The Treason of the Ghosts

victims.’ Corbett paused to choose
his words. ‘Now and again, however,’ he continued, ‘this killer can’t control
his lust. Somehow he entices young women from the town out into the countryside
where he rapes and garrottes them.’
    ‘And
the second killer?’ she asked tersely.
    ‘Oh,
the second one is not interested in rape or murder, but, strangely enough,
justice. Someone who believes that the wrong man was hanged: that Sir Roger
Chapeleys was innocent, that his trial was a mockery, a mere mummery. So now he
— ‘ Corbett paused, ‘or she — is waging a vengeful
bloody campaign against those responsible. Tressilyian is attacked on his way
into Melford. Deverell takes a crossbow bolt in his head. Thorkle’s brains are
dashed out. Molkyn is decapitated. Strange, isn’t it,’ he mused, ‘how all three
suffered wounds to the head? Now, two people,’ Corbett continued, ‘believe
Chapeleys was innocent: Sir Roger, but he has now answered to God—’
    ‘And my man, Furrell.’
    ‘Yes, Sorrel, your man, Furrell.’
    ‘But
he’s gone to God as well.’
    ‘Has
he?’ Corbett asked. ‘Or is he still in hiding, moving like some silent
vindictive ghost through the trees? Loosing arrows at Sir
Louis, visiting Deverell at the dead of night, not to mention his old enemies,
Molkyn and Thorkle. Come on,’ Corbett urged. ‘It’s possible. After all,
who does leave you that money? Could it be Furrell, guilty at deserting you?’
    ‘No,
he wouldn’t do that. I think the money comes from young Chapeleys, in gratitude
for what we tried to do for his father. I tell you, clerk, Furrell’s dead.’
Sorrel tapped her chest. ‘Oh, yes, sometimes I have wondered myself but I know
he’s dead, buried in some unmarked grave.’
    ‘For
the sake of argument,’ Corbett moved on his stool, ‘let us say that’s true.’ He
paused. ‘By the way, have you seen Blidscote? Ranulf is searching for him.
Furrell didn’t like Blidscote either, did he ?’
    ‘No
one likes Blidscote!’ Sorrel snapped. ‘Especially the tinkers
with their little boys. I tell you this, clerk: if Furrell had wanted to
kill Blidscote, he could have done it years ago. Perhaps he should have done.
Our bailiff’s a turd of a man.’ She moved her head and winced at the pain in
her neck. ‘But Furrell’s dead.’
    ‘In
which case, Sorrel, we come to you.’
    She
gaped at him.
    ‘Don’t
act the innocent,’ Corbett murmured. ‘You are a strong and capable woman,
Sorrel. You know the countryside around Melford. You can use a bow, you are strong enough to swing a sword or a flail. You
can slip across the fields and no one will notice you. You hated Molkyn and the
rest because they mocked Furrell, disparaged his evidence. Because of them Sir
Roger was hanged and Furrell later went missing. Your pleasure at Deverell’s
death was obvious.’ He watched her intently. ‘I wonder if one of them killed
Furrell. Did he become such a nuisance that they murdered him? Perhaps his
corpse lies buried under Molkyn’s mill? Or on Thorkle’s
estates? You kept well clear of both of them, didn’t you?’
    Sorrel’s
head went down.
    ‘Look
at the evidence,’ Corbett persisted. ‘When Sir Louis Tressilyian rode into
Melford to meet me, he was attacked. Everyone, apart from you, was in the crypt
of that church.’
    ‘Repton
was not there.’
    ‘But
why should Repton attack a royal justice?’ Corbett pointed to her
weather-beaten boots. ‘You could slip them off, take a bow and quiver of arrows
and try to kill Tressilyian.’
    ‘Why?
I have no grievance against him.’
    ‘But
he was responsible for Chapeleys’ hanging and, indirectly, Furrell’s
disappearance. Perhaps you suspected him of murdering Furrell? Did your man
persist in reminding Sir Louis of a miscarriage of justice?’
    ‘I
saw where the ambush took place,’ Sorrel retorted. ‘If I had loosed an arrow at
Sir Louis, I would not have missed. Perhaps the first but
certainly not the second.’
    Corbett
stared at a point beyond her head. He hadn’t thought of that. Moreover, hadn’t
Sir Louis talked of a man’s voice taunting him?
    ‘But
you were roaming the meadows and woods that afternoon. You must have seen
someone. This mysterious archer who, perhaps, was the same
person who daubed messages on Sir Roger’s tombstone and elsewhere.’
    Once
again, Corbett privately wondered about the true whereabouts of Furrell the
poacher.
    ‘I
wasn’t roaming anywhere, clerk. I went to