‘Is it suicide?’ Ranulf asked.
‘It must have been.’ Burghesh pointed to the door of the bell tower, a set of keys hung in the outside lock. ‘He must have waited till we’d gone, came in, locked the door behind him and went up into the bell tower. He removed a weight, tied the rope round his neck and then simply jumped off the steps.’
‘And that caused the bells to ring?’ Corbett asked.
Burghesh nodded. ‘It would be swiftly done. Look!’
He led them back into the bell tower, grasped the rope and climbed the steps. He then jumped down, clearing three or four steps, holding on to the rope and, as he did, the bell clashed and clanged above him.
‘You probably heard them ring again,’ he added. ‘That’s when I came in. I tugged on the corpse, feeling for a life pulse in his neck or wrist. There was nothing so I hastened back to the Guildhall.’
‘He’ll need the last rites,’ Corbett declared. ‘You’d best get Parson Grimstone.’
‘He’s in his cups.’
‘He’s still a priest,’ Corbett replied. ‘And he’s the only one we have. Master Burghesh, I would be grateful if you’d do what I ask!’
Corbett waited until he had gone and closed the door behind him. He went back into the bell tower and scrutinised the bell rope and steps before returning to kneel beside the corpse. He examined the red weal round the neck and then the curate’s wrists. The corpse was not yet cold.
‘Do you think it was suicide?’ Ranulf asked.
Corbett turned the body over. He could find no other wound or cut except that ugly scar round the throat.
‘It must have been,’ he declared. ‘Bellen came in here.’ He sniffed at the man’s mouth. ‘He’d drunk some wine, then God knows what happened. Perhaps this cold darkness finally tipped his wits? There was no struggle, no sign of binding round the wrists or a blow to the head. Master Burghesh is correct, Curate Robert must have come in here intending suicide.’ He tapped the piece of parchment lying beside the corpse. ‘He put this into the cuff of his sleeve, made sure the church door was locked and went into the bell tower.’ Corbett paused. ‘He then removed the weight from one of the ropes, tied the rope round his neck, climbed the steps and jumped: that’s the bell we heard. Burghesh came across and discovered the corpse.’
‘Could Bellen have been the murderer?’ Ranulf declared. ‘He was strong enough to kill Molkyn and Thorkle and, being a priest who visits parishioners, would know about the squint hole in Deverell’s house. He was also a flagellant, punishing himself for secret sins, maybe such as the murder of those young women. Perhaps,’ Ranulf added, ‘the Mummer’s Man was Curate Robert in disguise? Or, there again, a woman might go out to the countryside to meet a priest?’
‘True,’ Corbett murmured. ‘Bellen also heard confessions. He’d know all the secrets of the parish and could blackmail as he wished.’
The door swung open. Tressilyian and Sir Maurice, Parson Grimstone between them, followed Burghesh into the church. Grimstone was near collapse. He took one look at his curate’s corpse, groaned and had to be helped to sit on a stone plinth. Burghesh sat next to him, talking quietly.
‘Suicide?’ Tressilyian asked.
‘It would appear so,’ Corbett replied. ‘Sir Maurice, my groom, Chanson, brought you a message?’
‘I can’t find it.’ Sir Maurice shook his head. ‘I have searched my father’s records but. .’ He spread his hands.
Corbett hid his disappointment. He had hoped to discover details about the mysterious painting Sir Roger had given to the parish church.
‘Ah well,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s tend the dead.’
Burghesh left them. He brought back the holy oils and gently persuaded Grimstone to whisper the words of absolution and anoint the dead man.
Corbett watched. It was a truly piteous sight: the young priest sprawled on the flagstones, his face still twisted by his violent death.
‘Burghesh,’ Corbett murmured, ‘I need the keys of the house. I must search Curate Robert’s chamber.’
‘But is that right?’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Corbett agreed. ‘But Ranulf thinks that young priest is responsible for all the murders in Melford. He may well be right. Except. .’
‘Except for what?’
‘Nothing,’ Corbett replied. ‘Not for the moment. I’ll take the keys.’
Burghesh reluctantly handed them over. Corbett gestured at Ranulf to follow. They left the church and went round to the priest’s house. Corbett unlocked the door and went into the sweet-smelling passageway. The walls were half panelled, the wood gleamed and smelt of a rich polish. Corbett, having lit more candles, pushed open doors and looked around. A comfortable place, high-backed quilted chairs, tables, stools and benches. He even espied some books, tied by a chain to a shelf in the small parlour. The stairs to the bedchambers were broad and polished with small pots of herbs in the stairwell. The windows were lead-lined: some were even filled with coloured or painted glass.
Corbett went up. There were three chambers along the gallery; Bellen’s stood at the end. Corbett unlocked the door and went in. The room smelt of sweat, candlewax, rather musty, so he pulled back the shutters and opened the window. He waited whilst Ranulf lit the candles. The small cot bed under the window was unmade. Clothes and robes were scattered about. A wineskin, now empty, lay on the floor, an overturned cup beside it. On a shelf above the desk were calfskin-bound books: a psalter, a ledger containing the Calendar of Saints and the order or ritual for different Masses as well as a Book of Hours, rather tattered and faded.
Corbett sat down at the desk and sifted amongst the different pieces of parchment. He noticed some, like the parchment found on the dead priest, were inscribed with quotations from the Old Testament about sin and forgiveness. Corbett searched on. He moved his foot and kicked a small chest beneath the table and pulled this out. He emptied the contents on to the floor: a small, thick hairshirt, a flagellum or whip with strips of sharpened leather strapped to a bone handle.
‘Poor man,’ Ranulf murmured. ‘He seemed more aware of sin than he was of God’s grace.’
Corbett searched on.
‘Strange,’ he whispered.
‘What is, Master?’
‘Well, Bellen was an educated man but there are no letters or written sermons. After all, Bellen served here for a number of years. I know priests. They have homilies, commentaries, they write letters to friends and colleagues. Bellen, apparently, did none of these.’
He picked up the psalter and shook it. A piece of parchment fell out, yellow, dark with age.
‘Now, here’s one,’ Corbett declared. ‘It’s a draft letter to his bishop.’ He pulled the candle closer and studied it.
Apparently Bellen began the letter but didn’t finish it. There were the usual salutations and then the line, ‘I have something to confess in secreto. .’ but Bellen had not continued.
Corbett heard Ranulf moving around at the other side of the room.
‘He may not have been a letter writer, Master, but Bellen did like to draw.’
Corbett looked round. Ranulf had pulled out a small coffer full of rolls of parchment. He went across and watched as Ranulf sifted through them. Most of them were drawings of the church, rather clumsy and childish: the face of a gargoyle, a pillar, the entrance to the rood screen. Corbett glimpsed one and seized it. Then, hearing footsteps on the stairs, he quickly folded this up and thrust it into his wallet. Burghesh tapped on the door and came in.
‘Have you finished, Sir Hugh?’
In the light of the lantern he carried, Burghesh looked haggard and worried.
‘Yes, yes, I have finished.’
‘And is there anything? I mean,’ Burghesh stammered, ‘anything to tell us why Robert should take his own life?’
‘I don’t know.’ Corbett smiled thinly. ‘But Ranulf and I have to return to the Golden Fleece. The burgesses of Melford will have to do without our company tonight.’
He and Ranulf stepped by Burghesh, went along the gallery and down, out through the half-open front door.