Corbett sat down on a chair at the table.
‘And what else was Molkyn told? Suspicions about his first wife’s death? Or that his second wife, pretty and winsome, had entertained Sir Roger on more than one occasion when Molkyn was away?’
Ursula swayed slightly on her feet. She went across to a cupboard and, opening it, splashed wine into a goblet. She drank it greedily, the drops running down her chin.
‘I wonder who knew,’ Corbett said. ‘For the first time in Molkyn’s life, he was trapped. Motivated by fear and the lust for vengeance, he hammered the nails into Sir Roger’s coffin, he and Thorkle.’
Ursula sat down and clutched the table.
‘It’s a pity Lucy isn’t here.’ Corbett rose and slammed the door shut. ‘She has a lot to hide as well, doesn’t she? Molkyn was told other secrets. How Lucy lusted after young Ralph, Molkyn’s son. Thorkle was more pliant. No man likes to be proclaimed a cuckold. Molkyn wanted Sir Roger’s death and he had been given information about Thorkle. I can imagine it happening. Do what I say, Molkyn would bully Thorkle, or they’ll be planting cuckold horns on you for as long as you live. I don’t think Thorkle would need much persuasion. He, like Molkyn and the rest, had no love for Sir Roger.’
‘You have no proof.’ Ursula tried to reassert herself.
‘Yes he does, Mother.’
Margaret, in a nightshift, a cloak about her, sandals in her hands, had crept quietly down the stairs to stand in the shadows. She came forward and crouched by the fire, stretching out her hands.
‘You are well, master clerk?’
She looked over her shoulder, her pale face lit by a smile. Her beauty looked fragile in the morning light, blonde hair cascading down to her shoulders.
‘When you first came here I thought you’d be back. The King’s crow, ready to pick at the rottenness in our lives. Oh yes, that’s what they call you,’ she smiled. ‘The King’s crow: dark-eyed and sharp-beaked, eh?’
She got to her feet and sat on the bench between Corbett and her mother.
‘Our Father who art in Heaven,’ she intoned. ‘Do you know what my idea of a father is?’ Margaret’s blue eyes filled with tears, lips quivered but she controlled herself. ‘What was your father like, Corbett? Did he come to tuck you into bed at night? My father joined me in mine. Molkyn with his big, burly body and heavy hands.’
‘And you confessed this?’ Corbett asked. He hid his own sorrow at the hurt in this young woman’s face.
‘I felt dirty. When Molkyn married Ursula I told her. Who else could I confide in?’
‘And I protected you,’ Ursula retorted. ‘Whenever I could, I sent Margaret hither and thither. Widow Walmer helped. I think she suspected.’
‘I liked it there,’ Margaret continued dreamily. ‘She was very pretty. I think she was in love with Sir Roger and he with her.’
‘So you think he was innocent?’
‘I do.’
‘And did you tell your father that?’
‘I never spoke to my father. We were strangers. When someone cut his head off, I was glad that this terrible stranger was dead.’
‘Widow Walmer — ’ Corbett tried to ease the tension — ‘who do you think killed her?’
‘The day she died,’ Margaret replied, ‘she sent me a message not to come that night. I half suspected the reason why. I also knew about Sir Roger’s gift to her. After she was killed, I just thought Melford was a wicked place where people commit mortal sins.’
Corbett studied the girl closely. He wondered if the terrible abuse had slightly unhinged her wits, turned her mind.
‘Molkyn’s dead,’ he murmured. ‘He’ll answer to God for his crimes. Whom did you tell?’
‘I nearly told the priest, the young one, the one who died last night.’ She shook her head. ‘But who would believe me?’
‘I did,’ Ursula declared.
Corbett placed his elbows on the table. ‘And?’
‘I let you speculate, clerk, on my relationship with Molkyn: a drunk, a beater, an oaf, a man who abused his own daughter. Sometimes I felt as if I wanted to be sick in his face.’
‘That’s why you refused to go across to the mill on Saturdays?’
‘Of course! Let Molkyn drink, let him sleep like a hog. Do you know something, clerk, sometimes I considered killing him myself and setting the whole place alight. I used to pray that one evening he would stagger out and fall in the mere.’
‘And whom did you tell? Did you ever accuse Molkyn openly?’
‘I hinted at it.’
‘You confessed, didn’t you?’ Corbett murmured. ‘You found all these burdens too heavy: your marriage with Molkyn, Margaret’s abuse, Lucy and Ralph?’
She nodded. ‘Six years ago, on Ash Wednesday, I went to the shriving pew.’
‘With Curate Robert?’
‘No, no, he was too young. He was frightened of me,’ she added with a half-laugh. ‘There was a visiting friar but he wasn’t there so I sat in church crying. Parson Grimstone came in. I told him everything: my marriage, Margaret, Molkyn, Ralph and Lucy.’
‘And would he tell anyone else?’
‘How could he? He was under the seal of confession.’
‘Did Molkyn ever accuse you of telling anyone else?’
‘No.’ She placed her hands on the table. ‘But sometimes I’d catch that murderous look in his eyes. He’d sit where you are, glaring down at me. It was a matter we never talked about and I never went back to Parson Grimstone.’
‘And the night Molkyn died?’
‘We’ve told you the truth,’ Ursula replied. ‘We were happy. Molkyn went over to the mill, finished his work and settled down like the pig he was to drench his belly in ale. Someone came in, took his head and placed it on a tray which was sent floating across the mere. I am glad he has gone. So is Margaret.’
‘And have you,’ Corbett turned back to where the girl sat listlessly, ‘ever discussed your secret, Margaret?’
‘Never!’ Her head snapped back, eyes blazing with anger. ‘Do you know something, master clerk, I feel as if I’ve come back from the tomb. Molkyn’s rotting in his grave. I want to meet a good man and marry. I don’t want my shame proclaimed throughout Melford.’
Corbett got to his feet. ‘In which case I shall not trouble you again.’
He walked round, crouched beside the bench and took Margaret’s fingers in his. ‘Your hands are cold,’ he said softly. ‘Rest assured, your secret’s safe with me. Parson Grimstone will be leaving: God’s justice is going to be done and so is the King’s.’
He let her hands go, got to his feet, kissed her on the top of the head and went out into the yard.
‘Where’s Ralph?’
‘Locked himself in the mill,’ Ranulf smiled. ‘Said he had better things to do than argue with busybody clerks.’
‘And we are busybody,’ Corbett smiled.
They mounted their horses and went back along the trackway. Corbett was about to round the bend when a figure stepped out of a thicket so swiftly, Corbett’s horse shied. Corbett talked to it quickly, patting its neck.
‘I am sorry. I am sorry. .’ Sorrel pulled back her hood. A crude bandage covered the gash on her neck.
‘You’ve been hunting?’ Corbett asked, pointing to the sack she carried.
‘Rabbit snares.’ Her weather-beaten face creased in concern. ‘Another murder, clerk? Curate Robert? They say he’s hanged himself. Did he kill my poor Furrell?’
‘No, I don’t think he did. Tell me, Sorrel,’ Corbett grasped the reins and leant down, ‘couldn’t Furrell’s corpse have been hidden in a mire or swamp? I meant to ask you this yesterday.’
‘Spoken like a townsman,’ Sorrel retorted. ‘The swamps and marshes round here aren’t all that deep. And what goes down eventually comes back. Why?’ she asked. ‘Do you know where he’s buried?’
‘Yes, yes, I do. I know the exact place.’
‘Where?’ Sorrel dropped the sack and grasped the reins, her other hand clawing at Corbett’s knee.
Corbett smoothed the hair away from her face.
‘Trust me,’ he whispered. ‘Let me play this game out. Until then, stay in Melford!’