Hugh Corbett 12 - The Treason of the Ghosts by Paul Doherty Read Free Book Online

confession. Did he confess his sin?’
    ‘I cannot tell you what was said under the seal of confession.’
    ‘You can tell us what wasn’t said,’ Corbett declared.
    ‘You told me!’ Sir Maurice shouted.
    ‘It’s true. It’s true.’ Grimstone rubbed his hands together. ‘Sir Roger did not confess to any murder.’
    ‘He was held here, wasn’t he?’ Corbett asked, staring round the crypt.
    ‘Yes,’ Grimstone confirmed. ‘This sometimes serves as a prison. There is only one entrance, which can be heavily guarded. I did hear Sir Roger’s confession but, you must remember, he was held here for two weeks pending his plea for a pardon from the King. He was also visited by an itinerant friar. He may have confessed—’
    ‘Enough,’ Corbett declared. ‘Let us move to the present, to October 1303. In the summer of this year, a young peasant woman was found murdered. Three days ago,’ he gestured at the coffin, ‘another victim was slain in the same way by a garrotte, as were Goodwoman Walmer and the other victims five years ago.’ He gestured to the bailiff. ‘What did the locals call the assassin?’
    ‘The Jesses killer,’ Blidscote replied. ‘When one of the victims was killed, a local poacher, Furrell, was in the vicinity. He was frightened and hid, said it was pitch-dark. He heard the girl scream followed by the tinkling of bells, like those attached to the claws of a falcon or hawk.’
    ‘And where is this Furrell?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘Disappeared,’ Blidscote replied. ‘No one knows where he went. Some people claim he ran away. Others that, drunk as usual, he stumbled into one of the mires or swamps. There are enough of those in the woods around Melford.’
    ‘He was probably murdered!’ Sir Maurice explained. ‘He was the only one who claimed my father was innocent.’
    ‘Now, why should he do that?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘I don’t know. He disappeared shortly after the trial.’
    ‘Did he speak on your father’s behalf in court?’
    Sir Maurice flailed his hand. ‘Furrell was a vagabond, more drunk than sober. He slept out in the ruins at Beauchamp Place. Who’d give credence to his story? He proclaimed his views in court and the Golden Fleece. He said my father never fled along Gully Lane the night Goodwoman Walmer was murdered.’
    ‘Yes, but your father,’ Blidscote spoke up, ‘did admit to visiting Goodwoman Walmer that evening. Sir Roger must have passed Gully Lane on his way home.’
    ‘Are you saying my father is guilty?’ Sir Maurice sprang to his feet.
    ‘Hush now!’ Corbett ordered.
    ‘Well, are you?’ Sir Maurice advanced threateningly on the bailiff.
    Ranulf-atte-Newgate slipped quietly across the room and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
    ‘I suggest you sit down,’ he smiled. ‘If my master says something, it’s best if you obey.’ He pressed hard. Maurice’s fingers went to the hilt of his dagger. ‘Don’t do that.’ Ranulf shook his head. ‘I beg you, sir, please!’
    Sir Maurice stared into those slightly slanted green eyes and swallowed hard. Corbett he found daunting but this fighting man, smelling of a slight fragrance, mixed with horse sweat and leather, and those green eyes which smiled yet held his unblinkingly . . . Sir Maurice breathed in deeply and retook his seat. Only then did he notice Ranulf pushing the throwing dirk back into the leather sheath beneath his wrist.
    Ranulf leant against the door and grinned. Old Master Long Face, he thought, was up to his tricks again. Corbett had gathered them all here for a purpose. Not just to view the corpse or be away from the Golden Fleece. He wanted them to feel free to be at each other’s throats. To say things they’d later regret. Old Master Long Face would scoop their words up, write them down and concentrate as if he was playing a game of chess. Corbett ignored Ranulf and stared up at the vaulted ceiling.
    ‘What we have here,’ he measured his words, ‘are three sets of murders.