Free Hugh Corbett 12 - The Treason of the Ghosts by Paul Doherty Page A

Sir Maurice snatched this off and brought it back.
    ‘It’s the same as on the gravestone,’ he murmured, handing it to Corbett.
    The parchment was a greasy piece of old vellum: in the fading light Corbett made out the red scrawl: ‘REMEMBER!’
    ‘Someone has been busy. Sir Maurice, may I keep this?’
    His companion nodded. Corbett folded the scrap of paper and slipped it into his wallet. The clerk stared around. The crossroads and the surrounding fields were not so pleasant now. The breeze was cold, the sky more grey and threatening, the misty haze like a shifting gauze veil. A feeling of dread, of quiet menace pervaded. The lives of many in Melford had been blighted. The secrets they nursed, hidden sins, could surface and manifest themselves in brutal and bloody death, especially on an evening such as this.
    At Tressilyian’s insistence they rode on, Chapeleys slightly ahead of the others. Corbett considered drawing Tressilyian into conversation about the trial but decided that this was not the time nor place. The justice himself seemed to be in a dark mood, keeping his head down, chin tucked into his cloak, cowl pulled across his face. Corbett realised that Tressilyian must also be alarmed, seriously concerned that he had condemned and supervised the execution of an innocent man. The silence grew oppressive. Corbett could understand why Ranulf, a creature of the alleyways and streets of London, felt fearful in the countryside, especially in this quiet time before dusk as if the creatures of the night were waiting for darkness to fall. The path they had taken was nothing more than a broad, rutted trackway, ditches on either side and high, prickly hedgerows. Every so often this line would be broken by a gate or stile.
    Corbett reined in, forcing the other two to stop. ‘I am a stranger,’ he reminded them. ‘I am trying to get my bearings. This is Falmer Lane?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And the village of Melford lies - ’ Corbett gestured with his hand - ‘to the south? The church stands at one end. We have streets and thoroughfares, the marketplace in the centre, then it curves slightly out into the countryside?’
    ‘You are not such a stranger,’ Tressilyian replied. ‘But yes, that’s a good way of describing the town.’
    ‘So, there are many trackways and thoroughfares out?’
    ‘Yes, I told you. Melford has grown as prosperous, and as rambling, as the fleece on a sheep’s back.’
    ‘And Molkyn’s mill is at the church end of the town?’
    ‘That’s right. There’s the mill, Thorkle’s farm is nearby. In fact, it’s almost a small hamlet. There’s the mere, the millpond.’
    ‘And Goodwoman Walmer’s cottage?’
    ‘About a mile from the mill.’
    ‘And lanes and trackways aplenty?’ Corbett asked.
    ‘Oh, Sweet Lord, yes,’ Tressilyian laughed. ‘If you read the report of the trial, one witness actually described Melford as a rabbit warren. There are lanes and trackways out. You’ve seen the gates and stiles. Footpaths crisscross the meadows. God knows,’ he sighed, ‘as a justice I am always having to rule on what is trespass and what is not. You see, Corbett, the land round here has changed. Sheep, not corn, is the measure of a man’s wealth. So woods are cleared, hedgerows planted, fences and gates put up.’
    ‘If I catch your drift,’ Sir Maurice said, ‘an ideal place for murder, yes, Sir Hugh?’
    ‘Any place is ideal for murder,’ Corbett replied. ‘Ranulf dislikes the countryside. He claims it’s more dangerous than the alleyways of London. For once I agree with him. Once darkness falls, a man who knew his way around here could slip along the lanes and gullys and do what he wished. He’d be as well protected as he would in the dingy slums around Whitefriars or the maze of Southwark alleyways.’
    ‘I have seen both those places,’ Tressilyian replied. ‘I prefer Melford.’
    They continued along the lane. The fields gave way to a copse of woods on either side. Corbett