The Treason of the Ghosts

foible; his parishioners allow it.’
    ‘Do
you know him well?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘Hasn’t
anyone told you?’ Burghesh laughed. ‘We are half-brothers. Different names but
the same blood.’ He grimaced. ‘I know there’s no likeness between us. We grew
up here — well, not in Melford itself, but in a farm nearby. Our father married
twice. John’s mother died in childbirth. We were both sent to school in Ipswich . I always wanted to be a stonemason. I remember
when they finished part of this church. I used to come up here and help the
builders until a soldier’s life beckoned. I became a master bowman, a
sergeant-at-arms. I helped myself to plunder, gave my money to the Lombards and, when I’d seen enough of fighting, came back
here.’
    ‘You
were married?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘Many years ago. But she died and that was it. You get tired of death,
don’t you, Sir Hugh? One night eating and drinking round the campfire with your
friends, the next morning the same man takes an arrow in his gullet. I came
back here, oh, about twelve years ago. I bought the old forester’s house behind
the church but, if the truth be known, I returned to look after John.’
    ‘And Curate Robert?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘Oh,
he’s what you described him as, an open book. A good priest
but anxious, ever so anxious.’
    ‘What about?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘He
likes the ladies.’ Burghesh’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Oh, there’s nothing
wrong with that. Many a priest can cope with it. Curate Robert has gone the
other way. He is constantly sermonising about the lusts of the flesh. It’s a
joke amongst many of the parishioners.’
    ‘But a good priest?’ Corbett demanded.
    ‘Oh
yes, he has a gift, especially with the young. A gentle man, his severe face
hides a kind heart.’
    ‘Could
someone like Margaret the miller’s daughter have approached him?’
    ‘It’s
possible. But come, Sir Hugh, you haven’t broken your fast. Let’s leave Parson
Grimstone.’
    He
took them out into the graveyard. The sun was now breaking through, turning the
hoar frost on the grass to a glistening dampness. Birds swooped above the
tombstones; somewhere a rook or raven croaked. They passed the halffinished
cross. Corbett noticed the barrow, hoe and mattock, the freshly dug grave, the
brown earth piled high beside it.
    ‘Poor Elizabeth !’ Burghesh murmured. ‘That will be her last resting place.’
    ‘You
dug it?’ Ranulf asked.
    ‘Yes,
I did. I act as verger, general handyman round the parish. I have to. Trade is
good, everybody is busy, no one has time to spare. Oh,
we have church ales, the paying of the tithes, but why should a man dig graves
if he can earn more raising sheep?’
    They
passed the priest’s house and followed the path round, across a small yard
housing stables, hen runs, chicken coops and a small dovecote. At the end of this yard stood a small orchard of apple and pear
trees.
    ‘They
give good fruit in summer.’ Burghesh stopped and stared at the branches. ‘But
they need pruning.’
    He
led them through the orchard, which gave way to a small field. At the far end, flanked on either side by trees, stood the
forester’s house. It was narrow but three-storeyed, with white plaster
and black beams. Its windows had been enlarged and filled with glass, the roof
was newly tiled.
    ‘It’s
what I used to dream about,’ Burghesh confessed.
    He
led them along the path, took a ring of keys from his belt and opened the front
door. The passage inside was stone-flagged but clean and well swept. The
plaster walls were lime-washed and there were shelves holding pots of herbs.
Corbett smelt lavender, pennyroyal, agrimony and coriander.
    ‘I’m
a keen gardener,’ Burghesh declared.
    He
took them through, past the comfortable parlour, kitchen and buttery into the
physician’s garden at the back. This was formed in a half-moon shape, ringed by
a red-brick wall. Burghesh proudly pointed out how he had arranged the herbs
according to their uses: herbs for bites and stings, herbs for the kitchen and
household. He then led them back and made them sit at the thick wooden kitchen
table whilst he served them home-brewed ale and freshly baked bread.
    ‘Are
you a cook as well?’ Ranulf asked, enjoying himself.
    ‘No,
I sell the herbs to the apothecaries and buy my bread.’
    ‘Are
you a hunter?’ Corbett asked.
    Burghesh
threw his head back and laughed.
    ‘I’m
as clumsy as a dray horse.’ He supped at his ale. ‘I