The Treason of the Ghosts

him. Like a bird in a net. And then I’ll hang him, Mother Crauford,
on the scaffold outside Melford, like the cruel soul he is.’
    Corbett
walked to the door. He put his hands on the latch.
    ‘And
now you know why I call this place Haceldema?’ she called after him.
    ‘Oh
yes, Mother, I do.’
    Corbett
glanced back. Mother Crauford had dried her tears.
    ‘You
had your suspicions from the start, didn’t you?’
    Mother
Crauford blinked away her cunning look.
    ‘Couldn’t
you have done something?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘I
am an old woman, clerk. I haven’t got a bullyboy.’ She plucked at her dusty
gown. ‘I don’t carry sword and dagger. Nor can I produce the King’s Writ, with
a piece of wax on the end, telling everyone to stand aside and bow their heads.
You talk of help? How could I mumble my suspicions? Have you ever seen a woman
burnt for witchcraft, Sir Hugh? Watched her old body hang above the flames
whilst her eyes bubble and her skin shrivels like that of rotten fruit? Don’t
act the preacher with me!’
    Corbett
smiled grimly and nodded in agreement. They went out to where Chanson was
holding their horses. Corbett refused to answer Ranulf’s questions but swung
himself into the saddle, riding ahead during their short journey up to the
mill.
    This
time Corbett did not stand on ceremony. When Ralph the miller came out,
shouting and gesticulating that he was a busy man, Corbett rapped out an order.
Ranulf drew his sword and brought the flat of its blade down on the young man’s
shoulder.
    ‘Keep
a civil tongue in your head!’ the Clerk of the Green Wax warned. ‘My master has
a terrible temper.’
    Corbett
swung himself out of the saddle, gave the reins to Chanson and pushed open the
kitchen door. Ursula was standing by the fire. She was not fully dressed but
wearing a dark-brown robe fringed with squirrel fur, tied round the waist by a
cord. She didn’t look so pretty now, her face heavy-eyed with sleep. She pushed
the hair away from her face.
    ‘I
thought you were Molkyn,’ she said archly. ‘He used to come charging in like
that.’
    ‘Molkyn’s
dancing with the devil!’ Corbett snapped. ‘And what a dance it will be, eh,
Ursula? Your husband was corrupt, a dishonest bullyboy, and those are just his
petty crimes.’
    ‘What
do you mean?’ Ursula’s face paled.
    ‘Why
did you send Margaret to be Widow Walmer’s companion? To get
her out of the house? Away from Molkyn?’
    ‘Why?’
she stuttered.
    ‘I’ve
been to many towns and villages, Mistress. I have seen what happens to men who
commit incest with their daughters, who abuse their own children! A sin which stinks in the eyes of God and man!’
    ‘How
dare you?’
    ‘Oh,
I dare,’ Corbett replied. He stared round the kitchen. ‘You are Molkyn’s second
wife, aren’t you? How old was Margaret when Molkyn lurched into her bedchamber? Twelve, thirteen?’
    ‘How
do you know all this? It’s a lie!’
    ‘Is
it?’ Corbett asked. ‘Molkyn may have killed his first wife. He certainly abused
his daughter and, when you married him, you stumbled on his little nest of
hideous secrets. But you are a good woman, aren’t you, Ursula, behind the bold
glance and pert reply? You protected Margaret. You warned Molkyn. Someone else
learnt the miller’s secret. When Molkyn was chosen by that lazy, dishonest
bastard Blidscote to sit on the jury and try Sir Roger Chapeleys, the time of
retribution had arrived. Molkyn was blackmailed: find Chapeleys guilty or all
of Melford would discover his secret sin.’
    Corbett
sat down on a chair at the table.
    ‘And
what else was Molkyn told? Suspicions about his first wife’s
death? Or that his second wife, pretty and winsome, had entertained Sir
Roger on more than one occasion when Molkyn was away?’
    Ursula
swayed slightly on her feet. She went across to a cupboard and, opening it,
splashed wine into a goblet. She drank it greedily, the drops running down her
chin.
    ‘I
wonder who knew,’ Corbett said. ‘For the first time in Molkyn’s life, he was
trapped. Motivated by fear and the lust for vengeance, he hammered the nails
into Sir Roger’s coffin, he and Thorkle.’
    Ursula
sat down and clutched the table.
    ‘It’s
a pity Lucy isn’t here.’ Corbett rose and slammed the door shut. ‘She has a lot
to hide as well, doesn’t she? Molkyn was told other secrets. How Lucy lusted
after young Ralph, Molkyn’s son. Thorkle was more pliant. No man likes to be
proclaimed a cuckold.