The Midnight Man (23 page)

Beauchamp, Anselm and a slightly nervous Stephen left the chamber and went down to wait in the courtyard. ‘Magister,' Stephen pleaded, ‘where have you been, what have you been doing?' He glanced swiftly at the royal clerk. ‘You are coughing blood. You should not be involved in this.'

‘Brother Anselm.' Beauchamp grabbed the exorcist's arm. ‘What is this spitting blood? Have you been poisoned?'

‘No, no.' The exorcist smiled, exerting all his charm and beckoning them away from the door of the priest's house. ‘I have been studying here and there and my cough is as old as I am. Now, Stephen, do not fret or worry.' He rubbed the side of the novice's face. ‘Be at peace,' he urged. ‘Think of God's goodness and,' he teased, ‘Alice's smile. You have enjoyed yourself. No,' Anselm wagged a finger, ‘I will not talk about myself. Let us talk more about poor Simon.'

‘We discovered nothing,' Beauchamp declared. ‘Nothing at all.'

‘Except this.' Anselm twisted a piece of parchment, small and greasy with age between his fingers. ‘A mere scrap.' He handed this to Beauchamp, who simply pulled a face and passed it to Stephen. The novice read the scrawl repeated time and again in dog Latin, Norman French and English. The message was simple and stark: ‘Now Lucifer was the friend of Saint Michael.' As the Angelus bell abruptly tolled, Stephen thought about the arbour and sitting next to Alice.

‘Stephen?'

‘Er, nothing, Magister.' He handed the strip of parchment back to Anselm. ‘I don't know what that means. Look, the others will be waiting.'

They all, Parson Smollat included, eventually gathered in Sir William's elegant chancery chamber. The perfume of the quilted leather chairs and stools mingled with the fragrance from the flower pots, chafing dishes and braziers. Stephen wondered how such exquisite beauty could exist alongside the horrors they had just witnessed. ‘Well,' Sir William asked, lacing his podgy fingers together, ‘we really must close the church now. Yes, Parson Smollat?'

The priest gulped noisily but nodded in agreement.

‘What happened?' Anselm demanded.

‘From the little we know,' Sir William replied, ‘Simon went into the church. He entered by the corpse door. Once inside he pulled across the bolts and locked the door. He must have taken the key with him.'

‘And this has not been found?' Anselm intervened.

‘Yes,' Sir William agreed. ‘Apparently it wasn't on his corpse.'

‘I searched the church with Almaric when you took poor Simon's corpse back to his chambers.' Gascelyn spoke up. ‘Brother Anselm, that key has disappeared.'

‘So,' the exorcist demanded, ‘how did the sexton die?'

‘We've discussed that,' Sir William replied. ‘Brother Anselm, it is a mystery except for one conclusion.'

‘Which is?'

‘The sacristy door was locked and bolted – you saw that. So it would seem that Simon entered by the corpse door, drew those bolts, locked it and threw away the key or hid it somewhere. He then went into that darkened transept, pulled his dagger and cut his own throat.'

‘Impossible.'

‘What other solution is there?' Almaric sniffed. ‘Go back, examine the corpse door. The bolts were drawn. If you draw them back, the door remains locked because the key is missing. Simon must have killed himself, or was forced to, or some secret assassin entered that church. But how? There are no tunnels or secret passageways. Some demon, surely, Brother?' Almaric grew more loquacious and Stephen suspected that the curate had drunk deeply from the goblet of claret in front of him. ‘Surely,' he repeated, ‘a man can be so terrified by demons, by the horrors which lurk behind the veil as to take his own life?'

‘I would agree,' the exorcist conceded, ‘and you all think that?' He stared around the polished walnut table, slightly dusty from the great bowl of lilies in the centre, their yellow seeds now peppering the polished top. Everyone nodded in agreement. Beauchamp looked rather askance, even sullen as he mulled over his own dark thoughts. The royal clerk caught Stephen's glance and stared coolly back. The novice wondered if Cutwolf had told him everything, including Stephen's own suspicions about this mysterious and enigmatic clerk.

‘In which case,' Anselm tapped the table top, ‘Saint Michael should be placed under interdict until it is cleansed and purified.'

‘Or pulled down?' Sir William declared. ‘I have petitioned both the Crown and the Archbishop. The entire church should be razed to the ground.'

‘In the meantime,' Parson Smollat asked, ‘what do I do?' The priest looked agitated, his balding brow laced with sweat.

‘It is not the end of the world, parson,' Sir William said kindly. ‘You can look forward to a new church.'

‘If the King and the Archbishop should agree.' Beauchamp asserted himself, resting his arms on the table. ‘But for the moment,' he emphasized his points on his fingers, ‘we do not know who the Midnight Man is or his coven. We do not know how he learned about the lost treasure or the robber Puddlicot, yet he has. He has used, to little or no effect, the black arts to learn more. He performed those rites at Westminster and at Saint Michael's, Candlewick. We know he failed but not how or why this ended in failure, causing such a fierce stir amongst the living dead. Hence the hauntings, the demon infestation of Saint Michael's and the abbey. Somehow or other,' Beauchamp paused, ‘I believe the Midnight Man discovered two items of the lost treasure. Rishanger seized these, attempted to flee and was murdered.' The royal clerk carefully rubbed his hands together. Stephen sensed something false, as if Beauchamp was not revealing his true thoughts. ‘Now, Rishanger was undoubtedly a member of the warlocks coven,' the royal clerk continued. ‘He may even be the Midnight Man himself, for that sinister figure has fallen remarkably silent. Rishanger was certainly a blood-drinker. He abducted and murdered young women, then buried them in that dire garden of his. Beatrice, Rishanger's leman, was also murdered, her corpse abused by Rishanger or others – we do not know the truth. Finally, were Rishanger's other victims the object of his murderous lust or were they used in his diabolic rites?' Beauchamp shrugged. ‘Again, we do not know.'

‘Then there are the other mysterious deaths,' Anselm declared. ‘How did Bardolph fall from the top of that church tower? And Simon, his throat cut, locked in a church? Adele, poisoned by a mysterious visitor? Who this was or why they should murder her is, again, a mystery.'

‘Why can't you free us from all of this?' Parson Smollat almost shouted. ‘You are the exorcist. Anselm. You failed and then you disappeared.'

‘Yes, I failed. I did so because I have failed to dig out the root of all this, a malignant human wickedness. Yes, I did disappear but I have been very, very busy. I have searched the records. I have also travelled to the great Abbey of Glastonbury in Somerset.' His words created an immediate silence.

‘Now it comes!' a voice hissed into Stephen's ear. ‘Now the wheel spins yet again.' Stephen glanced over to the corner where a figure sat, a blood-red translucent veil covering its head, face and body. Stephen's heart skipped a beat. He watched those red-mittened hands: the ends of the fingers were like long white worms, the nails painted a deep blue. Stephen murmured a prayer. The hands were moving. Stephen panicked. They must, he prayed, not pull up that veil and reveal the sinister face beneath – a witch's face! Stephen abruptly pushed back his stool.

‘Glastonbury,' Sir William spluttered. ‘Why there?'

Stephen rocked backwards and forwards on the stool. He glanced over again: the corner was empty but a drum, deep in the house, began to beat, followed by the faint trails of a trumpet blast. ‘
A l'outrance!
' a voice cackled. ‘
Usque ad mortem
– to the death, so the tournament begins.' Stephen felt a blast of heat, as if an oven door had been thrown open and he had been thrust before it.

‘Stephen,' Beauchamp gestured at the wine dresser, ‘do you want something to drink?'

‘No.' The novice rubbed his clammy hands along his jerkin. ‘No, I am sorry, I was daydreaming.'

‘As was I,' Anselm added quickly. He had noticed his novice's discomfort and was eager to distract attention. ‘Sir William, you asked about Glastonbury? Well, I also searched the records in the Tower, studying every item of treasure stolen from the crypt. Now, as you know, during the reign of Edward I, the present King's grandfather, the monks of Glastonbury allegedly opened Arthur's tomb in their abbey. Arthur's body, a veritable giant, was discovered along with his flaxen-haired Guinevere. However, according to the abbey chronicle and local legend, they also found Merlin's Stone and other magical items belonging to that great magus.'

‘What,' Beauchamp asked abruptly, ‘is Merlin's Stone?'

‘The philosopher's stone,' Anselm replied. ‘The means to perform alchemy, to transmute base metals into gold.'

‘Rishanger believed in that nonsense,' Sir William barked. ‘I told you the murderer came here, begging me for money to achieve that, do you remember?'

‘I certainly do,' Anselm agreed. ‘Anyway, I travelled down to Glastonbury; the almoner of that great abbey is a friend of mine. He showed me Arthur's grave and in the library chronicle, a most fascinating account of the discovery.'

‘I have never been there,' Sir William intervened. ‘I would love to.'

‘Yes, yes, you must go. Anyway, Edward the King took the stone and the other magical items and kept them amongst his trophies.'

‘Was Puddlicot a warlock?' Parson Smollat asked.

‘No evidence exists for that.'

‘This business . . .' Beauchamp was eager to bring attention back to the matters in hand.

‘Ah, yes, this business.' Anselm paused. ‘I thought, prayed, reflected and speculated.' The exorcist rubbed his hands together slowly. ‘Undoubtedly the Midnight Man and his coven were blood-drinkers. Rishanger certainly was. They used that desolate house and that infernal pit in its dismal, isolated garden to entice young women and subject them to every kind of abuse. No wonder the place was haunted. However, the cemetery at Saint Michael's, Candlewick is different.'

‘Yet undoubtedly haunted?' Parson Smollat interjected.

‘Of course, but why?' Anselm added hastily. ‘Rishanger could carry out his gruesome rites in his own dark temple. However, would young women willingly go into a cemetery? Even if they weren't enticed but abducted, they could resist, protest – eventually such a crime would be noticed. I mean, God knows who used to wander that place – beggars, lovers, the curious?'

‘I agree,' Parson Smollat slurred, ‘and yet it is haunted.'

‘When I first thought some innocents had been taken there and murdered, I did wonder if they had been killed and buried in graves already dug.'

‘But that means, Brother Anselm,' Sir William declared, ‘you suspected Bardolph, even Parson Smollat?'

‘No, no,' Anselm retorted. ‘Remember, I asked about burials there. A grave is invariably dug the day before the requiem Mass, yes?'

‘Correct,' Parson Smollat agreed.

‘Accordingly, I wondered if the assassin would use such occasions to kill and, under the cloak of darkness, bury his victim in a grave already dug, then cover her with soil. The funeral takes place. The coffin or shroud cloth is lowered. The grave is filled in and no one is any the wiser!' Anselm straightened up. ‘I was mistaken. However, I still believe that corpses, horribly murdered, lie somewhere else.' Anselm gathered together his writing satchel. ‘As for poor Simon's death – and I rightly call him poor Simon – believe me, my friends, a fiend did that, though not from hell but from Dowgate.' Smiling grimly at his companions, Anselm rose, made his farewells, then left with Stephen.

Once outside the house the exorcist made his way back towards St Michael's. The day was quiet. A Franciscan stood on a plinth, begging alms for a group of lepers clustered a short distance away, their faces and hands swathed in bandages. Only their eyes, frenetic and desperate, peered out at a world that had forsaken them. Stephen ran up and told the friar to take his little flock to The Unicorn, where Master Robert would undoubtedly see them well. The Franciscan hopped down as nimble as a cricket, kissed Stephen on the cheeks and shouted at his charges to follow. He led them off singing the ‘
Salve Regina
' while the lepers followed at a distance, shaking their rattles and bells. Children, playing with an inflated pig's bladder, scattered at their approach. Women shouted from the windows of houses, begging their little ones to be careful. A false trader came racing up the lane, breathless and sweaty, as he dodged and twisted in a desperate attempt to escape pursuing market beadles. No sooner were they gone than a relic seller stepped out from an apothecary's shop, a tray slung around his neck, offering miniature portions of soap. Each was wrapped in a linen cloth which, he proclaimed, Joseph of Arimathea had used for the Lord's body on the first Good Friday. Stephen stood and watched these sights, aware of the different smells from the various shops and stalls. He glimpsed a necklace of gleaming copper being hawked by a tinker and immediately wondered if Alice would like it. He was about to walk across the lane when a cold breeze wafted against his face. A voice whispered something about the devil's wolf, hungry for the hunt. Stephen whirled around. A sense of pressing danger agitated him. Were those two beggars at the mouth of the runnel watching him? Or the man, heavily cloaked, who now stood just beneath the sign of the apothecary shop? Was he masked? Was his hand resting on a dagger hilt? The people milling around did not seem so welcoming now. Glittering eyes peered from deep hoods. A bulbous-eyed servitor, apron stained with blood, hastened by then paused to stare slyly at Stephen. Above him a window casement flew open and a man leaned out. Stephen thought he was holding a crossbow, yet when he looked again the casement slammed shut. A fierce whispering broke around him, like the humming of a noisome cloud of flies. Stephen felt the terrors seize him. He was not safe here. He broke free of his panic and hurried after Anselm, finding the exorcist standing at the lychgate to St Michael's. Stephen paused and took a deep breath.