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Authors: P. C. Doherty

BOOK: HAUNT OF MURDER, A
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She wandered out into the street. A man in tattered garments came running up; his face was pinched and leering, his neck strangely twisted. He clacked a dish and jabbered at her. Beatrice, growing accustomed to this world of spectres, ignored him and turned away.
‘Beatrice! Beatrice Arrowner!’
The young woman standing near the horse trough was a vision of beauty. Golden hair hanging loose down to her shoulders framed an ivory face perfectly formed, red lips, laughing green eyes slightly slanted at the corners. She was dressed in a beautiful gown of blue and gold, with silver-toed and silver-heeled boots on her feet. A golden bracelet with silver hearts hung from one wrist, and round her neck a filigree chain held a gold disc with a red ruby in the centre.
‘You are sad?’ The young woman’s voice was soft and musical.
‘What is your name?’ Beatrice snapped.
‘Why, Clothilde. Do you like your new world, Beatrice?’
‘No, no, I don’t!’
‘And your murder?’
‘How do you know?’ Beatrice demanded. ‘How do you know about my death?’
‘I saw you fall,’ Clothilde replied, taking Beatrice’s hand.
‘I saw you fall like a star from Heaven. You know you did not slip?’ She gently caressed the side of Beatrice’s head. ‘That terrible blow sent you spinning out of life.’
‘Please don’t play games with me!’
Clothilde drew even closer and Beatrice marvelled at the perfume this unexpected visitor wore. ‘Don’t be such a child, Beatrice. Think coolly, reflect. Why should someone want to kill young Mistress Arrowner? What enemies did you have?’
‘I had none.’ Beatrice looked up at the sky. It was empty now of the shifting forms and shapes. ‘I had none,’ she repeated. ‘I cared for all my friends. I rarely had harsh words.’
‘So what did you have that someone else wanted?’ Clothilde asked.
‘Why, nothing,’ Beatrice replied. ‘My aunt and uncle have no riches. I had no treasure – that’s what people kill for, isn’t it?’
Clothilde laughed. ‘You mentioned the word treasure. You had Ralph.’
‘But I had no rivals, or none that I know of,’ she added in alarm.
‘No, no, don’t vex yourself,’ Clothilde reassured her. ‘But what was Ralph searching for?’
Beatrice stared into those light-green eyes. ‘I met a young man,’ she replied slowly. ‘Do you know him? Crispin?’
Clothilde nodded.
‘He said the same, that I was not supposed to die.’
‘Think!’ Clothilde’s voice was low and urgent. ‘Remember, Beatrice. You went up on to the parapet walk. You were looking for Ralph. Remember how dark it was. Someone was waiting for you in that shadowy tower.’
‘But I was wearing a gown,’ Beatrice protested.
‘And Ralph was wearing a cloak,’ Clothilde pointed out. ‘All the assassin saw was a dark shape, clothes fluttering in the breeze, footsteps along the stone walk.’
‘Oh no! They thought I was Ralph!’ Beatrice gasped. ‘They
killed me because they thought I was Ralph. That means they will kill again. I must get back!’
‘No, no.’ Clothilde held her hands. ‘Two deaths in one night, Beatrice, will provoke suspicion.’
‘It’s Brythnoth’s treasure, isn’t it? Ralph said he was close to discovering its whereabouts. Whoever killed me wanted to silence him. What can I do?’ If Clothilde hadn’t held her fast with a force which kept her rooted to the spot, Beatrice would have fled back to Ravenscroft.
‘Hush now!’ the rich, low voice soothed. ‘Don’t fret yourself, Mistress Arrowner. Perhaps I can help you.’
Beatrice stared at Clothilde. She had never seen such beauty, except in a painted Book of Hours Father Aylred had shown her.
‘Who are you? What are you?’ she asked. ‘Where do you come from? Why do you want to help me?’
‘Because we are alone, Beatrice, lost on the other side of death. Don’t you want justice, vengeance on your killer?’
‘What does it all mean?’ Beatrice demanded. ‘I see silver discs and golden spheres of light.’ She stared across the street. Goodman Winthrop’s corpse still lay sprawled at the mouth of the alleyway. ‘Horrid shapes like knights in armour but with no faces, only eyes which glow in the darkness. Sometimes these shapes see me, sometimes they’re just like wisps of smoke.’
‘In time all will be made clear,’ Clothilde replied reassuringly. ‘I have lived in this world for many a year. I know it well. I can explain it. Once, many, many years ago, I was like you.’
‘And what happened?’ Beatrice asked.
‘Never mind.’ Clothilde laughed, shook her head and smoothed the golden hair away from her face. ‘Killed like you, I was. Sent out into the darkness before my time. But I exacted vengeance.’
‘How?’ Beatrice demanded. ‘We are cut off from the living by a thick, glass-like wall. They cannot see, hear or touch us, nor can we them.’
‘There is a way,’ came the reply. ‘In time.’
‘You play with me.’
‘No, I don’t, Beatrice. You remember Father Aylred’s stories about the terrible cries from Midnight Tower? This glass wall can be penetrated but, as in life, it takes time and skill.’
‘If you know so much then say who killed me.’
‘I would if I could, Beatrice. But look around you. We are no different from the living. We cannot be in all places at all times.’
‘And the treasure? Brythnoth’s cross? Is it a fable?’
‘In time that, too, can be found. Now, come with me, Beatrice.’
Beatrice hung back warily. Clothilde’s beautiful face seemed a little more pointed, the even white teeth reminded her of a cat, and those green eyes were very watchful.
‘Where is Goodman Winthrop?’ she asked.
‘Why, Beatrice, with the demons. After death the true self manifests itself. As in life so in death. But come, I wish to show you something. Questions later.’ Clothide grasped Beatrice by the hand.
They moved quickly along the high street out into the country lanes. The strange bronze light was all around them. It was night yet they could see where they went. They walked but they seemed to travel faster as if borne by swift horses. Beatrice felt the ground beneath her slip away. She would stop and stare at places she recognised: a turnstile, a gate, the brow of some hill. Each had memories from her previous life. Her companion had fallen silent. Now and again she’d whisper to herself in a language Beatrice couldn’t understand. The houses and farms fell away and they entered that desolate part of Essex which ran down to the estuary of the Blackwater, a bleak place even on a summer’s day. Now it seemed like the heathland of Hell. Beatrice paused as they climbed the hill overlooking the water. In a small copse she glimpsed a movement. She let go of her companion’s hand and went across. A beggar man, one
she had seen at the Golden Tabard days earlier, was crouched beneath the bush. A piece of threadbare sacking covered his shoulders and his seamed face was dirty and coated in sweat.
‘He’s ill,’ Beatrice declared. ‘He has the same fever as Elizabeth Lockyer. Can’t we help?’
Clothilde glanced up at the sky. ‘Daylight will soon break.’
‘So, the stories are true,’ said Beatrice. ‘Ghosts can only walk at night!’
Clothilde laughed deep in her throat. ‘Children’s tales! But the shapes I wish to show you will disappear.’
Beatrice ignored her. She peered at the beggar man and stretched out a hand to stroke his face. There was no response.
‘He is dying.’ Clothilde’s voice was harsh. ‘There is nothing we can do. Each man’s fate is a line of thread which is played out to the end.’
Beatrice was full of pity. The beggar man was old, with balding pate, unkempt beard and moustache. He must have crawled out here like a dog to die.
‘Life is harsh,’ Clothilde murmured.
‘So is death,’ Beatrice retorted. ‘I will not leave him. His end must be near.’ She ignored the hiss of annoyance from her companion.
Beatrice remembered the words of the Requiem and recited them. A short while passed and the beggar man’s shaking ceased. There was no death rattle, just a sigh and he lay still. Beatrice waited to see what would happen. The same manifestation occurred. The beggar man’s shade stood beside the corpse. The old man looked up at the sky, hands beseeching in death as they did in life. No golden spheres appeared, nor those black, cavernous shapes. Instead, figures dressed like monks, hoods and cowls obscuring their faces, clustered round the deceased. They were urging him to accompany them. He was reluctant, arguing back. One of the figures passed a hand over his face as if showing him something; the beggar man fell silent and, with a figure on either side, he walked away and disappeared, leaving his dirty corpse on the heathland.
Beatrice looked at Clothilde who was standing behind her staring out towards the river, and just for a moment she thought Clothilde was Crispin. She grew frightened.
‘What is happening?’ she asked.
‘If you want my help,’ Clothilde replied, ‘hurry now!’ And, grasping Beatrice’s hand, she led her to the brow of the hill.
The mud flats of the Blackwater estuary stretched below Beatrice. She had been here before with Aunt Catherine to cut rushes, search for herbs, even catch fish. It was a desolate place where the gulls and cormorants wheeled and whined and a biting wind always seemed to blow. Now it was changed. The estuary was a battlefield. Men were hacking and cutting at each other. In the river beyond, Beatrice could see long, rakish ships, their prows carved as dragons, griffins and wolves, their sails furled. A hostile army had landed. The invaders wore steel conical helmets whose broad nose guards hid most of their faces. In the early dawn light Beatrice could see their standards; one showed a red, snarling dragon, another a huge black raven with yellow beak and talons. The men they fought were grouped round a great standard depicting a fighting man against a green and gold background. Beside this standard, crosses lashed to lances were held high in the air.
Beatrice was no soldier but she could see that the defenders were hard pressed. They were retreating inland, leaving the dead piled two or three high. The sand was red with blood and the air loud with the crash of steel against wood, cries, groans, shouted orders.
‘Look.’ Clothilde pointed with her finger. ‘That warrior beside the Fighting Man standard is Earl Brythnoth.’
Beatrice stared fascinated at the tall, blond-haired giant surrounded by his house carls in their chain-mail byrnies. Some wore helmets, others were bareheaded. Brythnoth was
gesturing with his arm, shouting orders, urging the shield wall to hold fast.
‘But this happened many years ago,’ Beatrice said.
‘A shade of the past,’ Clothilde replied. ‘Now, look what is about to happen. Watch Brythnoth carefully.’
The giant earl stepped back as if he wished to distance himself from the fighting. He was talking quickly to a young man kneeling beside him. As Beatrice watched, Brythnoth took something from round his neck; the gold glinted in the light. He thrust it into the young man’s hand.
‘Brythnoth is giving Cerdic the holy cross,’ Beatrice whispered. She clasped her hands, for a few seconds forgetting her own situation. If only Ralph was here. If he could only see what she was witnessing.
‘Watch!’ Clothilde plucked at her.
The young man, shield slung behind him, sword in hand, was now leaving the battlefield, climbing the hill towards them. Round his neck hung the beautiful cross. He came straight towards them, ignorant of their presence. He reminded Beatrice of Ralph with his pale face, generous mouth, large staring eyes. He was obviously exhausted. His chain mail was covered in blood and gore, cuts and scratches scored his face and hands.
He stopped on the brow of the hill and looked back, lips moving worldlessly. Beatrice stared at the cross. It was exquisitely carved with strange emblems and motifs and in the centre, above the gold crosspiece, a blood-red ruby glowed like a living flame. Cerdic took one last look at the fighting and ran down the hill towards the trackway into Maldon.
‘Come, Beatrice,’ said Clothilde, ‘let’s follow him.’
They hastened in pursuit, keeping the spectre of the long dead soldier in view.
‘Has this happened before?’ Beatrice asked.
‘Of course!’ Clothilde replied.
‘Then you must know where he hides it.’
Clothilde shook her head. ‘You will see. You will see.’
At last they reached Ravenscroft Castle. It looked so familiar, so ordinary. But Cerdic was running on as if the castle didn’t exist. He crossed the moat and disappeared into the barbican. They followed and found the castle bailey deserted apart from a sleepy-eyed pot boy who was letting the dogs out, and his sister, the goose girl, who was summoning her charges to take them on to the green. Beatrice forgot about the treasure and felt a deep sadness for the familiar scene.
‘You must remember, Beatrice,’ said Clothilde, ‘that what you have seen are the shapes and shades of former things. Cerdic left the battlefield and came to Ravenscroft. However, on the day he died, no castle stood here, only a brook which is now the moat, and a wooden palisade where Brythnoth camped before marching against the invaders.’ She shrugged. ‘Cerdic’s ghost comes here with the cross then disappears. So now you know, the treasure really exists. It lies somewhere near and Ralph could find it.’
The door to the keep flew open and Father Aylred came out. A silver and gold cloak hung from his shoulders and in his hands, covered by a white linen cloth, was the ciborium holding the Host. A boy from the castle carried a lighted candle before him.
‘It’s Father Aylred!’ Beatrice exclaimed. ‘He must be taking the viaticum to a member of the garrison who is sick. Father Aylred!’ she called but the priest walked on.
‘I must go.’ Clothilde’s voice was now a deep rasp. ‘I cannot stay here!’
Beatrice looked round but her companion had disappeared. Beatrice walked to the Lion Tower. Perhaps she should go up and see Ralph.
‘Christ be with you, Mistress Arrowner.’
The young man she had seen earlier in the night, with his fresh, cheerful face and spiky hair, was standing on the cobbles behind her.
‘Tarry awhile.’ He held his hands out.
‘Why should I?’ Beatrice noticed a silver disc hovering between her and the young man, then it disappeared.
He walked towards her. In the early morning light she could see that his face was a weather-beaten ruddy brown and his eyes were light blue. He was now dressed in a leather, sleeveless jerkin over a white cambric shirt, leggings of brown wool pushed into soft leather boots, a black belt round his slim waist. He drew closer. She noticed how fine his teeth were, how clean and neat he was.
‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Why do you keep warning me to be careful?’
‘My name is Brother Antony.’
Beatrice smiled. ‘That’s the name of my favourite saint, Antony of Padua, the Franciscan. Aunt Catherine has a small statue of him.’
Brother Antony laughed. ‘Would you like to walk with me?’
‘But who are you? Another relic of this castle?’
Antony’s face grew grave. ‘It doesn’t matter who I am. What is really important, Beatrice, is who are you? It is important to realise that Ralph is still in great danger and so are you.’
‘But I am dead,’ she laughed. ‘I am beyond all pain and hurt.’
‘Death is not an end,’ Antony replied gravely. ‘It marks a new beginning. I have let you wander, now I must speak to you. I mean you well. I swear that on the wounds of Christ. Afterwards, it is up to you whether you heed my advice or not.’
‘Do you know who murdered me?’
Antony shook his head. ‘Only God knows that.’
‘Then why doesn’t God intervene?’
‘But God does, Beatrice. That’s why I’m here.’
‘How do I know that?’ she snapped, and as she spoke the castle yard changed again. Great gibbet posts rose up from the cobbles. They were about five yards high with three branches and from each bodies jerked and spluttered in their death spasms. The cruel knight was there again, seated on his black
war horse, watching. Women carrying children screamed and begged for mercy but the knight and his henchmen mocked them. The victims were hustled up the ladders, nooses placed round their necks, the ladders turned and more bodies danced in the air.
‘Come away! Come away!’ Antony was beside her. He smelt of sweet grass and herbs.
‘What is all this?’ Beatrice whispered.
But Antony was leading her away, talking soothingly to her. Soon they were out of the castle, walking towards Devil’s Spinney. Halfway there he stopped and sat down on the grass, gesturing at Beatrice to join him. He grasped her hands as Ralph would, rubbing them between his, watching her intently.
‘I do not know who killed you, Beatrice. The assassin really intended to slay Ralph your beloved. I know that. You are truly dead, Beatrice Arrowner. There is no going back. No return to the life you have left.’
‘And is this Heaven or Hell?’ Beatrice asked bravely.
‘This is no place, Beatrice.’ He paused. ‘It’s like dusk, caught between night and day. Death is a journey, one that takes all eternity. If you die with your face towards God, you journey towards God and He is eternal.’
‘A journey?’ Beatrice queried.
Antony nodded. ‘An eternal journey, but you have not yet begun on it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you don’t want to leave.’
‘What do you mean?’ Beatrice asked.
He held out his hands, fingers splayed. ‘You have intellect, love and will. The first can propose, the second can be your aim – or not, depending on yourself. The third, however, is most important. It is what determines your actions. Your will is what keeps you here. You have decided not to travel on. You have unfinished business.’
‘But what about Goodman Winthrop? He was collected by those terrors.’
‘He made his choice.’
‘Will he travel towards God?’
‘God will always call him, but if Goodman Winthrop lives his death like he lived his life, he will for all eternity refuse to hear the call and travel away from God, into his own self, his own love of wickedness. That’s why he was taken by the demons. They did not come from Hell, Beatrice, they came from within himself.’
‘And the poor beggar man?’
‘Ah.’ Antony smiled. ‘The Church teaches of Heaven and Hell and I have described both to you. The Church also teaches Purgatory where the soul is undecided. No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘I put that wrongly, the soul is not yet prepared for the journey.’
‘But that’s like me.’
‘No, your soul is ready but your will wants to delay because you have unfinished business which, I suspect, is connected with Master Ralph. That poor beggar man was collected by the wraiths of his mind and will, the sins and impurities he accummulated during life, for he was a beggar man by choice rather than by misfortune.’
‘And Elizabeth Lockyer?’
‘Ah. She was visited by the seraphims, beings of light. Elizabeth lived a good life, she died with her face towards God and God smiled on her. She wished to travel on and all the good she did in life has taken her forward.’
‘Seraphims? Wraiths? Demons? What about those others? Malkyn the torturer, Lady Johanna de Mandeville, the poor unfortunate who haunts the crossroads?’
‘They do not wish to travel on,’ Antony explained. ‘They are still locked in the pain and misery of their lives. Lady Johanna died a miserable death. God wishes to comfort her but she will not respond. Etheldreda, the young woman at the crossroads, is the same. She’s no sinner, just an unfortunate young woman who died when her wits were turned.’
‘And Malkyn the torturer?’
‘A cruel man in life, Beatrice. He did repent before he died, he was shriven by a priest here in the castle, but he does not wish to purge himself. He will stay here until he does.’
‘And those shapes and shades, spectres and ghouls?’ Beatrice asked. ‘That terrible knight, those men being hanged in the courtyard? And the battle?’
‘They are different. They are nothing but shadows of former beings. They are like tapestries which show a scene from the past.’ He sensed Beatrice’s puzzlement. ‘Have you ever been into a room, Beatrice, after there has been feasting and revelry? It’s very quiet but if you stand and listen you can almost hear the laughter, the music, the dancing which occurred there.’
Beatrice nodded. ‘But what am I to do?’
‘Do you want to leave?’ Antony asked quietly.
‘I want to marry Ralph. I want justice for my death.’
‘But that’s impossible,’ Antony murmured.
Beatrice sprang to her feet. ‘The others didn’t say that!’
‘What others, Beatrice? Clothilde and Crispin?’
‘Yes.’ Beatrice sighed. ‘I am flouncing away in a temper but what good will that do? They did offer to help.’
‘And that’s why I’m here.’ Antony spoke sharply. ‘Of all the beings you’ve met, Beatrice, those two are the most dangerous!’
He spoke so vehemently, Beatrice sat down again. ‘Who are they?’
‘They are one and the same person,’ Antony replied. ‘Succubus and Incubus.’
‘What?’
‘They are the true devils,’ Antony warned.
‘But they were so beautiful, so helpful.’
‘Haven’t you heard the old phrase, Beatrice, “The Devil can appear as an angel of light”?’ He grasped her hands. ‘When Goodman Winthrop died, you saw demons, but they came from within. They were of his own making, his lusts, his avarice and desire for power.’
‘Did he kill that young girl?’ Beatrice asked. ‘Phoebe? Where is she and why can’t I see her spirit?’
Antony smiled. ‘Phoebe has gone on; her death cannot be laid at Goodman Winthrop’s door. In life, as in death, nothing is what it seems. Oh, listen to me, Beatrice! There is a difference between the demons we create and those devils, those fallen angels who constantly rage against the light, who would, if they could, scale the walls of Heaven and burn them to the ground.’

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