‘A haunted place!’ Corbett exclaimed. ‘Don’t its ghosts trouble you?’
‘Oh, people say there are ghosts,’ Sorrel grinned. ‘And I embroider the stories to keep them away.’
‘Aren’t you nervous?’
‘Of the ghosts!’ she exclaimed. ‘True, strange sounds can be heard at night. I often wonder if Furrell comes looking for me but it’s the living who concern me. And, before you ask, clerk, I am not really frightened of strangers or outlaws. Why should they hurt the likes of me? Especially,’ she called out as she crossed the yard, ‘as I have a cudgel, a dagger, not to mention a crossbow and bolts.’
She led Corbett into the ruined hall. Most of its roof had gone, leaving the beams open to the elements. Sorrel lit sconce torches and, in their flickering dance, Corbett glimpsed faded paintings on the far wall. The dais at the top had once been tiled but most of the stone had been ripped away.
‘You can hobble your horse here,’ Sorrel explained.
Corbett did so and followed her across the dais. The door in the wall at the back had been repaired and rehung on leather hinges. The large room inside must have once been the solar, or family room, for the manor lord and family. Its roof was still sound; the plaster had been refurbished. Corbett was surprised how clean and neat it was. There were stools, a bench, trestle table, two large chests, an aumbry and, in the far corner, a four-poster bed shrouded by faded red curtains. Candlesticks in iron spigots were placed round the room as well as sconce torches which Sorrel immediately lit.
‘Take your ease,’ Sorrel offered.
Corbett looked around and whistled under his breath. ‘It’s very comfortable.’
‘Of course it is,’ Sorrel called.
She went into a small adjoining room and wheeled back a metal-capped brazier. Corbett watched as she expertly fired the coals and, taking a small pouch of ground herbs, sprinkled some powder across the top. A warm sweet perfume pervaded the room.
‘Who did all this?’ Corbett asked.
‘Why, Furrell. You see, sir, no one owns Beauchamp Place. People are terrified of the ghosts and, if the river spills, it can be dangerous but, the hall, solar and my buttery are safe.’ She added proudly, ‘Furrell was a good poacher. I was in Melford earlier with three pheasants for the Golden Fleece. People pay well for good, fresh meat, finely gutted and cleaned. Furrell bought the bed from a merchant who was leaving for London. The other sticks of furniture came from the likes of Deverell. That’s how people paid him.’
Corbett noticed the paintings on the far wall. He got up and went across. They had been done in charcoal, filled in with rough paints, small scenes from country life; most of them depicted a man or woman netting a hare or catching conys in the hay. Others were more vigorous: a pheasant burst up from the gorse, its head going back as it was hit by a slingshot; a roe deer, antlers high, knees buckling as an arrow dug deep into its neck.
‘Who did these?’ Corbett asked.
‘Furrell. Don’t forget, you may work by day but my man worked at night.’
Corbett continued to study the rough paintings. Sorrel brought in two pewter cups. She filled these with wine and, grasping a small poker, thrust it into a now fiery brazier. She then took it out, warmed the wine and sprinkled each with nutmeg. She wrapped a rag round one cup and handed it to Corbett.
‘It’s good wine, isn’t it?’ she said, sitting down on the bench opposite, her eyes bright and expectant.
Corbett felt a little uncomfortable.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Do you really believe that I can discover the truth?’
‘You must do.’ Sorrel pointed across to a small niche containing a statue of the Virgin, a candle fixed in wax before it. ‘Every day I pray to her. You’re God’s answer.’
Corbett sipped at the wine. It was warm and mellow. He felt relaxed, slightly flattered. Most strangers couldn’t stand the sight of him. A royal clerk, particularly the keeper of the Secret Seal, was regarded as dangerous: a man who had the ear of the King.
‘Right.’ Corbett sipped again. ‘Five years ago Sir Roger Chapeleys was hanged. Furrell went before the justices and pleaded on his behalf?’
‘I’ve told you all that.’
‘And then what happened?’
‘Well,’ Sorrel pulled a face, ‘Sir Roger was in prison for a while. Sir Louis dispatched pleas to London but the King sent the order back. Sir Roger had been found guilty by a jury.’ Sorrel sipped at her own wine. ‘The poor man even offered to purge himself by trial by combat but that was refused. Sentence of death was confirmed and he was hanged.’
‘Did you attend the execution?’
‘Oh no, nor did Furrell.’
‘And when did your husband disappear?’
Sorrel narrowed her eyes. ‘About a month after Sir Roger’s execution. Furrell was a strange one. He had many faults. I wondered if he did lie with other women but, in his own way, he was loyal. As I said, we took a vow under the yew tree and he looked after me. He was kind and tender, never raising his hands to me, even in his cups. He could be garrulous, at other times he would sit and brood, barking out short statements like when he mentioned the Mummer’s Man.’ She pointed to the wall. ‘I think that’s why he liked painting. He always had a great fear, did Furrell, that his wits would wander, that the loneliness would darken his mind.’
‘And Sir Roger’s execution?’ Corbett brought her gently back to the matter in hand.
‘Ah yes.’ She shifted her hair away from her face with her wrist then held the cup against her chapped cheek. ‘After the hanging my man was not the most popular person in Melford: dark looks at the Golden Fleece, cold shoulders in the marketplace. Furrell, however, was a ferret of a man: he had his mind set on Sir Roger’s innocence. He became obsessed with it. I wish,’ she sighed, ‘I had listened more carefully to his rantings and ravings. He never changed the song he sang: Sir Roger did not attack Widow Walmer. He left her cottage peaceably, full of wine and love whilst she was alive and hearty.’
‘And?’ Corbett asked.
‘Furrell went back to the widow’s cottage. Now, you can imagine what happened after her death. The town council seized her property as tax. It’s now been sold to another so you won’t find anything interesting. Anyway, Furrell went back there. From the night of her death, the council put guards and bailiffs on her property. You know the way it is: windows and doors were sealed though that didn’t stop people rifling her hen coops and taking what livestock they could filch. There’s nothing like a funeral,’ she added wistfully, ‘to bring the greed out in people. Now Furrell made very careful enquiries.’ She pointed to the door of her own chamber. ‘Much as I boast about my crossbow and dagger, when I sleep at night I draw the bolts across. Wouldn’t you, master clerk?’
Corbett agreed.
‘Well,’ Sorrel continued eagerly, putting the cup on the floor and using her hands to illustrate what she was saying, ‘on the night she died Widow Walmer entertained Sir Roger, yes?’
Corbett nodded.
‘And when he went, what would she do? She’s drunk wine, she’s made love, she’s tired. If I were her, I would douse the fire and lamps. .’
‘Fasten the shutters and bolt the door,’ Corbett finished the sentence for her.
‘Exactly! Especially if she was alone. Now, if someone had come to attack, ravish and slay her?’
‘They’d force the door,’ Corbett declared.
‘Furrell found this hadn’t happened. No damage to the doors or shutters. So our widow must have known her visitor.’
‘I am not a lawyer,’ Corbett replied, ‘but I would argue that perhaps Sir Roger paid a second visit. Widow Walmer would let him in.’
‘True,’ she agreed. ‘But why leave in the first place? And, if he was going to kill her, why return, why not do it earlier?’