Some of the other customers were now jeering.
‘Come on!’ Repton waved his hand.
‘I carry the King’s warrant.’
‘I carry the King’s warrant,’ Repton mimicked.
This provoked further guffaws of laughter. Corbett looked across at Ranulf, shook his head and got to his feet.
‘I want to talk to you, Repton, that’s all. I want the truth. The King wants the truth.’
‘I’ve told you the truth. You’re not in the Schools of Oxford now, clerk.’
‘I’m trying to be reasonable.’ Corbett took a step forward. ‘I wish you no ill.’
Corbett watched the man’s eyes. Repton had drunk deep. He was beyond reason.
‘Look,’ Corbett played with the chancery ring on his finger, ‘I apologise. I am sorry if I have upset you.’
The laughter grew. Repton couldn’t resist the audience. He came up, the knife moving away. Corbett lashed out with his boot, catching the unfortunate full in the groin. Repton screamed with pain and fell to his knees, the knife clattering amongst the rushes. He tried to crawl forward but Corbett gently placed his heel on the back of the man’s hand.
‘I am the King’s clerk!’ he proclaimed. ‘I wish no man ill but, if I wanted, Repton could hang for treason. So I shall tell you why I am here. Five years ago Sir Roger Chapeleys was executed for the murder of at least four women.’ He stared round the taproom. ‘Good, I now have your attention. If Sir Roger was guilty then he deserved to die. But there’s the riddle. Not only have the murders begun again but two members of the jury responsible for convicting Sir Roger have also been killed in a barbarous manner. I will have the truth either in Melford or in the King’s own prison at Newgate!’
Chanson was staring open-mouthed. Ranulf, grinning from ear to ear, was busy pocketing his earnings.
‘Now, Master Repton,’ Corbett pressed the heel of his boot till the man flinched, ‘do you not accept my apology?’
‘Yes,’ the man gasped.
‘And will you not accept a tankard of ale?’
‘Yes.’
Corbett helped the reeve to his feet. He now looked woebegone. He didn’t know whether to nurse his hand or his groin. Corbett lifted the stool and ushered the man to it. Burghesh and Blidscote sat fascinated, as if they couldn’t understand what was happening. Corbett ordered more tankards of ale. He thrust one into the reeve’s hands.
‘The pewter’s cold.’ Corbett urged, ‘Hold it against your groin, it will ease the pain.’ He leant forward. ‘You are a fool!’ he hissed. ‘You could be hanged for that!’
Repton caught back a sob.
‘You are not angry, are you?’ Corbett continued. ‘You are frightened.’
He was aware of Ranulf and Chanson joining them, taking stools and sitting behind the reeve.
‘What do you mean?’ the reeve stuttered.
‘You came into the Golden Fleece that night twice, didn’t you? You had been drinking all day. You learnt from Taverner Matthew how Widow Walmer was entertaining so off you staggered, along Gully Lane to Widow Walmer’s cottage?’
‘I didn’t do it,’ the reeve whispered, and sipped from the ale. ‘I swear to God I didn’t do it!’
‘Did what?’ Blidscote queried.
‘You reached the cottage, didn’t you?’ Corbett ignored the bailiff. ‘And the door was open?’
‘Yes, the door was open.’ The reeve spoke as if learning a lesson. ‘Widow Walmer was lying on the floor.’ He clutched his stomach. ‘I could tell what had happened, her dress had been pulled down at the top, those hideous marks round her throat. Body and legs twisted. I was frightened. I thought the killer could still be there. I panicked. What if they accused me?’
‘So you came back to the Golden Fleece,’ Corbett explained, ‘where you drank some more, turning over and over in your mind what you had seen. Once your courage returned, you asked Burghesh to accompany you. So, both of you went along.’
‘That’s right,’ the reeve slurred.
‘You didn’t tell us this,’ Blidscote stated.
‘How could I?’ The reeve blinked. ‘But I didn’t kill her!’
‘And Sir Roger’s knife?’ Burghesh asked.
‘I told you. I stood in the doorway. I touched nothing. Just one glance was enough. I went outside and was sick in the bushes. Then I came back here.’
‘Did you see anything of Sir Roger?’
The reeve shook his head. Corbett pushed away the tankard; he picked up his leather wallet, cloak, sword belt and saddle panniers.
‘You see,’ he smiled at Blidscote. ‘I am here for the truth, but now I am tired.’
He bade them good night, went across the taproom and up the stairs.
‘Your master is a strange man,’ Burghesh declared.
‘Old Master Long Face is strange enough,’ Ranulf grinned, getting to his feet. He leant over the table, raising his voice so it carried across the taproom. ‘He’s a strange one, is Sir Hugh. He nags and nags at the truth. He never gives up. But,’ he raised his eyebrows, ‘tonight he was in a good temper.’
‘Why?’ the reeve asked. ‘Would he have killed me?’
‘No.’ Ranulf grasped the reeve by the shoulder. ‘Sir Hugh wouldn’t have killed you but I would have done!’ He pushed his face closer. ‘And, if it happens again, I will! Do tell that to the people of Melford!’
Chapter 10
‘An exciting day, Master.’
Ranulf, perched on a stool, grinned over his shoulder at Chanson, who squatted near the door. Corbett sat on his bed beneath the small casement window. He stared around his bedchamber, a comfortable, sweet-smelling place. He was particularly intrigued by this large four-poster bed with its ornate tester and curtains of mulberry-coloured wool.
‘You’d think it was a bridal chamber,’ he murmured. ‘Certainly comfortable; even rugs on the floor.’
‘At least our taverner knows how to treat a royal clerk,’ Ranulf laughed.
‘I am that tired,’ Corbett replied, ‘I’d sleep in a pigsty. Don’t be too hard on the good citizens of Melford: they are frightened.’
He watched the capped brazier in the corner, its coals glowing through the narrow slits. Every so often he would catch the flavour of spring from the herbs sprinkled there. Corbett had not demanded such luxury but he was appreciative of it.
‘Nothing like a well-aimed kick, is there, Master?’
‘Repton was a fool, yet I couldn’t let it pass. Well, I know what you found and you now know what I’ve learnt.’
They’d spent at least an hour exchanging information. Corbett was particularly intrigued at how Ranulf’s story about the Mummer’s Man corroborated what Sorrel had told him.
‘Oh, what was that information from Westminster?’ Ranulf asked.
‘A record of the trial from the court of King’s Bench. The rest was a little research I’d organised. Never once,’ Corbett waved a hand, ‘was Sir Roger, whilst serving with the King’s forces in many places, ever accused of attacking or raping women. As you know, when troops are in hostile country those who love to abuse women seize such opportunities with relish. I’ve seen at least five or six hanged in Wales for rape and abduction.’
‘What do you mean, relish?’ Chanson asked.
‘When we return to London, Chanson, Ranulf may take you down to the stews of Southwark, introduce you to some of his lady friends.’
‘You mean whores? Ranulf’s talked about them.’
‘No woman is a whore!’ Ranulf snapped. ‘I call them my ladies of the night. A prettier bunch of damsels you’ve never clapped eyes on.’
‘You should talk to them,’ Corbett continued. ‘They will tell you about a certain type of man who can only enjoy intercourse after he has beaten a woman. The ladies of the night make them pay for such a privilege. Last Michaelmas we entertained Monsieur de Craon, the French envoy. When he’s not busy plotting for his master, Philip of France, or trying to steal secrets or kill our spies, de Craon is used, like I am, to track down killers. He mentioned a particular case near the royal hunting lodge of Fontainebleau. About two summers ago, young women were attacked, raped and murdered. De Craon eventually caught the killer and watched him broken on the wheel at Montfaucon. He was fascinated by how the man enjoyed what he did. De Craon described him as an animal; a human wolf, who liked to prey: he enjoyed the violence more than the kill.’