The Treason of the Ghosts

began to study them carefully. Sorrel
joined him.
    ‘I
can see nothing,’ Corbett shook his head, ‘nothing at all. Where else would
there be paintings, Sorrel?’
    ‘In
a church, though Furrell rarely went there. The Golden
Fleece, Chapeleys’ manor, the Guildhall, Sir Louis Tressilyian?’ Sorrel
spread her hands. ‘Furrell roamed all over the countryside. He even carried out
errands for Sir Roger, travelling as far as Ipswich and the coastal towns.’
    Corbett
stared round the room.
    ‘And
Furrell had no Book of Hours, a psalter?’
    ‘No.’
Sorrel laughed abruptly. ‘He knew his letters like I do but he was no scholar.’
    Corbett
walked to the door. ‘Let’s go back to the chapel,’ he demanded. ‘I want to
re-examine that skeleton.’
    Sorrel
shrugged and took him across the yard. Corbett paused to see that his horse was
well. By the time he’d climbed the steps, Sorrel had removed the bricks and
pulled the skeleton out.
    ‘What
are you looking for?’ she asked.
    Corbett
picked up the skull, feeling its texture.
    ‘I
have a friend,’ he said, ‘a priest, who is also a subtle physician at the great hospital of St
Bartholomew in Smithfield in London . He often talks to
me about the property of things.’
    Corbett
glimpsed the puzzlement in Sorrel’s face.
    ‘The
way things are and how they change. The bones of this skeleton are dry,
yellowing, which means it has lain in the earth probably more than five or six
years.’ He tapped the skull. ‘This is thin, the flesh is gone, the bones are dry. If they’d been allowed to lie, they would
have eventually crumbled to a powdery dust. Now, my good friend,’ Corbett
continued, ‘has also been given special licence by the Church to examine the
cadavers of men hanged on the nearby gibbet.’ Corbett picked the skull up. He
walked to the window and, holding it up, looked inside. ‘When a man is hanged,’
Corbett explained, ‘if he’s lucky, the fall will break his neck. Death is
instantaneous. If he’s not, he’ll slowly strangle.’
    ‘Like
the garrotte?’
    ‘Yes, Sorrel, like the garrotte. Now, according
to this physician, the humours in the brain break down and the skull is filled
with blood like an internal wound.’ Corbett tapped the skull. ‘This fills like
a swollen bruise, the fetid blood leaving a mark.’ Corbett peered closer. He
glimpsed a faded russet stain.
    ‘And this one?’ Sorrel asked.
    ‘There
is certainly a mark here but whether it’s blood or the effect of decomposition
I don’t know.’
    ‘What
are you trying to prove?’
    ‘Old
Mother Crauford’s right. Melford is a place of blood. I suspect young women
have been murdered here for many a year. Some bodies are found , others are hidden out in the countryside. The questions
are who and how?’ He placed the skull tenderly back. ‘Now, Mistress, I have to
return. You are to come with me.’
    ‘I’ll
be safe here,’ Sorrel replied. ‘The killer will not strike again.’
    ‘Come
with me,’ he urged.
    Sorrel
agreed. ‘I have friends I can stay with.’
    She
pulled a pair of battered saddlebags from the chest and hurriedly began to fill
them. Corbett sat and, to break the silence, hummed a hymn, the ‘Ave Maria
Stella’.
    ‘You
have a fine voice.’ Sorrel dropped the saddlebags. ‘That’s it!’ she exclaimed.
‘My man, Furrell, always sang, sometimes filthy
songs.’ She stood, mouth open, suddenly remembering. ‘In the weeks following
Sir Roger Chapeleys’ execution, he was always singing the same words, as if he
was intent on reminding himself.’
    ‘What
was it?’ Corbett asked.
    Sorrel,
finger to her lips, stood and stared at the statue. She wouldn’t take that, she
thought: if she moved the statue, this sharp-eyed clerk would notice the piece
of parchment. Sorrel did not want to excite his suspicions. ‘That’s it!’ she
exclaimed. ‘About being between the devil and an angel. I never asked him what it meant.’
    Corbett
walked to the door. ‘We’d best hurry,’ he said. ‘The day is drawing on. Tonight
I feast with the high and mighty.’
    He
went back into the yard and unhobbled his horse. Sorrel joined him. It was
still early afternoon but the mist was curling in thickly now, and the breeze
was colder. A bird shrieked as it wheeled against the sky. Corbett, holding the
reins, stared across at the river, which wound its way through thickets and
tall grass. He was glad he had come here. Had he not, Sorrel would have