The Midnight Man

The Physician’s Tale
Part Three

‘I can only tell you what I suspect.’ Magister Anselm folded back the voluminous sleeves of his coarse, woollen white robe. ‘Nothing is certain,’ he added wistfully. ‘Well, not in this vale of tears. No.’ He shook his head at the murmur his words created and lapsed into silence.

The two Carmelites and the others had all assembled in Sir William Higden’s council chamber next to his chancery office on the second floor of the merchant’s manor in Candlewick. Sir William, Parson Smollat, Gascelyn, Amalric and Simon the sexton as well as the royal clerk, Beauchamp, who’d recently arrived from his own house in Ferrier Lane only a short walk away. Beauchamp sat opposite Stephen, the raindrops still glistening on his fair hair.

‘You have reached certain conclusions, Brother Anselm,’ Beauchamp urged. ‘You must share them.’

‘By Saint Joachim and Saint Anne that is true.’ Anselm drank from his water goblet. ‘Richard Puddlicot,’ he began slowly, ‘broke into the royal treasury in the crypt at Westminster in April 1303. He and his coven, which comprised most of London’s notorious sanctuary men, outlaws and wolfheads, stole a King’s fortune. They were not allowed to enjoy it. A royal clerk, Drokensford,’ he glanced fleetingly at Beauchamp, ‘hunted them down. Puddlicot, a married man who’d left his wife, was consorting with a woman of ill-repute — Joanne Picard. They lived in Hagbut Lane. .’

‘Lord, save us,’ Sir William interjected, ‘that’s Rishanger’s house, the goldsmith who tried to take sanctuary in the abbey and was murdered.’

‘The same. I shall come back to him,’ Anselm agreed. ‘What is noteworthy is that Puddlicot, the great thief and violator, escaped from Drokensford’s clutches and, Parson Smollat, took sanctuary in Saint Michael’s, Candlewick.’ Anselm’s words created further cries and exclamations of surprise. ‘It’s true,’ he confirmed. ‘I have visited the crypt. I cannot say what happened there except that those involved in the great sacrilege decades ago still haunt that gloomy place. Little wonder! I also asked Sir Miles to bring from the memoranda rolls stored in the Tower all the records pertaining to Puddlicot. Our notorious felon was plucked by force from Saint Michael’s, sanctuary or not.’

‘But that is against church law!’ Parson Smollat cried. ‘Not to mention the statutes of Parliament?’

‘Oh, at the time the Bishop of London and all the city clergy pleaded and protested but Drokensford had his way. Puddlicot was lodged in the Tower where he was tried before the King’s justices. He tried to plead benefit of clergy, that he was a cleric — this was later proved to be a lie. He was condemned to hang on the gallows outside the main abbey gate. The King insisted that he be humiliated, so Puddlicot was pushed from the Tower to the Westminster gallows in a wheelbarrow. He was hanged, then his corpse suffered further indignities, being peeled and the skin nailed to the door leading down to the crypt.’ Anselm paused at the exclamations this provoked.

‘Our present King’s grandfather,’ the exorcist continued, ‘was determined that the monks of Westminster never forgot their part in the sacrilegious theft. They had to pass that door with its grisly trophy every time they wound their way up to the chapter house.’

‘And the skin remained there,’ Almaric whispered fearfully.

‘From what I learnt from the records, yes. It decomposed and merged with the wood. I went and re-examined that door; traces of human skin can still be detected.’

‘So Puddlicot’s ghost still walks?’

‘Puddlicot, God rest him, was a great sinner. He left his wife to consort with a whore. He committed sacrilegious theft and died a violent death. I doubt if his corpse was given holy burial. Little wonder he haunts Westminster as well as here, at Saint Michael’s, Candlewick in Dowgate ward.’

‘You are sure?’ Sir William swallowed hard.

‘Puddlicot definitely lived in Dowgate, in Hagbut Lane. He and Joanne Picard were members of this parish.’

‘Sir William is correct — that’s where Adam Rishanger lived,’ Almaric declared. ‘Puddlicot was a thief and so was Rishanger. .’

‘A hateful soul.’ Sir William spoke. ‘A greedy madcap full of dark designs and sinister stratagems. He once approached me for money. He claimed he’d found a way to create the philosopher’s stone and so transmute base metal into gold. Gascelyn threw him into the street.’

‘Mad as a March hare,’ the squire declared lugubriously.

‘Rishanger rarely took the sacrament,’ Parson Smollat observed. ‘Rumours abound that after he was murdered treasure was found close to his corpse.’

‘That is correct,’ Beauchamp affirmed. He went on: ‘Such a story spread across the city: a dagger and a pure gold cross,’ then fell silent.

‘But what,’ Sir William pleaded, ‘has this ancient robbery got to do with our troubles at Saint Michael’s?’

Beauchamp gestured at Anselm. ‘Brother, your thoughts?’

‘Primo.’ Anselm paused as if listening to the rain pattering against the window. ‘Puddlicot hales from Saint Michael’s, from whose sanctuary he was illegally dragged. He also haunts the abbey, the stage on which he lived and died a hideous death, sent into the dark, his soul drenched in sin. However, why Puddlicot’s ghost has defied all attempts to prise him loose to continue his journey I am not sure. Secundo,’ Anselm continued, ‘ghosts surround us all like plaintiffs outside a court. They wait for their opportunity for a door to open; the demons do likewise. Our souls are like castles, constantly besieged by the lords of the air, the dark dwellers, malevolent wraiths and unsettled ghosts.’

‘And a door has been opened?’

‘Yes, Amalric, it certainly has. More than one gate or postern has been unlocked, unbolted and thrown wide open.’

‘By whom?’

‘Why, parson, the Midnight Man, which brings me to my third point — tertio: his macabre rites around All Souls, on Saint Walpurgis eve. What happened then? I truly don’t know. Something went dreadfully wrong. I have questioned Sir Miles but. .’

‘All I have learnt,’ Beauchamp explained, ‘was from one of my spies in the city and, believe me, they are many. This gentleman, who rejoices in the name of Bolingbrok, heard rumours, nothing more, about a midnight ceremony where the Satanists summoned up powers they could not control, so they fled. I have searched — hungered — for more details.’ He pulled a face. ‘I have whistled sharply into the darkness but so far there has been no reply.’

‘Quarto,’ Anselm continued, ‘somehow Rishanger, that petty goldsmith, found or was given two precious items from the long-lost treasure. Others, we don’t know who, also discovered this. Rishanger tried to flee into exile but he was ambushed and later murdered. Now how — and where — did they come across this treasure? We don’t know. Nor do we know if what Rishanger held was part of an even greater hoard, or who murdered him and his mistress Beatrice Lampeter, whose eyeless corpse was dug up in that garden at Hagbut Lane.’ Anselm paused for breath. Stephen could hear the bubbles on his chest and wondered if his master was falling ill.

‘Quinto,’ Anselm continued, ‘who is the Midnight Man? Is he still searching for the missing treasure which, according to the Exchequer records, still totals hundreds of thousands of pounds? Sexto, what has happened in Saint Michael’s cemetery? Why has it led to an infestation of demons and ghosts? My friends, to conclude,’ Anselm stared sadly around the assembled company, ‘I believe some other grievous sin lurks deep within the layers of our existence. But what?’ He pulled a face.

‘Why did the Midnight Man choose Saint Michael’s, Candlewick?’ Beauchamp asked. ‘My parish church, our parish church.’

‘Because he knew about Puddlicot,’ Stephen declared, ‘which means that the warlock learned about Puddlicot’s story, but from where? I mean, the robbery occurred decades ago.’

Anselm smiled at the novice. ‘You are correct, Stephen. How did the Midnight Man know? Did he study the records? Yet I asked the clerk of the Tower muniment room. No one, apart from you, Sir Miles, has asked to study that schedule of documents.’

‘I asked,’ the clerk replied tersely, ‘after the treasures were found near Rishanger’s corpse.’

‘Has any other such treasure been found in the city?’ Sir William asked.

‘No.’ Beauchamp shook his head. ‘The royal surveyors have been most scrupulous.’ He paused as one of the window-shutters, loose from its clasp, banged noisily. Stephen, the nearest, rose. He pulled the shutter closed and stared back at the narrow face, eyes all bloodshot, mouth gaping, long hair straggling down, pushed up against the opaque, square window glass. Stephen caught his breath. The lips moved soundlessly, as if cursing him.

‘Stephen?’

‘Sorry, Magister.’ Stephen glanced over his shoulder. Anselm was staring at him curiously.

‘Sir William?’

‘Yes?’ The merchant knight glanced in surprise at the novice.

‘Magister, my apologies, but that young woman, Alice Palmer, daughter of the tavern master at The Unicorn?’

‘What about Alice?’ Parson Smollat asked. ‘Oh, she’s approached you, hasn’t she? About one of the slatterns at the tavern — a young woman called Margotta Sumerhull who has apparently disappeared?’

‘Yes, yes, she has asked the same of me.’ Sir William leaned back in his chair. ‘Sir Miles, I appeal to you. How many young women in London just disappear?’

The royal clerk nodded. ‘The chancery coffers and pouches are crammed with such enquiries.’ Stephen caught the note of despair in the clerk’s voice.

‘I organized a search,’ Sir William added. ‘Ask Parson Smollat’s parishioners. But to no avail. However,’ Sir William rubbed his hands together, ‘we have talked enough. My cooks have prepared brawn in mustard, some savoury doucettes made from the sweetest, freshest pork, all mixed in with honey and pepper.’ He paused as Simon the sexton rose swiftly to his feet.

‘Sir William, please excuse me.’ Simon pointed to the hour candle standing in its ornate bronze holder on a corner table. ‘God waits for no one. The archangel guild meet for their weekly devotions before the statue. I must ring the bells, open the doors. .’

Sir William excused him and Simon hurried out. Anselm and Sir Miles began to collect their sheaves of manuscripts. Sir William rose and walked away, deep in conversation with Gascelyn and Amalric. Stephen stared around this comfortable chamber, its lime-washed walls above the highly polished, dark oak panelling, the lowered candelabra shedding a ring of glowing light. He rose and walked across to study the heraldic shields fastened on the wall. One boasted a silver pen with three gold books on a blue field depicting the insignia of St Hilary of Poitiers. Next to this the arms of St Thanus of Alexandria, the courtesan who converted to Christ, and beneath it a white scroll with the Latin tag: ‘You who have made me, have mercy on me’, written in black on a blue and violet field. Stephen studied these even as he guiltily recalled his meeting with Alice Palmer — her kiss so soft and warm, the faint trace of perfume about her. Excitement flushed his face. He only wished he could meet her again. What would it be like, he wondered, to court a young woman such as her? He tried to push aside the usual dark temptation of despondency. How refreshing it would be, Stephen wondered, to break from the shapes, shadows and glimmerings constantly on the border of both his vision and consciousness. He had rejoiced to be free of his father and his wealthy Winchester mansion. The White Friars had welcomed him warmly, educated him as rigorously as any scholar in the schools of Oxford and Cambridge. Magister Anselm had proved to be both a brilliant teacher and a very close friend. Stephen had gone to him to be shrived, to confess these very temptations of the flesh as well as those of the spirit. He had asked Anselm if all the phenomena, phantasms and visions were really true? Hadn’t Stephen’s own father raged like a man possessed against such fancies? Was there a physical explanation? Anselm had surprisingly agreed. ‘Most hauntings and so-called spiritual occurrences,’ he had declared, ‘are illusions, the result of some very cunning sleight of hand. But there are those which are true. Yet, even then I concede,’ Anselm had kept repeating this as one of his sacred rules, ‘such events or phenomena are always firmly rooted in the human will, in human wickedness, the devious perversity of the human heart.’

Stephen started from his reverie as he heard the Midnight Man being mentioned by Anselm. He walked back to the table where Sir Miles was explaining to the exorcist that neither officials of the Crown nor those of the Church, despite all their resources, could hunt down and trap that most elusive of warlocks. Beauchamp paused as the bells of St Michael’s began to peal. They did for a while then abruptly paused, stilling all conversation in the chamber.

‘What is the matter?’ Sir William strode to the chamber door, flinging it open as the bells began to clang again but this time discordantly, sounding out the tocsin. Sir William, followed by his household, hurried out of the room, clattering down the stairs.

‘We also should go.’ Beauchamp strapped on his sword belt, beckoning to the two Carmelites to accompany him. By the time they reached the tiled entrance hall the servants had also been roused. They passed through the main doorway, down the steps across the rutted trackway to the lychgate. A crowd had gathered — a few going up the winding path to the main door of the church. Sir Miles ordered these to step aside. Stephen noticed how many of those in the cemetery wore a blue and gold livery with a great medallion celebrating St Michael’s victory over Satan on a chain around their necks. The light was dimming; the air fresh after the showers; the rain glinting on the grass and shrubs of the cemetery. As they hurried up the path Stephen noticed a group clustered to the right of the soaring bell tower. One or two were pointing up to the belfry where the tocsin still boomed out. Sir Miles strode off then hurried back, meeting them at the foot of the church steps. ‘Bardolph the gravedigger,’ he murmured. ‘According to members of the guild, they heard the bells tolling and, as they approached the church, saw Bardolph’s body fall from the tower bouncing like a pig’s bladder on to the roof, spinning like a top to the ground.’ Beauchamp crossed himself. ‘Parson Smollat is administering the rites of the dead, and Almaric is with him. Let’s find out. .’

They hastened up the steps, through the doorway and left through the narrow entrance into the bell tower. Simon the sexton ceased pulling the two oiled, hempen ropes. He stood gasping for breath, almost oblivious to Sir William’s constant questions. Gascelyn came clattering down the tower steps. ‘Nothing,’ he exclaimed. ‘No one is there.’

‘Simon,’ Sir William gently touched the sexton’s face with his gloved hand, ‘Simon, what happened in this benighted church?’

‘I er, came in,’ Simon stammered. ‘All was quiet.’ He gestured around the bare-walled chamber furnished with a stool, table and a battered, iron-ribbed chest, its concave lid thrown back. ‘I took out my gloves and the woollen clasp for the ropes. All was quiet. I prepared myself saying the usual prayer to Saint Michael.’ He smiled, though his eyes were full of fear, his red-poxed face deeply flushed. ‘Then one to Saint Gabriel and Saint Raphael — they are also archangels. Our two bells are named after them.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Sir William urged. ‘And?’

‘I began to pull, trying to establish a rhythm. I heard movement further up the stairwell. There are chambers above; they serve as lofts. I wondered whether children were playing there or if a beggar hid hoping for a warm night’s sleep.’ Simon scratched his thinning hair. ‘I am sure I heard footsteps. Anyway, I began the peal. I heard screams, shouts and cries. A guild member came hurrying in saying that someone had fallen from the tower.’

Simon grasped the bell rope as if to give it another pull.

‘Take him away,’ Beauchamp ordered. ‘Sir William, please tell the guild there will be no meeting here tonight.’

Stephen stared across the bleak bell chamber, its corners rich in cobwebs and drenched in dirt. He noticed the coils of rope, the pots of oil and grease, the empty buckets. Stephen left and walked into the nave. He stared down at the huge rood screen, above it the cross and on either side of that life-sized carvings of Our Lady and St John. The evening light pouring through the window was dappled and emphasized the darting shadows. Stephen peered closer. He glimpsed the red sanctuary light winking beside the pyx hanging on its chain. To the left tapers still glowed in the Lady chapel.

‘This truly is,’ he whispered, ‘the walking place for wraiths, the domain of demons and a hall of beseeching ghosts.’

Was Christ really present here? Stephen reflected. Or was this church the mouth of hell yawning for its prey, breathing out terrors while the demons gathered like millions of grunting hogs?

‘Stephen!’ Anselm stood outside the bell chamber, beckoning him over even as Sir William and Gascelyn escorted a sobbing Simon to the main door where Beauchamp, half-hidden by the shadows, stood waiting. ‘Stephen,’ Anselm urged, ‘come with me!’ The novice hurried over. Anselm plucked him by the sleeve and led him back into the deserted bell tower. They climbed the steep spiral staircase. Anselm explained how the tower had been built over successive generations with one storey raised upon another. Stephen, breathless by the climb, could only grunt a reply. Now and again they stopped so that Anselm could rest. Once again Stephen heard the rasping deep in his master’s chest.

At last they reached the first storey, prized open the wooden trapdoor and climbed into the deserted loft. The evening breeze pierced the window-shafts, whirling the dust and stirring the pungent odour from the bird droppings which coated the chamber. The air grew colder as they continued their climb. Stephen felt he was being followed. No candlelight or cresset flared in the winding stairwell. The blackness closed in, stifling and threatening. Now and again a bird, like some disembodied soul, flittered, a threatening blur across the lancet window. They reached other lofts, the stone staircase being replaced by wooden ladders leading up from one storey to the next. The breeze became more vigorous. Anselm was having trouble climbing. Stephen was wary. At any other time, Stephen, advised by Anselm, would have dismissed his feelings as wild imaginings, yet he was sure they were being closely watched. A brushing sensation against his cheek, a fluttering around his eyes and against his ears, a faint whispering as if people were gathered in the loft above chattering quietly amongst themselves. A voice abruptly called: ‘Another is here!’ followed by silence.

Anselm, despite his age and racking cough, clambered resolutely up the different ladders, the sweat drenching his face. At last they reached the belfry, a cavernous chamber. The windows in each wall were at least a yard high and the same across. The two great bells, Gabriel and Raphael, hung on a massive, oil-drenched beam separated by a huge half-wheel with cogs from which the ropes dangled through the gaps of the different storeys they’d entered. The belfry reeked of iron, cordage and a thick layer of bird droppings which covered everything, particularly the wooden parapet walk which ran around the belfry at least two feet beneath each of the oblong-shaped windows. Anselm, despite the rigours of the climb, the stench and the eerie call of the birds, ignored the sinister presence which had accompanied them. The exorcist asked Stephen to stand by the hatch through which they’d entered. Stephen was only too happy to obey. Staring through one of the windows, he realized how dizzingly high they had climbed. The darkened city stretching out below seemed a different world. Anselm, however, chattering to himself, impervious to everything else, walked hastily around the parapet, stopping at each of the windows to scrupulously study the stains on the floor beneath. ‘Nothing!’ he exclaimed. ‘Come, Stephen!’ He barely waited for the novice before grasping the rungs of the ladder reaching up to the trapdoor and on to the roof of the tower.

‘Magister, must we?’

‘I must, you must, we must.’ Anselm stared down at him. ‘We search for the root, young Stephen. I believe we are on the path leading to that; only then can we pull it up. Now, trust in God.’ He grinned. ‘He will send his angels lest we dash our foot against a stone.’

Breathing prayers to St Michael and all the heavenly host, Stephen hitched his robe, thanked God for the firm, tough sandals and followed Anselm up through the trapdoor to the wind-blown roof of the tower. The strong breeze buffeted him. Below spread a swathe of pinpricks of light; to his left Stephen could glimpse the lofty tower of St Paul’s in the gathering murk. He stared around. The roof of the tower was slightly concave so water would drain off through the gargoyle spouts. Near the trapdoor stood a huge brazier crammed with kindling which served as a beacon light. The floor of the tower was covered in tightly-packed shale which provided firm grip. The four sides of the tower, at least a yard high, were crennelated with iron bars between each of the jutting crennelations. Stephen stood near the brazier, grasping it firmly against the buffeting wind. He never did like heights and this was truly fearsome.

‘Stephen.’

He reluctantly joined Anselm, who was kneeling before one of the crennelations, examining the packed gravel. The exorcist picked up pieces of fresh mud and then plucked coarse fibres from the nearby brickwork.

‘Bardolph’s, I am sure of it. The mud is fresh and these fibres are from a fustian jerkin or hose. But what was Bardolph doing up here?’ Anselm got to his feet. ‘Come,’ he urged, ‘I can see you prefer not to be so near heaven.’

Anselm smiled at his own joke but this faded as his gaze caught something behind Stephen. The novice turned and stared in chilling horror at the shape on the other side of the tower, a pluming pillar of black smoke which did not move, even in the gusty wind.

‘Magister!’ Stephen warned.

‘Magister, Magister!’ came the hissing, mocking echo. ‘Magister this, Magister that! Anselm is no magister,’ the voice continued, ‘he is nothing more than a dirty little mud worm.’

Stephen shivered against the cold horror pressing in around him. Anselm staggered back towards the wall. The exorcist was whispering the Jesus prayer: ‘Jesus, son of the living God, have mercy on us.’ Abruptly the icy buffeting wind ceased but the pillar of blackness moved to hover over the closed trapdoor.

Anselm grabbed Stephen’s arm and pulled him towards it. The air reeked of corruption. Stephen knelt to pull open the trapdoor. The freezing wind returned, pummelling them hard. Stephen desperately tried to pull back the trapdoor but it held fast as if bolted from the inside. Anselm, still reciting his prayer, knelt down to help. The reeking stench made them gag. The wind beat against them. Stephen glanced up. The plume of blackness descended. Stephen could not breathe. He recoiled with horror at the stricken face which chased towards him. He felt himself being pulled back. A slap on his face made him open his eyes. Anselm, soaked in sweat, crouched by the now open trapdoor.

‘Stephen. .’ Anselm’s exclamation was cut off as Raphael and Gabriel began to toll. Stephen felt the force of the reverberation. The floor of the tower shook like the deck of a ship hit by a huge wave.

‘In God’s name!’ Anselm dragged Stephen towards the opening. The bells tolled fiercely as Anselm dragged Stephen on to the ladder. They hastened down. As they did the tolling ceased as abruptly as it had begun. They reached the bell chamber. The bells hung silently yet Stephen flinched at the oppressive atmosphere. He glimpsed a shifting shape. Some being, dark as night, fluttered around the bell chamber.

‘Magister!’

‘I know.’ Anselm grasped his arm and pulled him on. ‘Let us go down.’

They did so, carefully. Stephen noticed how Anselm would stop now and again to inspect the rungs on the ladder and the steps below.

By the time they had left the tower and entered God’s acre, everyone had gone. They walked down the path, through the gate and across the now empty lane. Stephen glanced to the right and left. Householders had hung out lantern horns on the door-posts; these now glowed and glittered through the gathering gloom. A voice shouted. A child cried. Dogs barked but the sounds faded. Anselm was whispering verses from a psalm as they crossed the street and made their way to Higden’s stately mansion. They were ushered up into the luxurious dining hall, a low-rafted chamber comfortable and warm with linen panelling and vividly painted triptychs on the wall. The merchant knight rose as they entered and ushered them both to their stools, shouting at the servants to serve the beef broth soup and slices of soft, buttered manchet loaves. Stephen, still shaken by what had happened on the tower, quietly admired Anselm’s serenity as he swiftly blessed himself and began to question the rest about what they had discovered. Beauchamp remained engrossed, bending over his platter, intent on his dish, lifting the horn spoon as if quietly enjoying every mouthful. Parson Smollat wailed about how the church might have to be closed and purified. Sir William assured him that would not be necessary; he would inform the Bishop of London. After all, it was an accident.

‘How do you know that?’ Anselm asked, stilling the conversation. ‘I mean, did anyone actually see Bardolph fall?’

‘A guild member did.’ Simon spoke up. ‘He saw Bardolph drop like a bird, clear against the sky. He hit the slate roof, bounced, then fell into the cemetery.’

‘And you were tolling the bells?’

‘Yes. By the way, we heard them peal just now. Was it you?’

‘No, it wasn’t,’ Anselm retorted. ‘The bells tolled while we were on top of the tower. We thought. .’

‘Nobody there.’ Amalric spoke up. ‘We were. .’

‘All gathered here.’ Beauchamp finished his broth, pushing away the bowl. ‘We really did think it was you — I mean, the bells.’

‘Sometimes that can happen,’ Simon offered. ‘The ropes which pull the bell wheel, if left hurriedly, slacken and drop. The wheels turn, the bells toll.’

‘Never mind that.’ Anselm tapped the table. ‘What was Bardolph doing there? Why should he go up to the top of the tower?’

‘I don’t know,’ Simon replied. ‘As God is my witness, Brother Anselm, I truly don’t.’

‘Can anyone answer that?’ Beauchamp insisted. He pointed at Anselm. ‘What makes you ask, Brother? What have you found?’

‘I am not too sure. Did anyone see Bardolph enter the church?’

‘Nobody in this room,’ Sir William declared. ‘I have already established that.’

‘Simon?’ Anselm asked. ‘You went in to peal the bells. You said you heard movement in the tower stairwell?’

‘I am sure I did. I began the peal, then a guild member hurried in to tell me what had happened.’

‘Bardolph definitely toppled from the top of the tower,’ Anselm confirmed. ‘A sheer fall?’

‘His corpse is no better than a pulp of flesh,’ Almaric observed mournfully. ‘Not a bone unbroken. I had his corpse taken to the shabby alehouse he and his wife own in Hogled Lane. She’s laid out the corpse and invited her friends to drink themselves sottish. Is he to be buried at Saint Michael’s?’

‘No,’ Sir William retorted. ‘Perhaps at Saint Martin’s. I think it is more appropriate.’

‘Did Bardolph ever climb to the top of the tower?’ Anselm asked.

‘No,’ Parson Smollat replied between mouthfuls of meat.

‘Did he talk about anything untoward before his death?’

‘You heard what we all heard,’ Parson Smollat replied, ‘the night you attempted your exorcism. Bardolph explained how he fiercely resented what was happening at Saint Michael’s: the disturbance to his routine, the lack of fees, not to mention that Sir William had asked Gascelyn to guard the cemetery. Brother Anselm, we knew very little about the man, except. .’ Parson Smollat glanced at Sir William and raised his eyes heavenwards.

‘Except what?’ Anselm pressed.

‘Bardolph liked the ladies. Meet his widow,’ Sir William declared. ‘She will hardly mourn him. Bardolph bewailed his lack of fees but also felt he had been driven from what I can only call his rutting meadow.’

‘He brought his whores into the cemetery,’ Parson Smollat explained. ‘During inclement weather into the old death house or, if the season was warm enough, they would lie amongst the gravestones. Bardolph would stretch out with this drab or that. He seemed to enjoy such lewdry. He ignored my strictures, saying he didn’t give a fig.’

Anselm stared down at his platter. ‘Dusk is falling,’ he murmured. ‘Soon the darkness will shroud us all. I cannot understand why Bardolph fell from that tower. Was he driven up there by some malignant spirit? Was he forced to commit suicide? God save him, because he went to God unshriven. You gave him the last rites?’

Parson Smollat nodded.

‘Yes,’ Anselm murmured. ‘It is a terrible thing for any soul to fall into the hands of the living God.’ The exorcist stared hard at Parson Smollat, who had retreated deeper into the shadows. ‘Did Bardolph ever confide in you, parson?’

‘Why, no. Why should he?’

‘I thought he did.’ Amalric, who’d drunk copiously, declared.

‘No, no,’ the parson became flustered, ‘Bardolph was not the kind.’

‘I thought I saw him in the shriving queue at the beginning of Lent, I am sure.’ Almaric caught the annoyance in Parson Smollat’s face. ‘Anyway,’ the curate shrugged, ‘he has gone to God now.’

Stephen stared around the table. Sir William and Beauchamp sat lost in their own thoughts. Gascelyn murmured he should return to the cemetery but then made a plaintive plea about how long was he supposed to keep up supervision of that hell-haunted place? Sir William cut him short with an abrupt gesture of his hands. Servants came in to clear the platters. Anselm plucked at Stephen’s sleeve, a sign they should leave. They bade farewell, collected their cloaks, panniers and satchels and made their way out. Darkness had fallen. The streets were emptying. This was lamp-lighting time, when shutters and doors were slammed shut. The only glow of gold was the flare between the chinks of wood or from the lanterns slung on door hooks. The rain had turned the dirt underneath to a squelchy mess. Shadows moved. Cries and shouts echoed eerily. They passed houses where doors were abruptly flung open to reveal scenes inside. It was like passing paintings on a church wall. A drunk collapsed inside a hallway; a corpse sheeted in white resting on a wheelbarrow ready to be moved elsewhere; a group of dicers gathered around a pool of light from a shabby table lamp, pinched faces intent on their game. Different smells and odours wafted out. The sickening reek of raw meat being fried in cheap oil, the pungent aroma of rotting vegetables, the faint fragrance from incense pots; all these competed with the offensive odour of the slops being deposited on the streets from jakes’ jars and urine bowls, as well as pails and buckets of filthy water.

‘Magister, where are we going?’

Anselm pulled his cowl forward. ‘Stephen, we shall be busy this eve of Saint Mark’s. First, we shall visit Hogled Lane to pay our respects to Mistress Bardolph. Truth,’ he peered through the dark, ‘will break through eventually.’ With that enigmatic remark the exorcist strode on. They took directions from a woman trimming a doorway lantern, turned up an alleyway and entered Hogled Lane, a mean, shabby runnel with a narrow, evil-smelling sewer channel along its centre. They found the alehouse, the sheaf of decaying greenery pushed into a crack above its doorway hung next to a peeling sign which proclaimed: The Burning Bush. The taproom inside was as bleak and squalid as the exterior, a low-ceilinged room with square open windows on the far wall. Bread, cheese and other perishables hung in nets from the rafters well away from the vermin which scuttled and squeaked between the ale barrels on either side. Under foot the dry rushes had snapped, split and corrupted to a mushy slime by those who had come in to pay their final respects to Master Bardolph. The dead man lay in his shroud, only his face exposed, on the long common table down the centre of the room. Cheap tallow candles ranged either side; these made Bardolph’s face even more gruesome, while the small pots of smoking incense around the swathed feet did little to make the hot, close air any less offensive.

The assembled mourners moved like sinister ghouls through the gloom. They huddled in the dark either side of the candlelight watching the sin-eater, a gnarled old man with long dirty hair, moustache and beard. He wore a crown of ivy, his face was painted black, his eyelids and lips a deep scarlet hue. He muttered some chant as he moved along the corpse, picking up with painted lips the offerings of sin symbolized by pieces of bread and dried meat. Now and again he would stop and chew noisily, throwing his head back like a dog, clap his hands softly, gesture towards the ceiling and move on to the next piece. Stephen expected Anselm to intervene but the exorcist just stood and watched. The old man’s chanting grew louder. Greedily and noisily he devoured the sin offerings. Stephen did not like the ceremony; other beings were busy thronging in. Stephen could see, and he was sure Anselm also did, their swarthy, worn faces. These flocked close to his own, cheek by jowl, with pointed beards, glittering, dagger-like eyes, their chattering tongues crudely imitating the sin-eater’s words. Stephen stared at the corpse; the more he did the stronger the visions grew: a road was opening up, long and dark, lit by a full moon and lined by shiny green cypresses, the moon-washed path glittered as the light sparkled on its polished pebbles. An owl, wings extended, passed like a ghost over the bedraggled figure staggering down the path. Stephen recognized the mud-splattered Bardolph. The dead gravedigger had lost his swagger and used the spade he carried as a crutch. As this hideous figure staggered closer, Stephen recoiled at the sight of Bardolph’s eyes and mouth tightly stitched with black twine.

‘Stephen!’ Anselm shook him vigorously; the figure disappeared. The sin-eater had gobbled all the offerings. Someone was playing a lute. The mourners were drifting back to the casks where dirty-winged chickens roosted on their iron-hooped rims. A woman broke away from the rest and came towards them. She had a heavy, leathery face, hard eyes and a rat-trap mouth. She brusquely asked their business while she scratched her face, fingers glittering with tawdry rings. She forced a smile when Anselm courteously introduced himself and Stephen. She replied that she was Adele, Bardolph’s relict or widow. Anselm leaned down and whispered in her ear. Her puffy arrogance and shrewish ways abruptly faded. She stared, mouth gaping, and gestured that they follow her into the buttery at the back of the alehouse.

‘What did you say?’ Stephen hissed.

‘I told her that, unless she told the truth,’ Anselm whispered, ‘I had a vision of how, within a year and a day, she would join her husband in purgatory.’ He nudged Stephen playfully. ‘It always works; it still might.’

Adele took them into the buttery, a squalid room with chipped shelves, battered cups and tranchers, small casks and barrels. ‘What do you want?’ She sat down on a stool and nodded back at the taproom where raucous singing had begun. ‘I have guests to cater for.’

‘And a tidy profit to make on your husband’s death, Mistress Adele? I will be brief. You do not seem to be the grieving widow?’

‘That, Reverend Brother, is because I am not.’ Adele wiped her nose on the back of her hand. ‘I am no hypocrite. Bardolph was dead to me long before he was pushed from that tower.’

‘Pushed?’

‘Yes, Brother, pushed! What was Bardolph, a gravedigger and womanizer, doing on the top of Saint Michael’s tower? Why go there?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Did he ever go there before?’

‘Never. I tell you, Bardolph didn’t like heights.’

‘So why should someone push him? Did he have enemies?’

‘Were you your husband’s enemy?’ Stephen asked.

‘Bardolph had no time for me. We were indifferent to each other. He was only interested in his whores from that nugging house, The Oil of Gladness in Gullet Lane.’

‘Nugging house?’ Stephen asked.

‘Brothel,’ Anselm whispered.

‘He was a mutton-monger.’ Adele paused to listen to a cackle of laughter from the taproom. Stephen scrutinized this cunning woman, her soul steeped in malice. She had an aura of squalid unease, a dirtiness of spirit.

‘He was always one for the ladybirds.’ She continued: ‘Prostitutes.’ Adele sniggered. ‘Well, not now.’ She fingered the silver chain around her thick, sweaty neck: a small gold swan hung delicately from it. Both looked out of place next to the dirt-lined seams and wrinkles of her skin. ‘One in particular.’ Adele sniffed. ‘Edith Swan-neck is what that princess of the night called herself. Bought her this as a present, he did.’

‘And?’

‘The little whore disappeared, God knows where. Bardolph searched but even her sisters of the night at The Oil of Gladness couldn’t tell him.’

‘So the necklace?’ Anselm asked.

‘Bardolph claimed he found it in the cemetery at Saint Michael’s, lying in the grass. Oh, that was some time ago. Anyway, after that he’d say strange things. .’

‘Mistress?’ Anselm drew a coin from his belt purse and put it on top of an upturned barrel.

‘He said he would have his revenge against Parson Smollat.’

‘Revenge?’

‘I don’t know why. Bardolph also boasted how he would be rich one day — then I would see him in a different light. I have, haven’t I?’ she sneered. ‘Corpse light!’ Again, she sniffed. ‘I can tell you no more. He left this morning as usual, told me to look after the alehouse. God alone knows what happened.’ Adele’s fingers edged towards the coin on the barrel but Anselm picked it up and slipped it back into his purse.

‘If you have anything more, Mistress, but not until then.’

They left the alehouse and walked through the gloaming towards the torches flickering on the main thoroughfare. These had been lit by the wardsmen who had also fired the rubbish heaps to create more light and some warmth for the destitute slinking out of their corners and recesses. Some of these brought scraps of raw meat to grill and cook over the flames. The smell of rancid fat swirled everywhere. Stephen kept close to Anselm for this was the haunt of the night-walkers, the brothers and sisters of the dark, the fraternity of the bone: carrion-hunters, snakes-men, moonrakers, slop-collectors and all the rest who waited for the cover of night to do their work. The two Carmelites were swiftly inspected and ignored. A group of mounted archers appeared and the bobbing shadows and weasel-faces, all cowled and hooded, quickly disappeared. Anselm took advantage of this, stopping by a fire, watching the archers clatter by.

‘Magister, Bardolph?’

‘What do you think, Stephen?’ Anselm replied. ‘What do I think? Are we thinking what we are supposed to be thinking?’

‘Magister, you are talking in riddles.’

‘So I am — my apologies. Was Bardolph’s death the result of the haunting? Did he become possessed? Was he forced up to the top of that tower and made to jump? Or was he fleeing from some horror which crawled out of the walls?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Stephen replied, looking to his right as the people of the dark began to gather again. ‘I reflected on what happened while Adele was chattering. I saw Bardolph’s corpse, all pure in its white shroud, except for that sin-eater.’

‘Paganism,’ Anselm intervened, ‘but continue, Stephen.’

‘In life Bardolph was a man cloaked in dirt and mud. We found traces of that on the tower near the place where he fell.’

‘And?’

‘I watched you, Magister, as we went down that tower. You found no trace of mud or dirt on the steps or stairwell. Is that right?’

‘Yes, correct. You are the most observant of novices. What else?’

‘Bardolph didn’t like heights. True, he could have been possessed but why should demons take someone they already have? A man immersed in the lusts of the flesh.’

Anselm softly clapped his hands. ‘The most subtle of novices. And?’

‘I believe Bardolph was carried to the top of that tower and thrown down. He was probably taken up wrapped in a sheet or a piece of canvas which would account for no trace of mud being left on the stairs or steps.’

‘Stephen, I believe the same. Yet, when Bardolph fell, was not everybody clustered around that table in Sir William’s house?’

‘Except for the Midnight Man and his coven?’

‘I agree. Bardolph’s assassins, whoever they may be, want us to regard Bardolph as the victim of secret, dark forces. He was, but those powers were of this world rather than the next.’

‘Magister, what do you think is happening?’

‘It is very simple.’ Anselm stretched his hands out to the flame. ‘Now you are cold, you draw close to this fire. What came first? Why, the idea, of course. If you were warm would you even give this bonfire a second glance? Now, Stephen, think of something unpleasant.’

‘My father!’

Anselm laughed softly. ‘If you must. However, do you feel your body react at the thought of this man who believes you are madcap and fey-witted, so much so that he wanted to lock you away in some convent home? He dismissed what you saw, heard and felt, as the result of upset humours. He cast you out. Now, Stephen, what do you feel? A beating of the heart? A tumult in the stomach and bowels? So, change your thoughts and think of something pleasant. Alice Palmer, the maid who kissed you?’ He nudged Stephen. ‘That will not be difficult. Think of her lovely lips, the gentle cusp of her cheek, her pretty eyes. Oh, God be thanked,’ Anselm murmured, ‘for the vision of women. You feel happy, contented, flattered?’ Anselm grasped a piece of stick and prodded the flames making the sparks flutter and rise. ‘The business of Saint Michael’s and the abbey is very similar. Powerful emotions are expressing themselves in the phenomena we see. The cause is not human weakness but something much darker: ice-cold malice.’

‘Such as?’

‘Murder, Stephen — horrid, cruel, calculating murder allied to a malicious interference from the spirit world.’

‘Murder?’

‘Oh, yes, Stephen — the slaughter of innocents. Some hideous crime which shrieks for justice — not Bardolph’s, but whose, as yet, we do not know. Now,’ he sighed, ‘your august but severe father asked me to educate you and so I shall.’ Anselm swiftly glanced over his shoulder. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he whispered, ‘I think we are being followed. Anyway, Stephen, have you ever been to a brothel? No, I don’t think you have. Well, it’s The Oil of Gladness in Gutter Lane for us.’

Anselm asked directions from a surprised beadle supervising the feeding of the different bonfires now burning merrily along the runnel. The Carmelites strode off, pushing through the now gathering throng as the Worms of London, the poor and all their associates, swarmed out of their rat-like dens to search for what the city had left them. The streets were busy as the different fraternities from the guilds dispensed their charity: the Brotherhood of the Heavenly Manna, the Society of the Crumb, the Sisterhood of Martha, the Brethren of Lazarus — men and women garbed in penitential robes pulling hand-carts and barrows full of food, meat, bread and fruit rejected by the markets. Torches glowed. Flames juddered against the whipping breeze. Smells and cries carried. Beadles, bailiffs and wardsmen wandered armed with cudgels, swords, pikes and ropes, searching for those sanctuary men who thought they could leave the safety of their havens at St Paul’s and St Martin’s to wander the streets hunting for food, plunder and further mischief. London’s underworld had opened up. Anselm, clutching his satchel, walked fast. He kept to the centre of the street though he was careful of the filth-crammed sewer.

They reached The Oil of Gladness in Gutter Lane. From the outside it looked like a small, prosperous tavern with smartly-painted red woodwork and mullioned glass windows in all three stories. The door was guarded by two well-known water-pads: thieves who stole from barges on the river. Anselm greeted both like old friends. ‘This is my companion, a novice,’ Anselm declared.

The two monsters stepped fully into the pool of light created by the torches flaring either side of the doorway. ‘Stephen, this is Stubface. You can see why. He had the pox which pitted his face while the other,’ Anselm gestured at the smaller of the two, ‘is Wintersday, called so because, allegedly, he is short and very nasty. Well, my beloveds?’

The two oafs muffled in their cloaks shuffled even further forward, their bewhiskered, ugly faces furrowed in puzzlement. Both reeked heavily of ale. Stephen was wary of the nail-studded maces they carried. Wintersday was the first to regain whatever wits he had, his misshapen, grey features cracking into a broken-toothed smile. ‘Why, God bless us all, Brother Anselm! What in heaven’s name are you doing here? Surely you are not looking for a mort, a doxy?’

‘No, my brother in the Lord, just words with your mistress.’

‘You mean the Lady Abbess?’ Stubface barked.

‘You can call her that,’ Anselm retorted, ‘I don’t.’ He strode between both men and gripped their shoulders. ‘Let us proceed in God’s name.’ Anselm turned both men by the shoulder and marched them up the steps. Wintersday lifted the iron clasp on the door, carved in the form of a penis, and clattered it against the wood. The door swung open and a young woman dressed in white like a novice nun invited them in. She looked both Carmelites from head to toe, pulled a face and muttered something about everyone being welcome. She then ushered them into a small, very comfortable antechamber, its walls decorated with frescoes which immediately intrigued Anselm but made Stephen blush. The novice nun stood in the doorway a little longer, grinning at Stephen until the two burly guards, left standing in the hall, insisted she let them out. She closed the door behind her. Stephen, in his embarrassment, continued to stare down at the soft turkey cloths which covered the floor, now and again darting glances around the comfortable chamber with its elegantly carved dressers for wine and goblets, the quilted stools and leather-backed chairs.

‘Interesting,’ said Anselm as he turned away from the fresco depicting the god Pan playing with two fauns. ‘Stephen, don’t be embarrassed. I saw worse at a house in Paris. It is just wonderful,’ he sighed, ‘how humans are fascinated by love in all its many aspects. It constantly intrigues me.’

‘Magister,’ Stephen asked, eager to change the subject, ‘how do you know those two guards outside?’

‘Oh, Stubface and Wintersday? Once, for my many sins, I served as chaplain to the prisons of Newgate, Fleet and Marshalsea, and those two beloveds were regular members of my parish. God knows how they’ve escaped hanging at the Elms at Smithfield or the Forks near Tyburn stream. Of course, they have a powerful patron, our so-called Lady Abbess, proprietor of this house. Indeed, someone I also consider a former member of my parish, Lady Rohesia Clamath, self-styled Irish princess, a famous whore and former courtesan, probably knows more about the human heart than a whole convent of Carmelites.’

The door opened and a stately woman dressed completely in a dark blue veil and gown swept into the chamber, her long, unpainted, severe face framed by a starched white wimple. A gold cord circled her slender waist while the buskins she wore were of silver satin and decorated with small roses of red damask. She glared disapprovingly at Stephen but her face broke into a brilliant smile as Anselm, who’d decided to study the fresco once more, turned and walked over to her, grasping her hands to kiss them gently.

‘Anselm,’ she murmured, clutching his fingers, ‘you have not come. .?’

‘No.’ The exorcist shook his head and ushered her to a seat. He drew up a stool, beckoning at Stephen to do likewise. ‘There will be no Lady Abbess nonsense here, Rohesia Clamath. Bardolph the gravedigger?’

‘Blunt as usual.’ Rohesia grinned. ‘Still, good to see you. I will never forget. .’

‘Please,’ Anselm tapped her knee, ‘leave the dead to bury their dead. The past is gone. Bardolph the gravedigger from Saint Michael’s, Candlewick?’

‘Bardolph was a frequent visitor, like so many of his parish.’

‘Mistress?’

‘Almaric the curate, Simon the sexton. .’ Rohesia was enjoying herself, using her long, delicate fingers to list more names, ‘. . and Bardolph the gravedigger.’ She smiled.

‘Parson Smollat?’

‘Never but, there again, Anselm, why should he? His woman Isolda once worked here and, by all accounts, was very popular.’

‘Sir Miles Beauchamp?’

‘Oh, our mysterious clerk who slinks like a shadow? No, he has never graced my house with his presence, but you never know.’

Anselm sat with his fingers to his lips.

‘Don’t be surprised,’ Rohesia caressed his cheek softly, ‘that so many of Saint Michael’s parish come here. Welcome to the world of men, Brother Anselm, where fornication and swiving are as natural and common as eating and drinking. You all eventually come here,’ she added, softly pausing at a laugh which echoed from deep in the house. ‘I am breaking confidence, Anselm, because I trust you, I like you. I am in your debt. And,’ she made a moue with her mouth, ‘I have also heard about the commotion at Saint Michael’s — the news, the gossip, the chatter which runs through these alleyways swifter than a colony of rats. Even more so now that Bardolph has flown from his church tower, poor man.’ Rohesia bowed her head, fingers picking at a thread in her beautiful gown.

Stephen sat, fascinated. He had never met anyone like Rohesia — so serene, so confident. She talked about the world of men; what, Stephen reflected, would it be like to enter the world of women? This chamber, so delicately painted, elegantly furnished, its air sweet with the most alluring of fragrances.

Rohesia stared at Stephen, her face more gentle. ‘Another man of visions,’ she murmured. ‘Bardolph,’ she turned back, her tone brisker, ‘often came here. He was infatuated with one of my nuns.’

‘Girls,’ Anselm corrected. ‘Edith Swan-neck?’

‘Or so he called her,’ Rohesia replied. ‘Infatuated with her. Bardolph could not do enough: presents, trinkets, ribbons, gowns, even a furred hood.’

‘And?’

‘Now I will tell you, Anselm. Edith disappeared,’ she drew a deep breath, ‘along with others.’

‘What others?’

‘Brother, I talked of the world of men where we women are regarded as chattels no better than cattle. Young women, Anselm, are disappearing here in Dowgate and beyond. I know,’ her voice grew forceful, ‘girls disappear in London every day, but that is not strictly true. They disappear but their corpses are found, plucked from the reed beds along the Thames, or beneath some filthy laystall or out in the heathland beyond Cripplegate. This is different. Young women like Edith are disappearing without trace, never to be found again.’

Stephen glanced to his right. He glimpsed something fluttering like a bird which swoops then disappears. This comfortable chamber had grown darker. Voices whispered then faded. He shivered from the fear which coursed coldly around the nape of his neck.

‘Magister,’ he murmured, ‘remember the girl from The Unicorn?’

‘What girl?’

Stephen told Rohesia, trying to hide his blush. She smiled sweetly.

‘And the others,’ Stephen added. ‘Do you remember, Magister? The same day we were returning to White Friars? The market beadle, bawling out the description of two missing whores? I mean,’ Stephen hastily corrected himself, ‘two young women.’

‘Whores, Stephen, you are correct.’ Rohesia smiled bleakly. ‘I and others have heard the same. Whores, prostitutes, yet still God’s children. Young women who have disappeared without trace.’

‘Edith Swan-neck was one of these?’

‘Yes, Anselm, but with a difference. In Bardolph’s search for Edith he scoured the streets and runnels. He bribed and cajoled. I helped him but to no effect. Then, by mere chance, Bardolph decided to search the cemetery of Saint Michael’s and found a necklace he had given to Edith. He came here all glowering and solemn. He suspected Edith may have lain with someone else in the graveyard. I told him not to be so stupid.’

‘Why?’

‘Edith only went there to please Bardolph. In fact, the day she disappeared, she had gone out looking for him but never returned. The necklace was the only thing of hers ever found.’

‘And Bardolph?’

‘I heard rumours that he boasted how he would be rich. He would own great treasure.’ She shrugged. ‘Bardolph, our Knight of the Firey Nose, was an empty gong full of sound and fury with little substance. Now, sirs.’ Rohesia made to rise.

‘Rohesia! Rohesia! We are not finished yet. Sir William Higden — does he come here?’

‘No,’ she retorted. ‘They say Sir William loves books and boys but that,’ she pulled a face, ‘is only rumour.’

‘And Edith Swan-neck before she disappeared. . did she say or do anything untoward?’

Rohesia chewed the corner of her lip. ‘Yes, she seemed pleased about something. Well, as if laughing to herself.’ She sniffed noisily. ‘Brother Anselm, the hour is late — I can tell you no more.’ This time Anselm let her rise. They made their farewells, went out into the hallway and back into Gutter Lane. They re-entered the tangle of alleyways, the melancholy wasteland around White Friars. ‘Magister, what do you make of what Rohesia said?’

‘She has a bold heart, a voice of power and a strong countenance,’ Anselm retorted. ‘Do you know Rohesia has asked to be buried with a flagon of wine and a goblet to ready herself to drink the first toast in hell? Somehow I don’t think she will be drinking there.’ He gestured to Stephen to walk alongside him. ‘We are all going to be very surprised about who is chosen for heaven. Anyway, Stephen, to answer your question, Rohesia has pointed us, perhaps not to the truth, but certainly to the way there. Well, now I am going to find my path to a different place.’

Anselm strode on, Stephen hurrying beside him. It was lamplight time, the hour of the Jacob thieves who, armed with ladders, climbed on to the roofs of houses and moved across the narrow gaps between them, searching for an open attic window. The brotherhood of the beggar were also marshalling together with all the other counterfeits, cheats and thieves pouring out of their shabby, underground cellars. Strange cries echoed. The gathering gloom was lit only by the occasional horn box containing a burning tallow candle suspended out of some window. The midnight thieves, however, ignored the Carmelites treading through the slops and dirt of the mean alleyways. This was the dead hour and these malefactors were more interested in fresh prey or spending the fruits of their earlier hunts in the low-ceilinged alehouses and wine shops. Anselm turned and went down a runnel which was more like a covered passageway, the houses on either side closing in over their heads. No candle or lamp gleamed but a light at the far end beckoned them on. Stephen shivered. He turned to his right and stifled a scream at a face peering through the narrow slats of a fence. A pallid, white-haired woman with black, glowing eyes was holding a lamp in both hands just beneath her chin. Stephen blinked and looked again, but the woman had gone.

They reached the end of the alleyway and entered a box-like square, its cobbled ground gleaming in the light of torches fixed to the walls. In the centre of the square stood the bowl, casing and roof of a huge well, illuminated by two roaring braziers. Along three sides of the square ranged black-and-white timbered houses, their windows filled with strengthened linen or clear horn. Lamplight glowed at some of these windows. On the far side of the square rose the dark silhouette of a church, more like a barn, built out of black stone with a ramp rather than steps leading up to the great iron-bound door. A hooded figure sat on a stool to the right of this porch, warming his fingers over a chafing dish. Above him flambeaux fixed in iron clasps licked the air with leaping flames.

‘Magister, what is this?’

‘Mandrake Place. The houses belong to the Fraternity of the Suspercol.’

‘Who?’

‘The Suspercol,’ Anselm repeated, ‘short for the Latin, Suspenditur per collem — hanged by the neck — and that, Stephen, is their Chapel of the Damned.’

As they crossed the square Stephen remarked how clean it was — no refuse or piled mounds of rubbish.

‘That’s because this place is sacred to the Brotherhood of the Twilight,’ Anselm explained. ‘Thieves, cozeners and counterfeits. The dung-carts come here at least four times a day and the guardians wash the cobbles with water from the well.’

They reached the foot of the ramp and walked up. The guard seated on the stool rose to greet them. Stephen was aware of others lurking deep in the shadows on either side of the church. The guard pushed back his cowl to reveal a white, gaunt, bony face like that of a skeleton, his long, scraggy neck scarred by a deep red ring like some ghastly necklace.

‘Half-hanged Malkin, greetings!’

‘Greetings to you and yours, Brother Anselm.’ The man bowed and opened the door, ushering them into the church.

‘Half-hanged?’ Stephen whispered.

‘At Tyburn Forks ten years ago,’ Anselm murmured, ‘he hung for an hour, and when they cut him down he revived. A miracle! He received the King’s pardon and is one of the guardians here.’ Stephen only half-listened, already startled by the church he had entered. A long nave stretched up to a vividly painted red rood screen where pride of place was given to the Good Thief. Eye-catching frescoes, crude but vigorous, decorated the walls, their scenes brought to life by the candle spigots placed along each aisle. The floor was of plain paving stones but in the centre were two broad trapdoors sealed with a clasp. Clearly seen through the rood screen stood the main altar, stark and unadorned beneath a silver pyx and glowing red sanctuary lamp. The Lady chapel to its left was equally sparse and bleak.

The atmosphere of that desolate chapel enveloped Stephen in a sombre embrace. It was a place of sadness and hidden fears. For a few heartbeats the rood screen seemed to disappear, replaced by a luxurious, sprouting oak tree from which many corpses hung in manacles. This faded. Stephen became aware of the charcoal crackling in pots and the pleasing wisps of heavy incense.

‘The Chapel of the Damned,’ Anselm explained. ‘Off the beaten track, not visited by many. Certainly not on the eve of the feast of Saint Mark.’

‘The same day Puddlicot broke into the crypt?’

‘Precisely, Stephen and, according to the records, the eve of his grisly execution two years later. All this, Mandrake Place, the church, the houses and the Fraternity of the Suspercol, were once the property of an English leper knight of the Order of Saint Lazarus. He bequeathed it to serve as a place where the corpses of those hanged in London and elsewhere might be brought.’ Anselm pointed to the trapdoor. ‘Beneath that stretch are extensive burial pits of soil and lime. The corpses of many executed are brought here on the death-cart which they roll up that ramp into the church. They wrap each corpse in a sheet and lower it down for burial. I went down there once — a seemingly endless sea of bones and skulls.’

‘And Puddlicot lies here?’

‘Yes, Stephen, he does; his corpse no more than a tangle of bones.’

‘Why have we come here tonight? To catch a sighting?’

‘No, I do not think anything will happen here. We will, however, tarry at this, his last resting place. We shall assure his soul that we are its benefactor, not tormentor, as well as vow to arrange requiem Masses to be sung.’ Anselm walked to the edge of the vault. He knelt and began to thread his rosary beads. As Stephen went to join him the main door opened and two women entered. The first was very old and grey-haired, with stooped shoulders, one hand grasping a walking cane, the other the arm of her companion. Both were dressed in the brown robes and white wimples of the Franciscan Minoresses who had their convent outside the old city wall near Aldgate. The two nuns stood watching them for a while before walking on up under the rood screen. Anselm hardly noticed them but continued reciting the Dirige psalms. Stephen crouched at the foot of a pillar. He tried to pray but his eyes grew heavy, aware of flashes of light around him and the dim murmur of voices. A commotion at the door roused him. He hurried back to find the guardian barring the way to a group of young, heavily-armed men. Former soldiers, Stephen concluded, judging by their close-cropped hair and hard, scarred faces. They were dressed in dark leather jerkins, tight hose pushed into their boots. Six in number, their leader had already drawn both sword and dagger.

‘What is this?’ Anselm came out on to the porch and stood on the top step.

‘Brother Anselm.’ The leader sheathed sword and dagger. ‘The hour is late but Sir Miles Beauchamp. .’

‘What about him?’

‘We are his henchmen. I am Cutwolf.’

‘He mentioned your name to me once.’

‘My companions, Oldtoast and Mutton-monger.’ Cutwolf waved a hand.

‘You have been following us?’

‘Of course, Brother Anselm. Your safety is close to the heart of Sir Miles and what he wants. .’

‘What does he want?’

‘Your presence at Bardolph’s alehouse, The Burning Bush.’ Cutwolf grinned. ‘The widow, the now dead widow, was suddenly taken ill and died over an hour ago.’ Cutwolf pointed to another of his companions. ‘Holyinnocent here brought the news. Sir Miles awaits.’

The Burning Bush was guarded by more of Beauchamp’s men as well as royal archers from the Tower. The taproom inside was cleared, and Adele’s corpse lay stretched out next to her husband. A linen cloth draped the body. Sir William and Sir Miles, together with Almaric, Simon and Gascelyn, were present. One of Adele’s servitors cowered in a shadowy corner. The Carmelites moved into the circle of light around the corpses, where a nervous, shabbily-dressed physician was drying his hands.

‘What happened?’ Anselm asked.

‘We were making ready for the burial of old Bardolph,’ the street physician declared. ‘Adele brought a flask of wine, broached it and drank. Suddenly her head and neck were thrown back, and her throat and stomach swelled up. Her face turned as red as the crest of a cock. Her eyes, horrible to see, started out of her head, her tongue all swollen, turning a purplish-black.’

‘Possessed by demons,’ Almaric whispered.

‘Nonsense!’ Stephen exclaimed. Everyone stared at him.

‘Nonsense?’ Beauchamp queried.

‘Poison,’ Stephen replied, ‘arsenic poisoning.’

‘Tell us, learned physician,’ Almaric taunted.

‘My father was a physician. He made me accompany him on all his visits,’ Stephen retorted. ‘I have seen Adele’s symptoms in at least three of my father’s patients.’

‘Mere prattling!’ Sir William replied.

‘Hush, now,’ Anselm demanded.

‘I have seen these symptoms.’ Stephen felt his confidence rise. ‘A very strong infusion of raw, red or white arsenic will cause such an effect. My father unmasked two poisoners. I watched them burn in the square before Winchester Cathederal.’ Stephen glared around. ‘My father always made me write up the symptoms he examined. Adele’s death was sudden and violent — the infusion must have been very strong. Arsenic,’ he continued heatedly, ‘can be bought commonly enough. Some people — fools — use it either as a cure for stomach cramps or even as an aphrodisiac.’

‘But why?’ Sir William scoffed. ‘Why her, and how did it happen?’

‘Sirs.’ The servitor shuffled out of the darkness carrying a small flask, its stopper pulled back. ‘Sirs, this was delivered at the door. I saw the mistress bring it in. She drank from it, put it down and a short while later she was racked in agony.’ Stephen took the flask; the stopper seal had been broken. The flask was almost empty but when he sniffed he detected something acrid mingling with the strong, fruity odour of claret. ‘If you still don’t believe me,’ Stephen fought off a wave of tiredness, ‘put this down for vermin to drink — they will not survive long.’ Stephen grasped a pewter goblet from the top of a barrel, poured the remaining wine into it and shook the grainy sediment out into the glow of candlelight. ‘There are your demons.’ Stephen pointed at the sediment. ‘The wine is heavily tainted; strong enough to snatch the soul from her body many times over.’

‘Somebody wanted Adele dead,’ Anselm wondered out loud. ‘But who, and why? Let’s search this place.’

‘Why?’ Sir William declared.

‘I’ll tell you when we find it,’ Anselm quipped.

They conducted their search in the squalid taproom, the dirt-encrusted scullery and buttery, the two chambers above and the dust-filled attic. The rooms were filthy and chaotic, reeking of staleness and neglect. They emptied broken caskets and coffers, moved the straw-filled mattresses and black-stained bolsters but found only tawdry items. They all gathered, yawning and stretching, in the taproom, where someone had thrown the sheet back over Adele’s corpse.

‘Magister,’ Stephen whispered, ‘the hour is very late. I am exhausted.’

‘Gentlemen,’ Sir William Higden stood next to both corpses, ‘surely we have finished here? I will take care of the cadavers. The hour of compline is long gone. These matters must wait for the morrow.’

Beauchamp and Anselm agreed. The royal clerk led the two Carmelites out of the shabby alehouse. Cutwolf and the others were waiting outside, torches held high. ‘Come,’ Sir Miles smiled through the dark, ‘we will see you safely to White Friars.’

They moved off deep into the dark, the glow of torch on naked steel keeping the busy shadows at bay. The clink and clatter of weapons, the tramp of booted, spurred feet, stilled all other noise. Beauchamp walked in silence then came between Stephen and Anselm. ‘You do realize what was wrong with our search?’ he asked.

‘We didn’t find anything,’ Anselm murmured. ‘We should have done. More curious still, Bardolph and Adele were parishioners yet never once in that shabby, mean house did I find a crucifix, a statue, a set of Ave beads or any other religious artefacts.’ Anselm pulled his cowl up against the night breeze. ‘In fact, I suspect that someone went through that house before us and removed certain items.’

‘What?’ Beauchamp asked.

‘Oh, anything associated with magic and the black rites,’ Anselm replied. ‘I suspect Adele, perhaps even Bardolph, were members of a coven.’

‘The Midnight Man’s?’

‘Very possible,’ Anselm replied.

Stephen quickly crossed himself against a thought. Was it sinful, malevolent or the truth? Was the Midnight Man someone very close to them?