The Treason of the Ghosts

But which killer was he thinking about? Corbett
shook his head. Then there were the others: Parson Grimstone with his drinking,
his seclusion; Curate Robert with his hidden anxiety and deep feeling of guilt. Or Burghesh? Could Blidscote be a killer? A man who
may not even like women? Or was it someone he had forgotten? Corbett beat his
fist against his thigh. Two killers, he thought, or one? The murder of Molkyn
and the rest had only occurred after the killings of the young women had begun
again. So, what did that mean? Corbett sighed as he heard footsteps outside.
Ranulf entered with Burghesh behind him.
    ‘I
brought the Book of the Dead myself,’ the old soldier declared. He took it out
of the leather bag and placed it on the stool beside Corbett’s bed.
    ‘I
really shouldn’t allow it but,’ he grinned, ‘you are the King’s clerk. If I
stay in the taproom below and take it back later...?’
    Corbett’s
hand went to the purse in his belt.
    ‘No,
no,’ Burghesh said. ‘I can pay for my own ale. Sir Hugh, I’ll be downstairs.’
    Ranulf
closed the door behind him. Corbett picked up the book and began to leaf
through it.
    ‘Well,
Chanson’s galloping after Sir Maurice,’ Ranulf remarked. ‘You are going down
amongst the dead.’
    Corbett
smiled over the book. ‘If you were involved in Sir Roger’s death...?’ Corbett
paused. ‘No, let me put the question another way. Who has the most to fear?’
    ‘Sir
Louis?’
    ‘But
he’s a manor lord.’
    ‘Then
Blidscote,’ Ranulf remarked.
    ‘I
agree, and there’s little we can do to save him. But, go round Melford, Ranulf,
see if you can track our fat bailiff down, then bring him back here for
questioning.’
    ‘Anyone else?’
    ‘Ask
young Adela to come up. Tell her she has nothing to fear.’
    ‘If the Lady Maeve got to know? Shouldn’t I
stay,’ Ranulf teased, ‘and act the chaperone?’
    ‘Ask
her to come up,’ Corbett repeated. ‘She has more to fear from the messenger
than the message he carries.’
    Ranulf
collected his cloak and sword belt and went down the stairs. A short while
later Adela tapped on the door of the chamber. She slipped in, nervous but
still bold-eyed, pretending to stand in a docile fashion, hands hanging beside
her.
    ‘Sit
down.’ Corbett gestured to the stool. ‘I believe you know Ranulf?’
    The
tavern wench looked for sarcasm but found none. This clerk’s gaze was not
lustful or mocking but rather gentle and sad.
    ‘What
do you want, Master?’
    ‘Just a little of your time. I am sorry
about the game Ranulf and Chanson played with you, bringing you out of the
tavern,’ he added hastily.
    Adela
shrugged one shoulder.
    ‘What
harm can a man do in a busy marketplace?’
    ‘Has
any man tried to harm you, Adela?’
    She
smiled sweetly. ‘Most men are babies: they think with their codpieces.’
    ‘Do
we now?’ Corbett laughed. ‘But you are able to look after yourself?’
    ‘A
swift slap and an even swifter kick, Master, is a good defence.’
    ‘You
were the last to talk to the wheelwright’s daughter, Elizabeth?’
    ‘Aye,
but I have answered this. She was in a hurry to get away. I thought she was
going home.’
    ‘Did
she ever talk of the Mummer’s Man or any other creature?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Tell
me, Adela, if you met a man out in the countryside, riding a horse, wearing one
of those masks they use in a miracle play...?’
    ‘I’d
run and hide,’ she laughed.
    ‘And
if this evening you were going home and a voice called “Adela “
from the shadows?’
    ‘I’d
stop, if there was someone with me.’
    ‘And
if this voice said that you must go to such and such a place, where some
admirer was waiting for you or a gift had been left?’
    ‘I wouldn’t believe it. I certainly wouldn’t stand there. I’d see who it was.’
    ‘And
if that man was wearing a mask?’
    ‘I’d
scream and run. Why these questions? I’ve learnt my lesson about—’
    ‘What
do you mean?’ Corbett asked sharply.
    ‘Oh,
about four months ago, that fool Peterkin — well, he’s not as dull-witted as he
looks — he brought me a message.’
    ‘What
did this message say?’
    She
closed her eyes. ‘ “ A gift awaits for the one I love
at Hamden Mere. After the market horn, it will appear .“ ‘
    Corbett
asked her to repeat it.
    ‘It’s
doggerel poetry,’ he murmured.
    ‘Peterkin’s
like that,’ Adela remarked. ‘Hurrying hither and thither like
a little rabbit. Ask the taverner: even as a lad,