‘He was out poaching, not far from here. Night had fallen. He saw a shape and heard gasps, the tinkle of bells. Now Furrell was visiting one of his hiding places where he had concealed some venison. He didn’t want to be caught red-handed. He thought it was some local with his leman or one of the townspeople with a doxy. Remember, master clerk, Melford is a small town: its walls and pathways have eyes and ears. If you take a fancy to your wife’s maid, she’s best enjoyed out in the countryside. Then there’s the young with their love trysts and starlight meetings. Furrell scampered away. When Blidscote was asking questions, Furrell told him what he’d heard. Furrell always insisted that was a mistake. He regretted ever opening his mouth.’
‘But he did about Sir Roger Chapeleys?’
‘Ah, that was different. It was in a court, on oath in front of a royal justice. Furrell thought he’d be safe.’
‘And what else do you know? If you travel the woods and forests, you must see things others don’t. You followed me from Melford. You heard about my coming. You couldn’t wait to speak to me.’
‘I will speak to you, clerk, but I beg you never tell anyone what I say.’ Sorrel gazed back down the pathway.
‘Are you frightened of Tressilyian, of Chapeleys?’
‘No.’
She smiled down at him through the darkness.
‘I act my part well. They are great lords of the soil. They’ll think that you think as they do. Who would believe poor, mad Sorrel?’
She pulled at the reins of the horse and Corbett stopped. He was aware of how the darkness had closed in swiftly. They had left the wooded area. On either side, hedgerows, fields stretching away in the distance. The sky was starlit, a full moon white and strong.
‘Furrell would love such a night,’ she whispered. ‘Forget all the stories about the darkness. Furrell liked to know where he was.’
Corbett could sense the tension from this woman. She acted fey-witted, the relict of a poacher who had disappeared but she was a woman consumed with the need for justice, a desire for revenge.
‘Do you pray, Sorrel?’
‘I have a statue of the Virgin,’ she replied. ‘It’s made of wood, rather battered and chipped. Parson Grimstone gave it to me. Every night, every morning, I light a wax candle bought specially from the chandlers. I pray: “Dear Mother, you never lost your husband but I have.”
Corbett smiled at this makeshift prayer.
‘Am I your answer, Sorrel?’
She leant down and grasped his shoulder. In the moonlight Corbett could see how, when she was young, Sorrel must have been a lovely girl.
‘I want justice, clerk.’ Tears glittered in her eyes. ‘Is that much to pray for? Can’t the good God in His Heaven give out a little justice to me, a poor widow woman? You are the answer to my prayer. When I saw you riding across the marketplace, I thought God Himself had come down to Melford.’
‘That’s blasphemy,’ Corbett teased.
‘No, clerk, it’s the truth. If you bring justice to poor Sorrel. If you can find out where my man lies. If those responsible can be dispatched to God’s tribunal then, every day, I will light a candle for you.’
Corbett repressed a shiver. He had sat in the King’s courts at Westminster. He had listened to petitions for redress. He had hunted the bloody-handed sons of Cain but never had he been faced with such passion: a deep desire for justice which sprang from the innermost soul.
‘You will help me?’ Sorrel asked.
‘Have you ever been in a maze, Mistress Sorrel? That’s where I am now. Melford’s a maze with little culverts, paths, shadowy corners. Shadows twist and turn. We have the deaths of these young women, Mistress Walmer, now Molkyn and Thorkle.’
‘I know nothing of those,’ Sorrel snapped. ‘God forgive me, master clerk: when I heard of their deaths my heart leapt. So it begins, I thought, God’s justice.’
‘What do you mean?’ Corbett demanded.
He stared up and caught the fierce look in her eyes. Was she a murderer? Corbett thought. Was her hunger for justice so great? Did she believe Thorkle and Molkyn were in some way responsible for the death of her husband?
‘I know what you are thinking, clerk,’ she murmured. ‘I said I was glad, not responsible.’
‘But why should they die?’ Corbett asked. ‘Is it possible someone else believes Sir Roger was innocent and is exacting vengeance?’
‘I don’t know. You really should have words with their widows. I am sure you’ll find them together. Molkyn and Thorkle’s wives are kinswomen, related by blood, though thinly.’
Sorrel slipped her feet from the stirrups and Corbett helped her down.
‘I have ridden enough.’
She thrust her hand into Corbett’s, rough but warm. Corbett wondered what the Lady Maeve would think of this: out in the dark countryside, walking hand-in-hand with this strange poacher woman.
‘Listen. I have three things to tell you, then I’ll be done,’ she declared. ‘First, I saw you at Devil’s Oak. You were looking at where Elizabeth’s corpse was found. Yes?’
Corbett agreed.
‘I glimpsed her,’ Sorrel continued. ‘Late in the afternoon on the day she disappeared. Elizabeth had a secret place in the copse of trees at the top of the meadow.’
‘A secret place?’
‘Oh, master clerk, you were a child once! You lived in a house with your parents, brothers, sisters, dog. You had a secret place. Elizabeth Wheelwright had one as do the other young men and women, places they can meet.’
‘So, you were the last to see her alive?’
‘Yes, and before you ask, Elizabeth was hurrying. I hid and watched her go by. You could tell from her face she was excited, pleased.’
‘In which case,’ Corbett confessed, ‘I am truly confused. All your sighting proves is that Elizabeth was probably killed somewhere between that copse of trees and Devil’s Oak. Her slayer cunningly hid all traces of his foul act. I can only deduce that her corpse was moved from the murder place to where it was found. So,’ he sighed, ‘I’d be wasting my time searching the ground. What else?’
‘In the last five years, six young women, including Goodwoman Walmer, have been raped and murdered around Melford. But they are not the only ones.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Remember, I wander the roads but so do others: Moon People, tinkers, chapmen, families looking for work. I get to know them well. They talk.’ She shrugged. ‘Two, three, of their womenfolk have disappeared.’
‘But that’s not unheard of,’ Corbett replied. ‘Their womenfolk often-’
‘No, no, listen to what I am saying,’ Sorrel interrupted. ‘Corpses have been found but I wonder how many other murders there have been. Was Elizabeth Wheelwright’s corpse meant to be discovered? Have you ever seen weasels hunt, master clerk? They have a store. They hide the flesh of their victims so they can come back and eat it later. This Jesses killer is like the weaseclass="underline" he kills and hides, though sometimes he’s not fast enough. Question Blidscote, he collects the corpses.’
‘You don’t like our master bailiff?’
‘He’s corrupt and he’s stupid!’ She spat the words out. ‘He likes nothing better than holding forth in the taproom, telling his business and everyone else’s to anyone who will listen. Don’t forget, he organised the search of Sir Roger’s house.’
Corbett gripped her hand.
‘You are saying he was bribed to find that evidence?’
‘I thought you were sharp,’ she teased. ‘Why should Sir Roger kill a girl, steal her tawdry effects and keep them at his manor? You should think more clearly and act quickly. .’
Corbett caught the laughter in her voice.
‘. . otherwise Master Blidscote will join Thorkle and Molkyn. They will soon be lowering his fat corpse into the soil.’
‘And finally?’ Corbett asked.
‘Ah, yes. The Mummer’s Man.’
‘The Mummer’s Man?’
Sorrel laughed deep in her throat. ‘Once, many years ago, I learnt a little Latin. Do you remember that line from the gospels, clerk, when Judas decided to betray Christ?’ She paused. ‘It reads something like, “Judas left and darkness fell.” Melford’s like that. Once darkness falls, all kinds of things happen. That’s the problem with people who live in towns. They think that if they can get out into the fields and woods they are alone, but they are not. I see things, some are comical, some are sad. Oh, not just the lusty swain wishing to swive the wench of his choice. Other things. Men like that young curate, Robert Bellen. Now he’s a strange one. I’ve caught him down near the river Swaile, kneeling naked in the mud, except for his loin cloth, bruising his back with a switch, eyes closed, lips moving in prayer.’