‘Has Repton told you this?’
‘No,’ Corbett smiled. ‘But he will do. When we fasten his hands and allow the King’s questioners to interrogate him, it’s wonderful what he will remember. You were with Repton, weren’t you? Good old Burghesh slipping in and out. I suspect it was you who attacked me near the mill on my first night in Melford. You were trying to confuse me. When I reached the Golden Fleece, you were sitting there cradling a tankard, jovial and hearty, beyond any suspicion.’
The weight on the bell rope reached the end of the ledge and fell off. Corbett ignored the jangle of the bell.
‘All was now ready. Sir Roger’s house was searched. You’d sent the keepsakes of those other victims to Sir Roger. You knew the mind of the man. He’d regard them as gifts or tokens from some of his conquests. He’d throw them in a chest and think nothing of them.’
‘And Deverell?’
‘Ah, now we come to the rest of your stratagem. I said Parson Grimstone is a toper. He is also lonely. He’s a well-meaning man but garrulous in his cups.’ Corbett tapped the side of his nose. ‘He knows all the secrets of the village, doesn’t he? Especially Molkyn’s. The death of his first wife, as well as his illicit relationship with his own daughter, Margaret. The same is true of Thorkle. How his wife was planting a pair of cuckold horns with young Ralph? And, of course, about the carpenter Deverell, in truth a monk who’d fled his monastery, enjoying an illicit marriage whilst hiding from the eyes of the Church.’
Beads of sweat glistened high on Burghesh’s forehead. ‘Those are confessional secrets!’ he spluttered.
‘Some are, some are not.’ Corbett sighed. ‘But Parson Grimstone is lonely. He’s drinking with his close friend and half-brother Burghesh, who has collected such juicy morsels over the years. You do know about such scandals?’
‘I will say nothing,’ Burghesh retorted.
‘I wonder how you approached your blackmail victims. Was it scribbled on a piece of parchment? Some quotation from the Bible? Like the one Molkyn received, quoting Leviticus, which strictly condemned incest? Was it a personal visit in the dead of night or along some alleyway? Do this, do that or face the consequences. They would all be terrified: Deverell faced ruin, Thorkle ridicule, Molkyn public anger.’
‘I didn’t choose them for the jury. Blidscote did!’
‘Blidscote?’ Corbett asked. ‘Good God, you didn’t have to be a friend of the parish priest to know about Blidscote. He’s a byword for corruption, or rather was. He’s dead now. Did you learn about his passion for little boys? What united all your victims of blackmail was not only their secret fears but their open dislike of Sir Roger. You, the Mummer’s Man, the Jesses killer, had set the stage.’
Corbett emphasised the points on his gloved fingers: ‘Chapeleys had been with Widow Walmer the night she died; the knife; his ownership of some of the dead women’s jewellery; Deverell’s testimony; popular dislike against him and, finally, a jury really controlled by you. What chance did the poor man have?’
Corbett moved on the step. He took some comfort from a sound outside, a slight footfall. He hoped it was Ranulf and not Parson Grimstone.
‘The only fly in the ointment was Furrell the poacher. He knew the comings and goings of the countryside. On the night Widow Walmer died, he saw Sir Roger leave her safe and sound. He talked of other people slipping through the darkness to that poor woman’s cottage. We know Repton went down twice. I suspect a third was you, the killer.’ Corbett leant forward and jabbed a finger. ‘And it will be Furrell who hangs you, Burghesh, and hang you shall! He became very curious about what he had seen, the lies told about Sir Roger. I am sure you had a hand in the whispering campaign.’ Corbett paused. ‘Above all, Furrell had seen that triptych: he began to wonder if the truth was as clear as a picture. So, where does a man go who is troubled?’ Corbett pointed to the floor. ‘Why, Master Burghesh, he comes to church. I warrant he spoke to Parson Grimstone, or did he approach you directly? Accuse you openly? Whatever, he never left this church alive.’
‘Nonsense! Furrell was a drunk. He fled from that woman of his and went elsewhere.’
‘I promised Furrell would hang you. Master Burghesh, the busybody around the church, the man who burnt the triptych, who cleans, rings the bells and digs graves.’
Burghesh was now clearly agitated, a hand resting on the hilt of his dagger.
‘Where do you put a corpse like Furrell’s,’ Corbett continued, ‘when you have a woman like Sorrel who knows the countryside like the back of her hand? You put him with the other corpses. I’ll go through the Book of the Dead again to trap Burghesh the grave-digger. In the evening you dig a plot for a funeral the following morning. Only sometimes, you dig it a foot deeper and bury one of your victims, someone like Furrell or one of the wandering women. I’ll get half of Melford up here with mattock and hoe and we’ll go through that Mortuary Book. We’ll dig up coffins then go deeper. The dead will convict you. The treason of the ghosts, eh, Burghesh? They’ll represent evidence you cannot challenge. After all, only you dig the graves. We’ll also question Parson Grimstone, search your house, particularly the little stable behind. We’ll look for cloths filled with straw to deaden the sound of your horse’s hoofs. And, of course,’ Corbett knocked the bell rope, ‘we’ll go back to Curate Robert.’
Corbett got to his feet. ‘We’ll hold a court here in church. I carry the King’s Seal. I’ll call on the dead to betray you. How thronged the nave will become! You are a killer, Burghesh. You deserve death.’
Burghesh leant his head back against the door, watching Corbett from under hooded eyes.
‘Sorrel called you a weasel, Burghesh. I wonder what’s the full tally of your victims. How many secret graves lie around Melford? Furrell and his woman discovered some: that poacher was your nemesis. Do you know what that means?’
His opponent simply sneered.
‘It’s God’s judgement,’ Corbett explained. ‘I suspect Furrell brought that triptych back from Ipswich for Sir Roger and remembered it after the poor knight was hanged. Furrell certainly suspected you. He made up a song, about being between the devil and an angel, he was referring to Chapeleys’ triptych.’
‘He was a drunken fool!’
‘He was a sharp fool. To quote scripture, Master Burghesh, the foolishness of man is often the wisdom of God. You also dismissed Sorrel as a vagrant but, when I arrived, you changed your mind. You realised how much she might know: that’s why you went out to Beauchamp Place to murder her. You would have murdered me as well with that piece of twine stretched across the bridge. An old poacher’s trick or, in your case, Burghesh, an old soldier’s! I’ve seen royal archers use the same trap to bring down horsemen. Oh yes,’ Corbett watched Burghesh carefully, ‘you crept out of Melford and, if I hadn’t been at Beauchamp Place, Sorrel would have disappeared. I wonder where you would have buried her? You lured some of your victims back to the woods behind your house and, as with Furrell, buried them in the graveyard.’ Corbett took a step forward. ‘Let’s go into the church, Burghesh. Its nave must be filling with ghosts, all crying to God for justice. They’ll betray you, hand you over for punishment, both in this life and the next.’
Burghesh ripped the dagger from his sheath.
‘What are you going to do?’ Corbett scoffed. ‘Kill the King’s clerk?’ He drew his own dagger. ‘My name’s not Elizabeth. I am no soft, frightened girl.’