The Treason of the Ghosts

the
crowd, one hand resting on her stick, the other on the arm of the lank-haired,
empty-faced, young man.
    Peterkin,
Corbett thought, the one who had found Molkyn’s head floating on the mere. The
old woman raised her cane in greeting. Corbett was about to reply with a wave,
then closed his eyes and laughed.
    ‘Master?’ Ranulf was standing behind him.
    ‘What
I want, Ranulf, is a long piece of fire wood, a cloth
and a small cup of wine.’
    He
followed his bemused companion back to the kitchen. Ranulf searched around and
brought a long piece of kindling, a wet rag from the buttery and a pewter cup
half-full of ale.
    ‘I
couldn’t find a wine cask,’ Ranulf apologised.
    ‘Sir
Hugh?’ Tressilyian, sitting on a bench near the fireside, got up.
    ‘Please
sit here and see what happens,’ Corbett invited him. ‘Ranulf, you pretend to be
the carpenter. When I knock on the door, do what you think Deverell did last night.
Don’t flinch or delay.’
    Ranulf
agreed. Corbett went outside, pulling the door closed. He put the cup of ale
down, rolled the wet cloth in a ball and pushed it down the Judas squint as far
as he could. He then grasped the piece of kindling in one hand, the cup of ale
in the other. He stood by the spyhole and used the stick to rap on the front
door. He heard a movement within followed by Ranulf’s exclamation. The piece of
rag was removed and, as it was, Corbett threw the contents of the cup into the spyhole.
Ranulf’s curse was long and colourful.
    ‘That’s
how it was done,’ Corbett declared, coming back into the kitchen. ‘There
weren’t two killers, just one. He put that piece of parchment into the spyhole
and brought the primed crossbow up to rest on the ledge, the bolt aimed to hit
anyone who stood on the other side. It was dark, the killer knew about
Deverell’s fears so he kept tapping insistently on the door with a stick or a
cane. He wouldn’t hear him come to the spyhole but he’d hear and see the parchment
being removed. Once it was, he let slip the catch and the crossbow bolt took
Deverell full in the face.’
    ‘Is
that possible?’ Blidscote stammered.
    ‘It’s
logical,’ Corbett replied. ‘And very easy. Imagine
Deverell being frightened. He hears a constant rapping at the door. He thinks
he’s safe. Deverell knew his own house: you can’t knock on the door and stare
through the Judas squint at the same time. He doesn’t realise the killer is
using a cane. He goes to the spyhole to stare out but becomes confused. His
view is blocked by that ball of parchment. He naturally pulls it out: that’s
the sign for the killer. He sees a pale reflection of light from the kitchen,
knows that Deverell is standing there, the crossbow bolt is primed. One simple
touch of his finger and the bolt is sent speeding through. Deverell wouldn’t
have known what was happening. He is still curious about the piece of
parchment. Perhaps he thinks it’s a message. He has been drinking, his wits are
dull, he doesn’t move away. In a few heartbeats he’s dead, staggering to
collapse on the kitchen floor. The crumpled piece of parchment rolls out of his
fingers. He didn’t even have time to read it.’
    Sir
Maurice clapped his hand gently. ‘Well done, Sir Hugh, but who is the killer
and why?’
    ‘I
don’t know who but I do know why. Deverell gave evidence at your father’s
trial, how he saw Sir Roger fleeing along Gully Lane on the night Widow Walmer was
killed. Sir Louis, I truly believe that was a lie and an innocent man was
executed.’
    ‘So soon?’ Sir Maurice’s face had paled. ‘You have reached that
conclusion so soon?’
    ‘Sir
Maurice, you don’t have to be a scholar of great wit or learning: Molkyn and
Thorkle have been murdered, now Deverell.’
    ‘Why?’
Sir Maurice asked.
    ‘I
don’t know,’ Corbett replied, ‘whether it’s to punish them or to close their
mouths for ever. What we have is a continuation of the horrid murders of young
women and now the grisly deaths of some of those who played a prominent part in
your father’s trial.’ Corbett rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t know whether we are
dealing with one killer or two.’
    ‘And
there was the attack on me,’ Tressilyian said sharply.
    ‘Yes,
Sir Louis, there was.’ Corbett slapped Blidscote on the shoulder. ‘If I were
you, master bailiff, I’d walk most warily at night. Sir Louis, you have the
other jurymen?’
    ‘I
told them to meet in the taproom of the Golden Fleece. There should