The Treason of the Ghosts

again.’ Simon nodded. ‘Yes, we
wondered if an innocent man had been executed.’ The flesher shuffled his feet
and looked at the floor.
    ‘What
is it?’ Corbett asked. ‘You have something else to say, haven’t you?’
    Simon
wiped his sweaty brow on the back of his wrist. ‘I’d like to make a
confession.’ The words came blurting out. ‘Sir Louis, I should have told you
this before.’
    ‘What?’
Corbett asked.
    ‘About
two years after the trial I was in an alehouse, the Gooseberry Bush at the far
end of the town. Molkyn came in. He’d just made a delivery of flour and was
drinking the profits. Now most times, Molkyn was a surly bastard, always
looking for a fight — fists like hams he had. He calls me over. I was
delivering some meat. He was quite insistent so I joined him. He was deep in
his cups. We talked about this and that. “Do you believe in ghosts ?“ Molkyn suddenly asked. “What do you mean, Molkyn ?“ I said. “Sir Roger Chapeleys ,“ he replied. “Do you think he can come back and haunt us for what we did ?“ Now I was troubled, I didn’t like that sort of talk. “He
was guilty ,“ I replied. “What if I say he wasn’t ,“ Molkyn jibed—’
    ‘I
beg your pardon?’ Corbett interrupted. ‘Molkyn said that?’
    ‘Aye. I became frightened. I questioned him but Molkyn grew
all coy and sly, tapping his fleshy nose and winking. He then told me about a
quarrel he had had with Furrell the poacher. “What quarrel ?“ says I. It appears that after the trial, Furrell had approached Molkyn, saying
Sir Roger was innocent and he could prove it. Molkyn told him to go hang.
Furrell also accused Molkyn of being a perjurer, then Furrell said something very strange. He claimed there was proof in Melford who
the real killer was and that it was plain as a picture for anyone to see.’
    ‘And?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘That’s
all Molkyn told me. He was fuddled in his wits and deep in his cups so I left
him.’
    ‘Is
there anything else?’ Corbett demanded.
    A
chorus of denial greeted his question. Corbett thanked them and the men left,
eager to be away from the sharp-eyed clerk and his probing questions.
    ‘You
are rather quiet, Sir Maurice?’ Corbett asked.
    The
young man gazed sullenly back. ‘Sir Hugh, what can I do? I was only a boy when
my father was hanged. How can I go round Melford asking questions?’ His face
became hard. ‘I can see it in their eyes, Sir Hugh. They still regard him as a
killer, an assassin.’ His gaze softened. ‘But I have trust in you. Justice will
be done.’
    ‘Sir
Louis,’ Corbett glanced around to make sure there were no eavesdroppers:
Matthew the taverner, however, had the sense to keep his slatterns and tapboys
well away, ‘at Sir Roger’s trial, were you uneasy?’
    ‘Of
course, but what could I do? The only evidence Sir Roger truly denied was
Deverell’s.’
    ‘And Furrell’s evidence?’ Corbett asked.
    Sir
Louis sighed and sat down on a stool opposite. The justice hadn’t slept well;
his eyes were heavy and red-rimmed.
    ‘Sir
Hugh, Furrell was patronised by Sir Roger.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And there’s
something else. Three young women were killed before Widow Walmer’s death,
yes?’
    Corbett
nodded.
    ‘Now,
whatever Sorrel has said to you, and I saw you talking to her, Furrell was a
rogue. He was a thief. He poached on my land, as he did on everybody else’s
but, of course, we ignored him. He only took what he wanted and there was
little malice in the fellow. Except,’ Sir Louis continued, ‘Furrell was a
lady’s man himself. When it came to maypole dancing or mummery on the green,
Furrell, in his cups, was hot and lecherous as a sparrow. Now, when these
murders occurred both Blidscote and I investigated. The finger of suspicion
pointed strongly at Furrell. He was well known for talking to the girls. He did
solicit, albeit well out of sight of Sorrel, and, above all, he knew the
country roads and lanes.’
    ‘But
Furrell’s dead.’
    ‘Is
he, Corbett? Where’s the corpse? What sign or proof do we have of his death?
How do we know that he is not living in the forest or hidden away at Beauchamp Place ? He
could return to his killing spree. He may be responsible for the deaths of
Molkyn, Thorkle and Deverell. Furrell knows this town, its bylanes and its
trackways. He was often knocking on this person’s house or that: he’d know
about Deverell’s spyhole.’
    ‘But
could he kill a man like