The Treason of the Ghosts

murmuring: ‘One for Maeve, one for
Eleanor...’
    He
had hardly finished when Parson Grimstone, accompanied by Curate Robert and
Burghesh, joined them.
    ‘Would
you like to see the church?’
    Corbett
agreed and the parson proudly led them around, explaining the paintings, the
different items bought by parishioners. How the rood screen was new and the
baptismal font near the front door needed to be refurbished. He then took them
into the bell tower with its narrow, winding steps, coloured bell ropes, the
deep, sloping window recesses on the outside wall.
    ‘This
is the old part of the church,’ he explained.
    Corbett
looked at the arrow-slit windows at the far end of the recesses.
    ‘It
reminds me of a peel tower,’ he declared, ‘on the Scottish border. Soldiers
would climb into such recesses to defend it.’
    ‘This
is Curate Robert’s domain,’ Parson Grimstone declared, his rubicund face
creased into a smile, though his eyes were watery and nervous. He proudly
clapped the curate on the shoulder.
    In
fact Bellen looked anything but proud: dressed in his black gown with a white
cord round the middle, the curate stood white-faced and heavy-eyed. Now and
again his lips moved soundlessly as if he was talking to himself.
    ‘I
understand,’ Grimstone said flatly as they left the bell tower, ‘that you met
some of my parishioners last night and made the personal acquaintance of Repton
the reeve?’
    ‘It
was interesting,’ Corbett replied. ‘Parson Grimstone, you have a fine church
here. Do you have a Book of the Dead?’ he added sharply.
    ‘Why,
yes.’ The parson became flustered. ‘It’s in the sacristy.’
    He
led them back down the church and into the small, oak-panelled room with its
cupboards and chests. It smelt fragrantly of incense and beeswax candles, and
was dominated by a huge black crucifix nailed to the wall above the panelling.
Parson Grimstone, hands shaking, unlocked the parish coffer and sifted amongst
the documents and ledgers. Beads of sweat coursed down Grimstone’s face: he
quietly rubbed his stomach, whilst his search was clumsy.
    You’re
nervous, Corbett thought, but you are also a toper. Corbett had seen the same
phenomena amongst clerks in the chancery who spent their nights in the
alehouses and taverns: an unexplained flush to the face, a tendency to sweat,
whilst their hands shook as if they were afflicted by palsy. He noticed how the
curate stayed near the door. Burghesh was solicitous, going to help the parson like a mother would a child. Grimstone at last found
the silver-edged ledger and pulled it out. The pages inside were thick and
crackled as he opened it.
    ‘It’s
the work of a binder in Ipswich ,’ he remarked.
‘It’s about a hundred years old but well sewn together
with twine. Why the interest, Sir Hugh?’
    ‘ Elizabeth the
wheelwright’s daughter’s name is in this?’
    ‘Oh
yes, oh yes,’ Parson Grimstone said, flustered. ‘Of course, she is. We
celebrate her Requiem Mass at noon today, followed by interment.’ He pointed to
the black and gold vestments laid out over a chest. ‘Robert will sing the Mass. He has a fine
voice. He knew the girl better than I did.’
    ‘In what way?’ Corbett asked sharply.
    The
curate walked forward, scratching at his mop of hair. He’s not as nervous as he
looks, Corbett thought. Bellen’s eyes were troubled but steady.
    ‘She
came to me in the confessional pew.’
    ‘But
you never met her outside your priestly duties?’
    ‘No,
Sir Hugh, why should I? I am a priest, sworn to celibacy. I heard her petty
sins and shrived her. You know Canon Law, clerk.’
    ‘I
know Church Law, priest! I have no intention of asking you what you heard under
the seal of confession. It is a sacred seal, is it not?’
    The
curate smiled with his eyes.
    ‘I
mean no offence.’ Corbett took his gloves off and pushed them into his war
belt. ‘But the poor girl lies dead.’
    ‘Aye,
Sir Hugh, she does but her soul’s with God. Elizabeth
Wheelwright was guilty of no serious sin, at least none that she confessed to
me.’
    ‘And Sir Roger Chapeleys?’ Corbett
queried, glancing at Grimstone.
    ‘We’ve
had this conversation before, Sir Hugh. I’ve told you what I know. Sir Roger’s
last confession was heard by a visiting friar but he did say that Sir Roger had
not confessed to any murders.’
    ‘You
think he was innocent?’
    ‘No
man is innocent.’
    ‘You
think he was a murderer?’ Corbett demanded.
    ‘I
don’t