The Treason of the Ghosts

Molkyn?’
    Corbett
was intrigued by Tressilyian’s line of argument.
    ‘Oh,
our miller was a brawny oaf but a man in his cups. You could take his head like
swatting a fly, whilst Thorkle was a frightened rabbit.’
    ‘If
I follow your argument,’ Corbett recapped, ‘Furrell therefore spoke on Sir
Roger’s behalf, not only out of kindness but because he knew the truth. At the
same time Furrell secretly realised his evidence wouldn’t be taken too
seriously.’
    ‘And
afterwards,’ the justice added, ‘Furrell almost confessed as much to Molkyn
before he realised what he had said and disappeared. Like any outlaw, he hides
but, when all is quiet, he begins his killings.’
    ‘I
would accept what you say,’ Corbett declared, ‘though there’s one other
individual I have yet to meet.’
    Fie
quickly told Tressilyian and Sir Maurice about the Mummer’s Man.
    ‘I’ve
never heard the like of it,’ Tressilyian whispered. ‘But that could be
Furrell.’
    Corbett
stared across the taproom. He could hear Matthew shouting from the kitchen, the
bustle and noise from the yard outside as people angrily wondered why they were
being kept away from the tavern.
    ‘We’ll
talk about this tonight at the Guildhall,’ Sir Louis said, ‘just after
vespers.’
    Sir
Louis and Chapeleys made their farewells whilst Corbett led his two companions
up to his chamber.
    ‘Do
you think Tressilyian’s theory is possible?’ Ranulf asked.
    ‘All
things are possible,’ Corbett replied. He took his boots off and lay down on
the bed. ‘What I do think is that Furrell knew the truth. I find it difficult
to accept he’s the killer. Sorrel’s no liar. Sir Louis may be right: Furrell
may be the key to this mystery but I still believe the poor man’s dead. That
flesher also spoke the truth; he had nothing to hide.’
    Corbett
paused. Then: ‘What were Furrell’s words to Molkyn? That it was all as plain as
a picture?’ He stared up at the emblems on the tester cloth above the bed.
‘Plain as a picture,’ he repeated. He turned on his side. ‘Chanson, you made
careful enquiries at the Guildhall?’
    ‘I
didn’t find much,’ the groom replied. ‘Every year someone is reported missing.’
    Corbett
stared at a small triptych on the wall. ‘I want you to do me an errand.’
    ‘Yes,
Master.’
    ‘A message for Sir Maurice.’
    ‘But
he’s just left.’
    ‘I
know and I apologise.’
    Corbett
got up and went to his writing-desk. Ranulf glared at Chanson, shaking his head
as a warning not to protest. Corbett wrote quickly, took a piece of wax and
sealed the note.
    ‘Give
that to Sir Maurice personally. He is to tell no one what I ask, nor is he to
mention it tonight, except to say yea or nay. Do you understand? Now drink a
tankard in the taproom below and be off.’
    Chanson
took the message and left.
    ‘And
what were you so pleased about in the taproom?’ Corbett asked. ‘Humming and
singing under your breath?’
    ‘Adela.
She’s quite a chatterbox,’ Ranulf replied. ‘She told me that—’
    ‘Told
you?’ Corbett intervened. ‘When did she tell you, Ranulf?’
    His
manservant coloured. ‘Ah, last night I grew thirsty. Chanson is not the most
ideal companion: he not only snores like a horse, he smells like one as well.’
    ‘So,
you went downstairs and paid court to the fair Adela. Ranulf, if you become a
priest, these midnight trysts will have to end.’
    ‘Well,
she has taken a silver piece off me.’ Ranulf pulled a stool across and sat
down. ‘Tavern wenches are a source of gossip. Grimstone likes his wine.
Burghesh is the priest more than he is, a veritable
busybody. Sir Louis Tressilyian doesn’t like the townspeople, whilst Sir
Maurice, before he fell in love with Sir Louis’s daughter, would often vow
terrible retribution for his father’s death. The miller was an oaf, a bullyboy.
His wife is certainly hot-eyed and may have entertained Sir Roger when her husband
was absent—’
    ‘All
this we know,’ Corbett interrupted. ‘This is a town, a parish. Go to any town
in the kingdom...’
    ‘Master
Blidscote,’ Ranulf retorted.
    ‘Oh,
our good master bailiff.’
    ‘He’s
unmarried.’
    ‘For some men that might be happiness. I suppose he
has an eye for the wenches?’
    ‘ Yes, Master, and
for the boys.’
    ‘You’re
sure?’
    ‘So
it’s rumoured.’
    ‘Children rather than men?’
    ‘So
rumour has it,’ Ranulf replied. ‘There’s even a story that Sir Roger had to
have words with