wallet. The first
roll was a copy of Sir Roger’s trial which he had asked for before leaving Westminster . The second
was from the Chancery of the Secret Seal, giving details of Sir Roger’s
military service in Gascony and along the Scottish/Welsh march. Corbett demanded a candle and read this
carefully. He grunted and thrust it back into the wallet. He stared across the
taproom at Repton. The reeve lifted his head. Corbett flinched at the hostility
in the narrow, close-set eyes. He glanced at Blidscote.
    ‘It’s
time I walked with Master Repton. After all, he did start this dance.’
    Blidscote
eased himself up and sauntered across. Corbett waited. When he felt the
presence of the man beside him, he glanced up.
    ‘Sit
down, Master Repton,’ he offered. ‘Have some ale.’
    The
reeve pulled across a stool.
    ‘I
drink with my friends.’ Close up Repton’s face was even more
sour