‘That is fanciful.’
‘No, clerk, it’s the truth. Why should a young man, a priest of God, feel he has to punish himself like that?’
Corbett swallowed hard. He’d heard of such practices in monasteries and abbeys, the desire to flagellate, to punish oneself. Sometimes it was just an extreme form of mortification, in others a deep sense of guilt. Did not King Henry have himself whipped through Canterbury for the murder of Thomas a Becket?
‘Do you have dealings with Bellen?’ he asked.
‘Very little but I thought it was a tragic sight, master clerk. Why should a young priest wish to do that? What secret sins does he hide?’
‘Could he be the killer?’
‘All things are possible, Sir Hugh. He made little attempt to hide himself the day I saw him.’
‘And Parson Grimstone?’
‘A goodly man. He likes the trencher, his roast pork, his capon served in sauces and cups of claret, but I’ve heard no whisper of scandal about him. Sometimes short-tempered. He and the other one, Burghesh, they are inseparable, like two old women gossiping with each other.’
‘And the Mummer’s Man?’ Corbett asked.
‘It happened just before the killings began again. Furrell had mentioned something about a man with a mask riding a horse but that was years ago. I said he was drunk, deep in his cups. Anyway, the day was quiet, one of those beautiful times when the weather is changing. I was in Sheepcote Lane; it’s a narrow path across the fields. I was enjoying the sun, nestling behind an outcrop of rock when I heard a horse. Usually the place is deserted but I looked over and, just for a matter of heartbeats, I glimpsed this man dressed in a cloak. On his head he wore one of those mummer’s masks, the sort travelling actors use when they appear in a morality play. This one belonged to the player who takes the part of the devil, blood-red, twisted mouth, horns on either side. I was so shocked I immediately hid. He was past me in a trice. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Perhaps a young man playing a joke? There is so much revelry here. Then I recalled Furrell’s words: how one of the travellers he encountered, passing through, had seen something similar.’ She touched Corbett’s hand and pointed to a gap in the hedge leading into the water meadow. ‘I must go.’ She tapped her walking cane on the trackway. ‘If you wish, you can join me.’ She made a drinking gesture. ‘I have some very good wine. .’
Corbett stared into the darkness. ‘You saw Elizabeth Wheelwright going across the fields about Devil’s Oak?’ he asked. ‘Weren’t you suspicious? Why didn’t you follow her?’
‘I saw no one else, master clerk. I do not belong to Melford. Few people like me but, in the main, I am tolerated. I don’t want to be accused of snooping or prying where I shouldn’t. I saw Elizabeth go into the copse. No one else was around, there was nothing suspicious, so I walked on.’
‘So, she must have met her killer? Why,’ Corbett insisted, ‘should a young woman come out into the lonely countryside to meet someone? How would she know where to go? I wager she could scarcely read.’
‘I don’t know, clerk, but if you come with me, I might enlighten you.’
Corbett gripped the reins of his horse. ‘It’s truly dark,’ he murmured.
‘You are not just referring to the night, are you, Corbett?’
‘No, I’m not.’ He shivered. ‘Do you believe in ghosts, Sorrel?’
‘I believe the dead walk and try to speak to us.’
‘I hope they speak to me,’ Corbett replied. ‘All those poor women so barbarously ravished and murdered. Surely it’s time their ghosts betrayed this killer.’
Chapter 6
Corbett, leading his horse, followed Sorrel across the ditch and into the water meadow. The ground was wet but still firm. Corbett felt as if he was walking along a dreamlike landscape: the surrounding trees and bushes were bathed in moonlight; Sorrel was striding in front of him, swinging her cane, singing softly under her breath. A hunting owl flew like a white shadow above them. Corbett’s horse started and he paused to let it nuzzle his hand. He couldn’t help thinking of Maeve watching her husband, a royal clerk and manor lord, going across night-wrapped fields with this mysterious woman. The owl, which had reached the far trees, now began to hoot, low, mournful but clear on the night air.
‘My man,’ Sorrel said over her shoulder, ‘always claimed owls were the souls of priests who never sung their Masses.’
‘In which case,’ Corbett replied, ‘the woods should be full of such birds!’
Sorrel laughed and walked on.
‘What can you tell me about the people of Melford?’
‘Oh, I could tell you a lot, clerk, but then they’d realise you’d been talking to me. I think it’s best if you found out yourself. I’ll show you what I have and let you think. However,’ she paused and waited for Corbett to draw level with her, ‘you said you were in a maze so let me help you. Blidscote is fat and corrupt. Deverell the carpenter has a lot to hide and Repton the reeve is cold and hard. That’s the problem, master clerk, isn’t it? If these men were here, or their wives or sweethearts, they’d tell similar tales about me.’
‘Old Mother Crauford?’ Corbett asked. ‘Melford’s Jeremiah?’
‘Oh, she and that Peterkin! Let me put it this way, clerk: there may be a Mummer’s Man who wears a mask but the likes of Crauford and Peterkin also wear masks. They are not what they seem to be, but what they truly are escapes me. She mutters and moans. He acts fey-witted, runs errands for this person or that and spends his coins on sweetmeats.’
‘And Melford’s history?’
The woman stopped and tapped her stick on the ground. ‘As you can guess, I am not from Melford. I wandered here twelve years ago and met Furrell. He was kind and taught me the ways of the countryside. I thought, what’s so bad about this? Better God’s trees and meadows than the piss-washed alleyways of-’
Corbett was sure she was about to add ‘Norwich’ but she bit her lip.
‘Furrell claimed Melford was a strange place. A settlement stood here even before the Romans came. Do you know who they were, clerk? Weren’t they led by William the King?’
Corbett laughed and shook his head. ‘No, no, different people, different times.’
‘Anyway,’ Sorrel continued, eager to show her knowledge, ‘Furrell believed wild tribes lived here: they sacrificed people — ’ she pointed to a distant copse — ‘on great slabs of stone or hanged them from the oak trees.’
‘Do you think that’s why Old Mother Crauford believes Melford is a place of blood?’
‘Perhaps,’ Sorrel murmured. ‘I’ll show you something tonight. You can also meet my friends.’
‘Friends?’ Corbett queried.
‘Moon People,’ she explained. ‘They have tales which might interest you. But I want to show you something, clerk, something which intrigues me.’
She walked on more purposefully. They were now going downhill. Corbett glimpsed the river and the dark mass of Beauchamp Place, its jagged walls and empty windows clear against a patch of starlit sky. Corbett recalled memories of a haunted house near his own village when he was a boy. He remembered being challenged to spend a night there and his mother’s anger when she found his empty bed.
At last they reached a makeshift bridge which crossed a narrow, evil-smelling moat.
‘Sometimes, when the river becomes full, it’s drained,’ Sorrel explained.
Corbett was more concerned with his horse, nervous and skittish as its hoofs clattered on the wooden slats. At last they were across under the old gatehouse and into the cobbled inner bailey. By some coincidence — perhaps the builder had planned it — the bailey seemed to trap the moonlight, increasing the manor’s ghostly appearance.