The Treason of the Ghosts

be ten but
only five remain. In the last few years the others have died.’ His face broke
into a cold smile. ‘Oh, don’t worry, Sir Hugh, apart from Molkyn and Thorkle,
they died of natural causes.’
    Blidscote
was now moving from foot to foot, nervously clasping at his groin.
    ‘Am
I in danger, Sir Hugh? I did nothing wrong!’
    Corbett
went across. ‘Of wetting yourself, Master Blidscote,’ he whispered into his
ear. ‘For all our sakes, if you wish to relieve yourself, go!’
    Blidscote
hurried down the passageway. Corbett wondered if he should question the bailiff
now, but what proof of corruption or complicity did he have? Blidscote would
deny any wrongdoing. He had to or he’d hang.
    The
clerk went and squatted down beside Ysabeau, She seemed more composed now, no
longer talking to herself. She lifted her eyes and smiled slyly at him. Corbett
was chilled by the look. The woman’s wits were certainly disturbed. Corbett
felt a pang of grief, of deep regret. Deverell had died because of the King’s
clerk’s arrival in Melford. Justice had to be done but the price would be
heavy.
    ‘I
am sorry,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Mistress, I deeply regret your husband’s death.
God be my witness, I did not want his blood on my hands!’
    Ysabeau
just glanced at the bailiff, who’d returned.
    ‘Tell
me,’ Corbett looked up at the neighbour, ‘how many people knew about the Judas
squint?’
    ‘Not
many,’ the neighbour answered. ‘Deverell, God rest him, was a man who kept to
himself but, there again, people did call to place orders.’
    Corbett
looked over his shoulder. ‘Master Blidscote, did you know about this?’
    ‘I
did and I didn’t,’ came the defensive reply. ‘True, I
visited here but I’d always forget it.’
    ‘Sir
Louis? Sir Maurice?’
    Both
knights shook their heads.
    ‘Have
there been any strangers at the house?’ Corbett asked.
    Ysabeau’s
gaze didn’t shift.
    ‘I
glimpsed a friar,’ the neighbour replied. ‘One of those
wandering priests, ragged and dirty. He came here recently. Deverell
called him a nuisance. He only left when he was given some food and drink.’
    ‘Anyone else?’ Corbett demanded.
    The
woman shook her head.
    ‘I’ll
look upstairs,’ Corbett declared. ‘I want to view the corpse.’
    He
left the rest and climbed the broad polished stairs to the small gallery. The
door to the bedchamber was open, a well-furnished room with gleaming furniture
which matched the carved woodwork of the four-poster bed. Corbett went across
and looked through the window. A crowd still gathered below. Burghesh had
joined them. The church bell began to toll and Corbett realised St Edmund’s
would be getting ready for the funeral of Elizabeth the wheelwright’s daughter.
    He
moved back to the bed and pulled aside the drapes. Deverell’s corpse was hidden
beneath a bloody sheet. He carefully peeled this back and flinched at the
terrible wound. The crossbow bolt had been shot very close, reducing one side
of the carpenter’s face to a bloody pulp. The bolt had entered just beneath the
eye: a piteous, hideous sight. Corbett murmured the requiem. Surely God would
have mercy on this man, so full of fear, sent so quickly into the dark?
    Although
Corbett felt a deep regret, he knew the root cause of Deverell’s murder was Sir
Roger’s death. Deverell had certainly lied at the trial, but why? What had
forced this wealthy craftsman to perjure himself, to send a man to the gallows?
Who in Melford could exercise such power, exploit fearful nightmares? Had
Deverell himself begun to regret his sin? Was he the one who had daubed
Chapeleys’ tomb, pinned the notice to the gallows post? Indeed, had Deverell
been the stranger who had so mysteriously assaulted him the previous evening, a
fearful man who had lashed out but then panicked and fled?
    ‘A
terrible death,’ Corbett murmured, pulling over the blood-soaked sheets. He
heard a sound behind him; it must be Ranulf. ‘I’ve seen many corpses but each
time is different.’
    Again
the floorboard creaked. Corbett whirled round. Ysabeau was creeping towards
him, a broad-bladed knife in her hand. Corbett was trapped by the bed behind
him. He moved sideways. She moved with him. She shifted her grip. Those black
eyes never left Corbett. The clerk knew he was in mortal danger. Ysabeau had
one thought only: to kill the man responsible for her husband’s death. Corbett
moved away. She moved with him. He feinted to draw her in but she kept