The Treason of the Ghosts

declared, picking up his cloak.
    ‘Did
you find anything?’ Sir Maurice asked.
    ‘Is
Blidscote still here?’ Corbett asked Chanson.
    ‘Oh
yes, but he prefers to be as far away from you, Master, as possible.’
    ‘I’ll
have words with him soon,’ Corbett replied.
    ‘What
have you found, Corbett?’ Tressilyian demanded.
    ‘Deverell
may have been a carpenter but, once upon a time he was a monk.’
    ‘A monk!’ Sir Maurice exclaimed.
    ‘A
defrocked priest,’ Corbett replied. ‘A monk who ran away from
his monastery. It’s not so unusual. He could never really close the door
on his past so he kept a few mementoes: Ave beads, the scapular some monks wear
beneath their robes, his psalter and his cord with the three knots symbolising
the vows of Chastity, Poverty and Obedience. I suspect Master Deverell, as a
monk, showed tremendous skill as a carpenter. Perhaps he got tired of his
vocation. Perhaps he quarrelled with Father Abbot. So he fled. He arrived in a
prosperous town like Melford, married and settled down.’
    ‘And
what has this got to do with my father’s death?’
    ‘A great deal, Sir Maurice. Remember
Deverell was a craftsman, a worthy burgess of this town. His word would carry a
great deal of weight.’ Corbett lowered his voice. ‘On oath his evidence would
be believed by a judge and jury. Yes, Sir Louis?’
    The
justice, tight-lipped, nodded. Corbett glimpsed the anger in his eyes. Judges
and justices made mistakes. Sir Louis would not be the first, and certainly not
the last, to regret a sentence passed.
    ‘I
appreciate, sir, this is difficult for you,’ Corbett apologised.
    ‘In
the end, Sir Hugh, justice will be done. If Deverell gave false testimony, and
any others, then let it be upon their heads. I can only accept the verdict of
the jury. God knows, I pleaded for Sir Roger’s life.’
    ‘I
know.’ Corbett glanced over his shoulder towards the stairs. ‘Deverell, God
rest him, lied and perjured himself. But why? Gold or silver?’ He pulled a face. ‘A man like Deverell
wouldn’t risk his life and reputation for that. No, Deverell was being
blackmailed. Someone here knew he was a runaway monk, which means his marriage
wasn’t valid. The summoner could arrive from the Archdeacon’s court: Deverell
could either be excommunicated or dragged back to his monastery to do penance
on bread and water.’
    ‘So,
Deverell perjured himself?’
    ‘Yes,
he perjured himself. The problem is, who knew his
secret? I wonder about Deverell,’ Corbett continued. ‘Was he the one who sent
Molkyn the miller that verse from Leviticus?’
    ‘What
verse?’ Sir Louis asked.
    ‘I’ll
tell you later,’ Corbett replied.
    They
walked out into the sunshine. Corbett heard his name called. Sorrel came out of
one of the alleyways.
    ‘So,
Deverell’s dead!’ she murmured, eyes gleaming. ‘Fitting
punishment for a perjurer.’ She offered Corbett the coin he’d given her
the previous evening. ‘I shouldn’t have taken that.’
    ‘Why not?’ Corbett steered her away from the rest.
    ‘I
didn’t tell you,’ she confessed. ‘I’m well furnished with silver.’
    ‘How?’
    ‘Three
times a year,’ she said, ‘at Beauchamp
Place a silver coin appears wrapped in a piece of
parchment. No messages: it’s been the same since Furrell died. Every January, Easter and Michaelmas.’
    ‘Keep
it.’
    Corbett
closed her fingers round the coin. He was about to join the rest but Old Mother
Crauford hobbled forward, cane tapping the cobbles, one hand grasping Peterkin.
She shooed a scavenging cat out of her way.
    ‘More deaths, royal clerk. They should
rename Melford, Haceldema.’
    ‘The
Field of Blood,’ Corbett translated. ‘Why do you say that?’
    ‘Always
been deaths,’ she declared.
    ‘What’s
the matter?’ Corbett glanced at Peterkin, who was jibbering with fright.
    ‘He
lives with me,’ the old woman explained, ‘and he’s all a-feared. He thinks
you’ve come to take him away to a house of simpletons, where he’ll be fed bread
and water and given the whip.’
    Peterkin’s
face was dirty and unshaven, his eyes full of terror, his lower lip quivering.
If Old Mother Crauford hadn’t held him by the wrist, he would have bolted like
a rabbit. Corbett took a coin out of his wallet and, grasping the man’s hand,
made him accept it.
    ‘I
have not come to take you,’ Corbett said softly. ‘Peterkin is my friend. Old
Mother Crauford is my friend. Buy some sweetmeats, a hot pie or