The Midnight Man (15 page)

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.