The Habit of Murder

Chapter 15

The two raging battles edged ever closer, and just as Bartholomew was bracing himself for the impact, there came the shrill bray of a trumpet, followed by the thundering beat of drums. Both were loud enough to rise above the screams and clash of weapons, and most participants broke off the engagement in alarm, looking around wildly for the source of the racket.

‘The Queen!’ gulped Ereswell. ‘She has come after all, and will fine us for breaking the King’s peace.’

A ripple of consternation went through the ranks of castle and town alike. However, it was not a royal procession that marched towards them in neat, military formation, but the Austins. Each wore a helmet and a breastplate painted with a bright white Crusader’s cross, and was armed with a sword or an axe. Their religious habits were kirtled around their knees.

Bartholomew looked for Langelee, and saw him in the middle of the platoon, similarly attired, but with Albon’s cloak wrapped around his body in lieu of a breastplate, black side out. It served to make him appear bigger and more powerful than ever, a Goliath compared to those around him.

‘By my mark … halt!’ bellowed Weste, who looked particularly warlike with his eyepatch. The column came to a neatly executed standstill. ‘Prepare arms!’

There was a businesslike clatter as weapons were brought into a position where they could be deployed. Then there was silence. The Austins stood like stone, a human wall bristling with sharp points, strategically placed to prevent the different skirmishes from uniting into one massive brawl.

‘We are warriors of Christ,’ declared Prior John in a ringing voice. ‘Ready to defend God’s peace against sinners who would break it.’

‘You are old men,’ someone sneered. ‘You cannot tell us what to do.’

The speaker was Nuport, his cronies at his heels. All were red-faced and unsteady on their feet, suggesting they were still under the influence of Anne’s wine – and they had to be very drunk, thought Bartholomew, or they would have had the sense to stay in the castle after Marishal had rescued them. There was a furious growl from the townsfolk when they were recognised, to which Nuport responded by brandishing his sword.

‘Anyone who raises a hand in violence will lose it,’ announced Prior John loudly. ‘After which I shall excommunicate him.’

‘Who cares about the Church?’ spat Nuport. ‘We are not afraid of you, John. We are squires, trained in the art of war and–’

Weste moved so fast that Nuport had no idea he was in trouble until he was seized by the scruff of the neck, neatly flipped head over heels, and deposited in a muddy puddle. The unruly squire spent the next few moments spitting dirt from his mouth and trying to rub it from his eyes. There was a collective gasp of astonishment, after which a few townsfolk began to laugh. So did one or two courtiers, although not quite so openly.

Feeling castle honour was at stake, Mull lurched forward, but there was a blur of flying habit and multicoloured hose, and the lad found himself flat on his face with John’s boot planted on his rump to keep him there.

‘Would anyone else like to try?’ the Prior asked, looking around archly. ‘You can see we are just old men, and who cares about the Church?’

There was absolute stillness from both sides, as no one dared move lest they were singled out for attention. All except for one person.

‘They broke sanctuary,’ Paycock screeched, stabbing an accusing finger at the squires. ‘They dragged Quintone out from under the altar and chopped off his ears.’

‘Is this true, Nuport?’ asked John, very coldly.

‘He taunted us,’ said Mull in a small, defensive voice when Nuport declined to respond. ‘He stole Nuport’s hat and waved it at us, laughing that there was nothing we could do about it. Then Anne shouted that such insolence was an insult to the castle, so …’

‘You are all excommunicated,’ pronounced Prior John, jabbing a finger at each of the shocked squires in turn. ‘Unless you come to me tomorrow with contrite hearts and beg me to reconsider. I urge you to think very carefully about what you do next.’

‘Yes, do,’ jeered Paycock gleefully. ‘And we shall be there to witness your humiliation.’

‘You are excommunicated, too,’ snapped John, rounding on him. He raised a warning hand as a stunned Paycock opened his mouth to object. ‘Say no more! You will only make matters worse for yourself.’

The bailiff gazed at him in dismay, but wisely elected to hold his tongue. There was some agitated muttering among the assembled masses, but it stopped when John’s gimlet eye turned towards the culprits. Again, there was silence.

‘Now, we shall all go to church,’ said John, once he was sure that everyone was suitably cowed, ‘where we will make our peace with God and each other. Anyone who wants to fight can stay out here – excommunicated and excluded from our Lord’s grace. And bear in mind that He can read minds, so I recommend you abandon any thoughts of crafty vengeance once you are inside.’

‘I am not going in there,’ declared Paycock defiantly. His cronies inched away from him, lest it should be assumed that he spoke for them as well. ‘Not to hear the castle chaplain preach.’

‘You cannot go in,’ said Ereswell. ‘Not now you are excommunicated. You are not allowed.’

‘He may join us,’ countered John graciously. ‘But the castle chaplain will not perform the ceremony, and nor will the parish priest. I shall do it. Does anyone object?’

No one did.

Despite the church’s impressive size, it was still a crush to fit everyone inside, especially as no one wanted to use the south aisle. The Austins managed to persuade a few folk from the outlying villages to stand in it, but only because they did not understand the politics involved. Most of the congregation were crammed uncomfortably into the nave. There was a lot of jostling, which was not easy to prevent, and it was clear, despite John’s dire warnings of what would happen to those who broke the peace, that trouble was not far below the surface.

The tension ratcheted up even further when the Lady deigned to arrive, still brushing cake crumbs from her clothes after spending a pleasant afternoon with friends. There was no hint of apology for keeping everyone waiting, and when her knights began to shove people out of the way so she could stand at the front, the town’s resentment bubbled even more fiercely. It was a struggle for the Austins to keep the hotheads from both sides in line.

‘I should help the wounded,’ murmured Bartholomew, aware that there was a distressingly large number of them lying on the recently abandoned battlefield, and that Grym had last been seen driving a cart towards Kedyngton as fast as his horses could pull it.

‘No,’ hissed Michael, grabbing his arm. ‘It is too dangerous for you to wander off alone – I sense this business is far from over. For a start, Marishal is muttering to the Lady, doubtless telling her that a Michaelhouse man killed Roos. We must stay together.’

Bartholomew was unhappy about neglecting what he considered to be his moral duty, but he followed Michael to the vestry, where John was donning vestments, assisted by Langelee.

‘What took you so long?’ demanded the monk accusingly, closing the door so that their conversation would not be overheard by the milling crowd outside. ‘God only knows how many people died or were wounded in that fracas. We expected you a lot sooner.’

‘Because John has only just returned after spending the day looking for me and Weste,’ explained Langelee defensively. ‘Then more time was lost as we decided how best to stage an impressive entry.’

Michael gaped at him. ‘I hardly think–’

‘It was necessary, Brother,’ interrupted John curtly. ‘If we had just trotted up all muddy and ordinary, no one would have taken a blind bit of notice of us. Then the carnage would have been truly terrible.’

‘Have either of you seen Anne?’ asked Bartholomew, still far from certain that going ahead with the ceremony was the right thing to do. ‘Or Nicholas? They have questions to answer.’

‘I met Anne not long ago,’ replied John. ‘She was talking to Cambrug. He declared himself astonished to see her out of her cell, but his shock was not nearly as great as mine. I had rashly assumed that, as an anchorite, she was walled in permanently.’

‘Cambrug will have mentioned that we asked him about the tunnel,’ predicted Michael. ‘So she will know the game is up. She will be halfway to London by now.’

‘I shall go after her tomorrow,’ promised Langelee. ‘She will not escape, never fear. But you had better start this rite, John – your audience is growing restive.’

John brushed himself down, adjusted his stole, and opened the door. He nodded to four waiting friars, who lit enormous torches and began to sing at the tops of their voices. Heads promptly turned towards the little procession, and Bartholomew hoped the Austins would manage to produce enough of a spectacle to keep their congregation’s attention long enough for tempers to cool.

‘I cannot stop thinking about Roger,’ he told Michael worriedly. ‘He was Anne’s first victim – the man who should have overseen the safe completion of the ceiling. But there are cracks, and I had the feeling that Cambrug was concerned about them, although he was not about to admit that there might be flaws in his design, of course …’

Michael regarded him in alarm. ‘You think Anne killed Roger so that no one would know the thing is unstable? That she wants it to tumble down?’

‘Why not? It will kill everyone who did not die in the battle she provoked. Including the Lady – the woman who devised the singularly cruel punishment for her old nurse.’

‘But it will only kill everyone if it comes down tonight,’ reasoned Langelee. ‘Which is unlikely, or there would have been warning signs when the scaffolding was dismantled.’

‘Perhaps there were,’ said Bartholomew quietly. ‘But Nicholas closed the church, so who would have seen them, other than a few labourers who can be bribed to keep their mouths shut?’

‘Even if that is true,’ countered Langelee, ‘there is nothing to say that it will fall today. It might be years before–’

‘No,’ interrupted Bartholomew. ‘It will be tonight, because I have a bad feeling that Anne is still here, so that she can make sure of it. Do you remember Grisel, the talking paroquet that Anne gave the Lady? It must have overheard her plotting and remembered certain words–’

‘Words like nuts?’ scoffed Michael. ‘Really, Matt! We do not have time for–’

‘It means that specific phrases were used often enough for Grisel to remember and mimic them,’ Bartholomew forged on. ‘They are not nautical expressions, as the Lady believes. We did not understand them, because Grisel does not recite the words in the same order every time.’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Langelee impatiently.

‘Anne did not say “down the van bring hold” or “hold the bring van down” in Grisel’s hearing. She said “bring down the fan vault”. She does mean to collapse the ceiling – presumably at the point in the ceremony where everyone shouts God save the Queen. Although as Her Majesty is not here, she will have to devise an alternative–’

‘And you base all this on the testimony of a bird?’ cried Langelee in disbelief.

‘And what Anne said herself. Days ago, she told me that she was looking forward to tonight, as it would be “the culmination of all my labours”. I thought she was taking the credit for the rebuilding, but that is not what she meant at all. She referred to her work in igniting a feud between two factions that have been friends for centuries.’

‘I am not sure, Matt,’ said Michael, shaking his head doubtfully. ‘And what can we do about it anyway? If we try to clear the church, the fragile truce that John has established will be shattered, and we shall have a bloodbath for certain.’

‘I know what we can do,’ said Langelee suddenly. ‘Stop Anne.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew tightly. ‘But how?’

‘I know where she will be. Do you remember Nicholas taking us to the roof space when we first arrived? There was more scaffolding up there, which he said was no longer needed, as the fan vaulting was finished. But perhaps there was another reason why it was left.’

‘Namely that the vaulting will not stay up without it,’ finished Bartholomew. ‘And that a few strategically knocked-out sections is all it will take to see the whole thing collapse.’

‘So we had better hurry if we want to prevent a massacre,’ said Langelee grimly.

It was not easy to reach the door to the roof, as the church was so tightly packed with folk. John was doing his best to put on an entertaining display, which included plenty of singing, abruptly clanging bells and forays into the nave with holy water, but the rite was necessarily in Latin, which few people understood, so it was difficult to keep their attention. The atmosphere was tense, and the dim lighting in the church encouraged nasty little skirmishes to break out.

‘I hope your plan will not necessitate a lot of leaping over rafters,’ whispered Michael worriedly, as they eased carefully through the throng. ‘I am not very good at that sort of thing.’

They reached the door with relief, glad it was in the south aisle, which was empty except for a handful of bemused villagers and two children playing hopscotch on the flagstones.

The door was locked from the inside, but this was no problem for Langelee, who shattered the wood with a single kick. Michael and Bartholomew jerked away in alarm, sure the resulting crash would bring people running to see what was going on. Luckily, it coincided with a sudden swell of sound from the chancel, as John and his helpers broke into a noisy anthem. The children glanced towards the scholars, but their attention soon returned to their game.

‘Albon?’ came a querulous voice, and they turned to see the hermit emerge from the shadows. ‘Is that you, back from the dead? To haunt us for not catching your killer?’

‘No, it is just me, Jan,’ said Langelee, hastily adjusting the cloak so that more black lining and less red wool showed. ‘Listen – lives are at risk. Go home and pray that we can save them.’

Jan’s face lit up. ‘You want me to provide a miracle? Then I shall see what I can do – on condition that if I succeed, you will tell everyone about it. I am sick of being second best to Anne.’

‘You will not be second best after tonight,’ muttered Langelee. ‘Whether you provide a miracle or not.’

He pulled out his letter-opener – the only weapon he had left from the arsenal he usually carried – and led the way up the stairs. Bartholomew followed, heart pounding, and Michael brought up the rear. The monk was soon breathing hard, and Bartholomew was glad that the Austins were singing a gusty Gloria, because otherwise all of Clare would have heard him panting. Then they reached the door at the top, and Bartholomew started forward urgently, afraid that Langelee would kick that open, too, thus warning Anne that they were coming. But it was unlocked, and they only had to push it to get inside.

The roof looked much the same as it had when Nicholas had showed it to them a few days before – a complex mesh of beams and struts. The only difference was that the scaffolding supporting the ceiling had since been dismantled. Or mostly dismantled. The few sections that were left were badly buckled, suggesting that they alone were supporting the immense weight of the stone domes below – something they were never intended to do.

‘Filling the cracks with glue would have been be a waste of time,’ whispered Langelee. ‘There is a serious structural weakness here.’

‘And Anne and Nicholas do mean to bring the whole thing down,’ Bartholomew whispered back. ‘Because there they are.’

He nodded to where a lamp glowed dimly some distance away. It was roughly where the nave met the chancel, and the stone rood screen would be directly beneath. Two shapes were hunched over it, one large and the other small: Nicholas and Anne, watching the ceremony through one of the larger fissures.

‘Wait here,’ ordered Langelee. ‘I will see if I can get a better look.’

He began to clamber across the timbers towards them, moving with impressive agility for a man his size. Bartholomew held his breath, partly from fear that Langelee would be seen by the huddling pair, but also that he might dislodge some critical joist and the ceiling would fall anyway.

‘Anne is holding a mallet,’ the Master reported a few moments later, arriving back as silently as he had left. ‘I think she aims to clout that big central truss with it when the time is right.’

Bartholomew peered forward, and saw that the strut in question had been dislodged from its moorings, so that one sharp blow would knock it away completely. Then its weight would be added to the already vulnerable ceiling, and a major collapse would be all but inevitable.

‘What shall we do?’ he gulped, struggling to quell his rising horror. ‘Try to reason with them? I doubt Anne will listen, but Nicholas might.’

‘He will not,’ predicted Michael. ‘Not as long as she is there to tell him what to think – just as she has been doing all along.’

‘What, then? We cannot just crawl over there and lay hold of them. We might reach one undetected, but then the other will belt the truss and that will be that.’

Langelee brandished his letter-opener. ‘I can disarm one by lobbing this, but not both. Do either of you have a weapon? A surgical blade will do.’

But Bartholomew had left his medical bag in the vestry, thinking it would be in the way when he was in the roof, while Michael rarely carried knives of any description. Langelee scowled his disbelief that the two of them should have set out on such a venture without arming themselves first, conveniently overlooking the fact that he too had failed in that respect.

‘Then I shall immobilise one with a flying dagger, while you two leap on the other,’ he determined. ‘Agreed?’

‘No,’ hissed Bartholomew, knowing the monk was physically incapable of the stealth required for such a mission. ‘I will go. Michael can stay here and relay a message: if I can come within grabbing distance of Anne, I will raise my left hand, and he will signal that you are to aim at Nicholas; if I raise my right hand–’

‘I am to stab Anne,’ finished Langelee. ‘Fair enough. What can possibly go wrong?’

To Bartholomew, the rafter along which he inched seemed far too thin to bear his weight. Worse, the cracks in the stone domes seemed much bigger now – large enough for him to see into the nave below. He stopped for a moment and peered down. He was directly above the rood screen. On one side, John strove valiantly to entertain his restless congregation, while on the other was a heaving mass of heads. He thought he could see the Lady’s among them, surrounded by her courtiers. He dragged his eyes away from the dizzying sight, and resumed his journey.

Halfway along the beam was a thick post, supporting the roof above. Unfortunately, there was no way around it – other than stepping out on to one of the domes, which might then collapse under his weight. He shot Michael a stricken glance. The monk understood his dilemma at once, and made a vigorous pointing movement with his finger, indicating that Bartholomew was to look above his head.

He saw immediately what Michael wanted him to do – jump up to a convenient strut and swing himself around the post by his arms. It would be a dangerous manoeuvre at the best of times, let alone when failure would mean him landing hard on the ceiling, precipitating him and tons of stone down on to the people below. Moreover, the rood screen had a lot of pinnacles. He would almost certainly end up impaled on one, which would be a terrible way to die.

He glanced at Michael again, and saw the monk urging him to hurry. He supposed Langelee was in place, waiting for the signal to attack. He looked at Anne and Nicholas just a few feet away from him, and felt his resolve strengthen. Perhaps he would fall, but at least he could die in the knowledge that he had done his best to thwart their horrible plot. He jumped.

The strut creaked ominously, and there was a moment when he thought his fingers would not hold him. But he managed to shift his grip, and felt himself secure enough to throw one hand forward. It worked, so he did the same with the other. And then he was past the obstruction. He let himself drop, landing with a soft thump on the other side of the beam, going down on one knee for better balance. It put him closer to one of the cracks, allowing him to see more of the nave below – and the folk who had no idea of the danger they were in.

He stood on unsteady legs, and saw with horror that Nicholas was no longer there. He looked around wildly. Where had the vicar gone? Had Langelee already deployed his blade? But he could not see the Master either – only Michael, who was no more than an unmoving shadow by the door. But Anne had not hit the scaffolding yet, and if he could just wrest the mallet from her …

She glanced up as he stepped forward, and her hand tightened around the mallet, warning him against coming any closer.

‘Oh, it is you,’ she said flatly. She wore a kirtle and cloak that Margery must have given her, as both were rose-coloured. ‘I was hoping for Marishal or one of the Austins. I was looking forward to showing them that they were beaten.’

‘Where is Nicholas?’

Anne smiled nastily. ‘There are two weak points in this ceiling – Roger was kind enough to identify them for me when he caught me up here one day – and I am not a woman to leave anything to chance. Nicholas is at the other, waiting to act on my command.’

Bartholomew raised his left hand, then pushed Nicholas from his mind, trusting that Langelee would do what he had promised. He turned all his attention to Anne, ready for the moment when her defences were lowered, so that he could dart forward and rip the mallet away from her.

‘Do not think you can stop me,’ she told him smugly. ‘When I wave to Nicholas, two fan vaults will collapse simultaneously. The chances are that they will bring down the rest of the ceiling as well, after which we shall clamber to safety. You, of course, will fall with the stone.’

It was then that Bartholomew saw she wore a harness, which would prevent her from toppling into the abyss, should she lose her footing.

‘It will not work,’ lied Bartholomew. ‘You can hit the scaffolding all you like, but nothing will happen.’

‘Roger said it would, and I trust his opinion more than yours. No, do not inch towards me! Stay back, or I shall do it now.’

Bartholomew could see she meant it. He took a step away, hoping that Langelee had already dealt with Nicholas, and would be able to sneak up behind Anne and disable her as well. All he had to do was keep her talking until the Master could oblige. Slowly and deliberately, so there could be no misunderstanding, he raised his right hand, hoping that Michael would understand.

‘But you killed Roger,’ he said, to prevent her from asking what he was doing.

‘Yes, when he threatened to tell everyone that the ceiling was unsafe. I wanted it kept secret, for obvious reasons.’

‘But your friends are below us,’ blurted Bartholomew desperately. ‘Children you nursed, girls you saved from–’

‘Yes! And do you know how many of them spoke up for me when I needed them? Two – Ella and Thomas. Margery tried to take up where I left off, although she was never very successful. Herbs do not work nearly as well as a hook.’

‘But people love you,’ persisted Bartholomew. ‘They bring you gifts and seek your advice. You cannot betray their trust by crushing them all!’

‘Oh, they flocked to me when I declared myself holy,’ she hissed malevolently. ‘But by then it was too late. I was walled up and they had earned my enmity. All of them.’

‘Including Bonde?’ Bartholomew raised his right hand again, more urgently this time. ‘He did your bidding, but was repaid for his loyalty with a cup of hemlock.’

‘Hemlock,’ mused Anne. ‘A very useful herb, although annoyingly slow to act. And before you ask – yes, I used it on Wisbech, Skynere and Godeston, too. Killing them was easy.’

‘As easy as Talmach and Albon? I know you stabbed Talmach after he fell from his horse, while Albon died when you lobbed a stone at him. Thomas heard him shout “you” in surprise.’

‘Not me – Bonde, although on my orders. I told him to lie low after Roos died, lest your clever monk probed matters that did not concern him.’ She grimaced. ‘And I could have added him, you, Langelee and Marishal to my tally if Thomas had not opened the kitchen sluices. I shall have stern words with that boy before I leave.’

‘It was not you who locked us in the cistern,’ countered Bartholomew. ‘You might leave your cell at night, but you would never risk it in broad daylight.’

Anne regarded him in disdain. ‘You think I cannot move undetected in a place that was my home for thirty-seven years? Pah! What a fool you are.’

‘And all to stir up hatred between the town and the castle?’

Bartholomew raised his right hand a third time, waving it frantically. He risked a glance at Michael, but the monk was nowhere to be seen. What was going on?

‘It worked,’ said Anne smugly, ‘and after today, there will never be peace again. How dare they misuse me! I saved countless girls and their families from disgrace, but how was I rewarded? With a fate worse than death – it took me less than a week to know that life as an anchoress would be a living Hell.’

‘Please,’ begged Bartholomew, watching her fingers tighten around the mallet. ‘It is not–’

‘Do you hear?’ she asked, cocking her head suddenly. ‘Everyone is about to be asked to shout God save the Queen. It is time. Now, Nicholas! Now!’

There was nothing Bartholomew could do but watch as Anne gave the scaffolding a tremendous clout with the mallet. At the same time, there was a flicker of movement further down the roof. His stomach lurched in horror. It was Nicholas, swinging at the second weak spot. Langelee had failed! He lunged towards Anne, but it was too late. There was a sinister creak, and a lump of ceiling simply dropped away.

Appalled, he watched it fall. It landed with a tremendous crash, and dust billowed everywhere. He glanced at Anne, and saw rage and disappointment in her face – a much smaller piece than she had anticipated had come adrift, and it had landed on the rood screen, where no one was standing. Meanwhile, nothing at all had happened to Nicholas’s section.

Furiously, Anne stood and prepared to jump on the unstable dome, to collapse it with her own weight. Bartholomew sprang towards her but she jigged away, and as she did, she lost her footing. She screamed as she disappeared through the hole. The harness prevented her from falling to her death, but she had been overly generous with the amount of line she thought she would need, and she plummeted twenty feet before she was jerked savagely to a halt.

‘It is Margery Marishal!’ yelled Richard the watchman, seeing the rose-coloured costume and drawing his own conclusions. ‘Come to haunt us for quarrelling. She hated discord.’

The harness was poorly designed, and the jolt had broken some of Anne’s ribs. She was in pain, moaning pitifully for Nicholas to help her.

‘She is calling for the priest,’ blurted Ereswell. ‘Someone fetch him, quickly! I cannot bear to hear that saintly lady wailing in such torment.’

At that point, Langelee joined Bartholomew on the beam, wiping a bloodstained blade on his sleeve: Nicholas was no longer a problem. The Master put the letter-opener away carefully, then reached down to help Bartholomew pull Anne to safety. As he did so, Albon’s cloak slipped forward in all its scarlet glory.

‘And that is the ghost of Sir William,’ shouted Nuport, whipping out his sword. ‘Wearing his battle gear, which means he wants us to fight.’

Even as Langelee tugged the offending garment out of sight, Michael swung into action. He pulled the piece of purple silk from his scrip and stuffed it through one of the cracks. The material was so light that it took an age to waft downwards, drawing every eye in the church towards it. It provided ample time for him to scramble towards Langelee and hiss an urgent instruction.

‘I am the spirit of Godeston,’ the Master boomed, in the very plausible imitation of the Mayor that had so amused Bartholomew a few days earlier. ‘I command you to go home. To stay is to die.’

There was a murmur of consternation and the definite beginnings of a move towards the doors. Immediately, the Austins hastened to open them and usher folk outside. Unfortunately, Nuport had other ideas.

‘No – we should fight,’ he yelled. ‘Death to all who–’

The words died in his throat when Anne’s harness burst open, leaving Bartholomew and Langelee hauling on an empty rope. Both toppled backwards, while she dropped down to the rood screen below. There was a terrible scream, and when Bartholomew could bring himself to look, he saw she was impaled on one of the pinnacles. She hung there, her head covered by the rose-coloured hood, directly above the carving of the Blessed Virgin with Margery’s face.

Anne had just enough dying strength to raise one arm and point. It was impossible to know what she was trying to convey, and it was almost certainly chance that caused her finger to wag in Nuport’s direction, but the gesture achieved what words could not.

‘Oh, Christ!’ the squire gulped. ‘She has me in her sights. Out of the way! Let me past!’

‘Go home and lock your doors,’ bellowed John, as the squire’s panicky flight caused others to follow. ‘And keep them locked, on peril of your souls. There are a great many restless ghosts abroad tonight.’

‘Well, that is one way to clear a church,’ remarked Langelee, watching as the place emptied quicker than he would have thought possible. ‘Thank God for gullible minds!’