The Treason of the Ghosts

on the
balls of her feet like a dancer. Corbett had no choice. He moved closer.
Ysabeau was quicker, the knife snaking out, but he caught her wrist: her
strength surprised him. He put one hand on the wrist holding the dagger. He
tried to cup his other hand beneath her chin to force her away. She was tense
and taut as a bowstring.
    Corbett
began to panic. He wanted to defend himself but, try as he might, he could not
hurt this woman. She was no footpad or outlaw, only demented with grief. He
pushed her back against the half-opened door.
    ‘Ranulf!’
he screamed.
    Ysabeau,
eyes blazing with hate, suddenly brought her other hand round and clawed
Corbett’s face. The clerk hit her, sending her out on to the gallery to collide
with Ranulf. She turned. Ranulf lashed out with his boot, kicking the knife out
of her hand. Others were hurrying up the stairs as Ranulf seized her in a
vicelike grip, pinioning her arms to her side.
    ‘You whoreson!’ The froth flecked Ysabeau’s lips. ‘You
gallows bird!’
    She
struggled against Ranulf. The clerk held her fast. The neighbour appeared, a cup in her hand. Ranulf dragged the unfortunate
woman down the gallery, kicked open the door to a chamber and threw her in. The
neighbour, accompanied by Blidscote, followed, slamming the door behind them.
Corbett heard the bolts being drawn. He dabbed the cut on his face, then picked
up the knife and tossed it down the stairs.
    ‘I
am sorry,’ Sir Maurice gasped. ‘One minute she was sitting there, then she said
she wanted to view her husband’s corpse and apologise to you. She must have had
the knife hidden away.’
    ‘It’s
all right. It’s all right,’ Corbett breathed.
    He
went back to the bedchamber, splashed water over his hands and face, drying
himself on a linen cloth.
    ‘It’s
only a small scratch,’ Ranulf declared briskly. ‘It will make you look more
handsome.’
    ‘Thank
you, Ranulf.’
    Corbett
wiped some water from his eyebrows.
    ‘She
was strong. Sir Louis, you are the local justice, yes? I want you to send
Chanson downstairs for an apothecary or physician. The woman needs a sleeping
potion. She should be guarded day and night. At least,’ he added drily, ‘until
I leave Melford. I am also going to search this house.’
    ‘You
can’t do that,’ the justice retorted. ‘You have no warrant.’
    Corbett
tapped his pouch. ‘I have all the warrants I need. You can wait for me in the
kitchen below. Ranulf will be your host.’
    Once
they had left, Corbett closed the door behind them and began his search:
coffers, aumbrys, chests, but they contained nothing untoward. Most of what he
found was connected with Deverell’s trade: receipts, ledgers, as well as
different purchases. The bedchamber yielded nothing.
    Corbett
went downstairs. Ignoring the rest, he searched the kitchen and the small
parlour. He found a little chancery or writing office behind it. The door was
locked. Ranulf found the keys and Corbett went inside.
    A narrow, dusty chamber with one small window high in the wall; a tall
writing-desk and stool. Corbett lit the candles. He had to force the desk,
but again nothing. The small coffer beneath it, however, with its three locks,
looked more interesting. A search was made and the keys found in the dead man’s
purse. Corbett undid the three locks and pulled back the lid. It contained a
small breviary, a Book of Hours, not a collection of prayers but the Divine
Office: Prime, Matins, Lauds . The writing was the
careful script of some monk, the pages well thumbed.
    ‘A carpenter who understood Latin?’ Corbett
murmured.
    There
was also a white cord with three knots in it and a brown scapular, two pieces
of leather on a coarse string. Corbett slipped this over his own head, allowing
one piece of the leather to lie on his chest, the other on his back. The cord
looked well used, slightly fraying in places. He went through the other items:
a medal, Ave beads, a small pyx for carrying the host.
    ‘So,
that’s what you were?’ Corbett declared. ‘No wonder you kept yourself to
yourself!’
    He
took off the scapular and put all the contents back in the coffer, closed and
locked it and returned to the kitchen.
    The
two knights and Ranulf were sitting at the kitchen table. Chanson came through
the front door, a stout man striding behind him who introduced himself as a
local physician. He brusquely told Corbett to get out of his way and went
upstairs to see his patient.
    ‘We
should be gone,’ Corbett