‘Of course.’ Ranulf closed his eyes. ‘That’s how the Mummer’s Man might have done it. He wouldn’t approach her. He’d just call out, “Elizabeth Wheelwright, Johanna Samler, I have good fortune for you!” ’ Ranulf opened his eyes and clapped Chanson on the shoulder. ‘He’d promise to leave a piece in a certain place and so lure them to their deaths. Can’t you see that, Chanson?’
‘I’m the one who proved it.’
‘If I told any girl in this town,’ Ranulf declared, ‘how there’s a silver piece lying beneath Devil’s Oak, specially for them, they’d laugh, they’d be intrigued, but they’d also be curious.’
‘And wouldn’t tell anyone else.’
‘No, of course they wouldn’t,’ Ranulf murmured. ‘In a town like Melford people would kill for a piece of silver. And that’s the truth of it!’
Chapter 8
The church of St Edmund’s lay in darkness. Only a red sanctuary lamp glowed, a small pool of light against the encroaching night. The carved face of the crucified Christ stared down whilst those of His mother and St John gazed up in anguish. The mist had seeped through crevices in the windows, under the door, slipping like steam into the church, turning the paving stones ice-cold. Mice scampered in the transept searching for morsels of food or pieces of candle wax. No one was there to witness the anguish and agony of Curate Bellen as he knelt on the prie-dieu in the chancery chapel. He had taken his robe off, his hose, his boots. He knelt in the cold as an act of mortification. He gazed up at the statue of the martyred King of East Anglia. Bellen’s hands were clenched so tight his knuckles hurt. He prayed for protection, wisdom and forgiveness.
‘So many sins,’ he murmured. Evil he’d never imagined! Ordained by the Bishop of Norwich, Curate Robert Bellen was unused to the wickedness and wiles of this world. He only coped by keeping his eyes firmly on the next. He, too, was sure Satan had come to Melford, and wasn’t he as guilty as the rest?
Bellen sighed and, muttering under his breath, got to his feet. He took off his shift and stretched out on the cold paving stones. Better this, he thought, than the freezing shores by the lakes of Hell. What could he do except pray and atone? The chill caught his hot body and he shivered, quivering as his mind fought against the creeping discomfort. He clutched his Ave beads more tightly. He would pray, do penance then penance again. Perhaps St Edmund, patron of this church, would ask God to send an angel to comfort him. But were there angels? Was God interested in him?
The curate closed his eyes. He should have been a monk. Bellen tried to clear his mind by chanting phrases from the Divine Office. He stared up into the darkness. Carvings gazed back: angels, demons, the faces of saints, even the carved representations of priests and curates who had served here before him. What should he do? Write to the Bishop? Make a full confession? Yet what proof did he possess? Or should he go in front of that sharp-eyed clerk? He was a royal emissary but also a man; he would understand.
Bellen heard the wind creak and rustle the twisted branches of the yew trees outside. Then a sound, like the click of a latch. But that was impossible! Surely he had closed the corpse door behind him? He sighed and got to his feet. He walked out of the chantry chapel and down the transept to the side door. The latch was still down. Shivering, feeling rather foolish, Bellen lifted this and pulled the door open. The cold night air rushed in. Outside God’s acre lay silent in the moonlight. He was about to close the door when he looked down and his freezing back prickled with fear. He could see the boot stains. Someone had come into this church, like a thief in the night, had stood in the shadows and watched him.
Sir Hugh Corbett reined in and stared across at the church. The lych-gate was closed, but in the moonlight he could make out the path, crosses, carvings and burial grounds. The grass and gorse were already glinting under a frost. Corbett felt tired and cold. An owl hooted deep in the cemetery. Corbett smiled. Next time he told a story to little Eleanor, he would remember this place with its shadows, dappled moonlight, the haunting silence and the ominous sound of a night bird. Corbett also felt hungry. He closed his eyes and thought of the parlour in Leighton Manor. He’d sit in his high-backed chair or on cushions before a great roaring fire, watching a poker heat red in the flames: he’d then pluck it out and warm posset cups for himself and Maeve. She would be singing softly under her breath, one of her sad Welsh songs. The logs would splutter and crackle, the flames leap higher. . Corbett opened his eyes.
‘Oh Lord,’ he prayed, ‘the wind is cold, the night is hard. I wish to God I were in my bed, my lover’s arms around me.’
Corbett laughed softly. Maeve would call him a troubadour. His horse snickered and, lifting a hoof, struck at the hard trackway. Corbett patted its neck.
‘There now! There now! Good lad!’ he soothed. ‘You’ve ridden hard and done fine work. It will be oats and a fresh bed of straw for you tonight.’
The bay threw its head back and whinnied as if it could already smell the tangy warmness of its stable at the Golden Fleece.
Corbett had left Sorrel and spent the greater part of the last hour riding the trackways and lanes around Melford. He wanted to take his bearings: on a number of occasions he had become lost.
‘It’s a maze,’ he muttered.
Melford was not like those ancient towns along the south coast, or the royal boroughs around the Medway, with their walls and gates. Melford had begun as a village, then spread as the wealth from its sheep increased. A murderer could slip easily in and out of such a town. At one time Corbett would be amongst cottages and houses, he’d then take a turning down a muddy lane and be out in open countryside. But at last he had a map in his mind and was already sifting possibilities. How and where the murderer had carried out his crimes was still impossible to deduce. Corbett could only form a vague hypothesis. Now he was intent on visiting Molkyn the miller’s widow. He wanted to proceed quickly. The longer he stayed in Melford, and the more time he gave people to reflect, the more they’d say what they wanted him to hear rather than the truth.
Corbett urged his horse forward, passed the church and, following the direction he had taken earlier, rode down a muddy lane. He entered the miller’s property and reined in before the mere glinting in the moonlight. Corbett could imagine the tray or platter bearing Molkyn’s severed head floating and bobbing on its glassy surface. He dismounted and led his horse round the mere. Above him the great mill soared, its canvas arms stretched out to the night. He glimpsed a light and went on up the lane towards the house. A dog came snarling out of the darkness. Corbett paused, stretching out his hand.
‘Now, now,’ he whispered. ‘No need for that.’
The dog barked again. A door opened and Corbett glimpsed a shadowy form holding a lantern.
‘Who’s there?’ came the challenge.
‘Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s clerk! I would be grateful if you would call your dog off!’
A low whistle broke the darkness. The dog slunk away and Corbett went on. The man carrying the lantern was young, broad-faced, red-haired, pugnacious and aggressive. He was dressed in a cote-hardie which fell to his knees. Both that, and the leggings beneath, were dusty with flour.
‘What do you want?’
‘A civil welcome!’ Corbett snapped. ‘I carry the King’s commission.’
‘Ralph, Ralph,’ a woman’s voice called from the doorway. ‘Take our visitor’s horse.’ The voice was low and warm. ‘You’d best come in, Sir Hugh Corbett, King’s clerk, the night is freezing.’
The young man led off the horse. Corbett undid his sword belt and cloak and followed the woman into the warm, stone-flagged kitchen, a long, sweet-smelling room. The windows at the far end were shuttered, a fire blazed merrily in the hearth and the air was rich with the smell of baking from the ovens on either side of the fire. The woman who welcomed him was blonde-haired and slender, with a smiling, pleasant face. Behind her two other women sat at a table. One was undoubtedly Molkyn’s daughter. She had fair hair and a sweet face. The other had coarser features: a flat nose, podgy cheeks, a watchful, hostile gaze. Her grey hair was hidden under a dark blue veil, now slightly askew. She sat, the sleeves of her grey gown pulled back, a sharp pruning knife in her hands. She was helping cut up some vegetables. She dropped these in the pot on the table, her gaze never leaving Corbett’s face.