The Treason of the Ghosts

in Deverell’s house. He was also a flagellant, punishing
himself for secret sins, maybe such as the murder of those young women.
Perhaps,’ Ranulf added, ‘the Mummer’s Man was Curate Robert in disguise? Or,
there again, a woman might go out to the countryside to meet a priest?’
    ‘True,’
Corbett murmured. ‘Bellen also heard confessions. He’d know all the secrets of
the parish and could blackmail as he wished.’
    The
door swung open. Tressilyian and Sir Maurice, Parson Grimstone between them,
followed Burghesh into the church. Grimstone was near collapse. He took one
look at his curate’s corpse, groaned and had to be helped to sit on a stone
plinth. Burghesh sat next to him, talking quietly.
    ‘Suicide?’ Tressilyian asked.
    ‘It
would appear so,’ Corbett replied. ‘Sir Maurice, my groom, Chanson, brought you
a message?’
    ‘I
can’t find it.’ Sir Maurice shook his head. ‘I have searched my father’s
records but...’ He spread his hands.
    Corbett
hid his disappointment. He had hoped to discover details about the mysterious
painting Sir Roger had given to the parish church.
    ‘Ah
well,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s tend the dead.’
    Burghesh
left them. He brought back the holy oils and gently persuaded Grimstone to
whisper the words of absolution and anoint the dead man.
    Corbett
watched. It was a truly piteous sight: the young priest sprawled on the
flagstones, his face still twisted by his violent death.
    ‘Burghesh,’
Corbett murmured, ‘I need the keys of the house. I must search Curate Robert’s
chamber.’
    ‘But
is that right?’
    ‘No,
it isn’t,’ Corbett agreed. ‘But Ranulf thinks that young priest is responsible
for all the murders in Melford. He may well be right. Except...’
    ‘Except for what?’
    ‘Nothing,’
Corbett replied. ‘Not for the moment. I’ll take the keys.’
    Burghesh
reluctantly handed them over. Corbett gestured at Ranulf to follow. They left
the church and went round to the priest’s house. Corbett unlocked the door and
went into the sweet-smelling passageway. The walls were half panelled, the wood gleamed and smelt of a rich polish. Corbett, having lit more candles,
pushed open doors and looked around. A comfortable place,
high-backed quilted chairs, tables, stools and benches. He even espied
some books, tied by a chain to a shelf in the small parlour. The stairs to the
bedchambers were broad and polished with small pots of herbs in the stairwell.
The windows were lead-lined: some were even filled with coloured or painted
glass.
    Corbett
went up. There were three chambers along the gallery; Bellen’s stood at the
end. Corbett unlocked the door and went in. The room smelt of sweat, candlewax,
rather musty, so he pulled back the shutters and opened the window. He waited
whilst Ranulf lit the candles. The small cot bed under the window was unmade.
Clothes and robes were scattered about. A wineskin, now empty, lay on the
floor, an overturned cup beside it. On a shelf above the desk were
calfskin-bound books: a psalter, a ledger containing the Calendar of Saints and
the order or ritual for different Masses as well as a Book of Hours, rather tattered
and faded.
    Corbett
sat down at the desk and sifted amongst the different pieces of parchment. He
noticed some, like the parchment found on the dead priest, were inscribed with
quotations from the Old Testament about sin and forgiveness. Corbett searched
on. He moved his foot and kicked a small chest beneath the table and pulled
this out. He emptied the contents on to the floor: a small, thick hairshirt, a
flagellum or whip with strips of sharpened leather strapped to a bone handle.
    ‘Poor
man,’ Ranulf murmured. ‘He seemed more aware of sin than he was of God’s
grace.’
    Corbett
searched on.
    ‘Strange,’
he whispered.
    ‘What
is, Master?’
    ‘Well,
Bellen was an educated man but there are no letters or written sermons. After
all, Bellen served here for a number of years. I know priests. They have
homilies, commentaries, they write letters to friends and colleagues. Bellen,
apparently, did none of these.’
    He
picked up the psalter and shook it. A piece of parchment fell
out, yellow, dark with age.
    ‘Now,
here’s one,’ Corbett declared. ‘It’s a draft letter to his bishop.’ He pulled
the candle closer and studied it.
    Apparently
Bellen began the letter but didn’t finish it. There were the usual salutations
and then the line, ‘I have something to confess in