The Midnight Man (19 page)

Stephen sensed the change in the air around him. He braced himself against what was to come. Two shapes raced out of the murk – square-faced gnomes garbed in leather jackets and blood-spattered butcher aprons. Stephen closed his eyes and turned away. When he looked again there was nothing. Anselm and Beauchamp crouched in the centre of the chamber, examining a canvas mattress above which hung a chain fixed to the ceiling. Beside the mattress lay a great black iron dish containing tongs, pincers and fleshing hooks with points as sharp as dragon's teeth. Stephen crossed to join them. The mattress was soaked in blood. A deep dread seized Stephen, chilling him to the very marrow. Anselm was right: horrid murder had been committed here.

‘Who?' Beauchamp spoke for them all. ‘Why?'

‘Some devilish practice,' Anselm replied, rubbing his arms. ‘It's cold,' he breathed. ‘This place reeks of evil. We should not stay here long.'

Stephen heard a sound and turned. Shapes, swift and darting, furry shadows like those of a nimble monkey or scurrying squirrel, crossed the wall just below the ceiling.

‘Let us leave here!' Stephen hissed. He hurried up the steps, gulping the fresh air, turning his face to the sun. Anselm and Beauchamp followed. The exorcist sat on the rim of the broken fountain. ‘You say this was once Puddlicot's house?' Anselm asked.

‘Yes, our crypt robber set up household here with his leman Joanne Picard.' Beauchamp, rubbing his hands, sat down next to the Carmelite, his face pale and drawn.

‘This is what I think,' Anselm declared. He gestured round the garden. ‘The corpse of Rishanger's mistress was found here?'

‘In the orchard,' Beauchamp agreed.

‘I suspect Rishanger purchased this house,' Anselm continued, ‘so that he could discover whether or not Puddlicot buried his treasure here.'

‘And did he?'

‘No, I don't think so, though I do wonder about those two items. Anyway, Puddlicot's treasure is only a part of this bloody tapestry of murder and abomination. Rishanger was a blood-drinker. A man who liked to entice young women, imprison them in that hideous cavern and subject them to all forms of abuse for his own pleasure. He sated his lusts; such bloody acts loosened his seed.'

Beauchamp, alerted by shouting from beyond the walls, got to his feet. ‘One of my henchmen,' he murmured as he unsheathed his sword.

‘I haven't yet finished,' Anselm remarked as he rose. ‘Forget the overgrown herbers, vegetable garden, flower plots – all of this is a disguise. Trust me, Beauchamp. So, alert the ward. Raise the hue and cry. Shout, “Harrow harrow!” Have this entire garden dug up. You will find a carefully concealed burial pit containing the pathetic remains of young women – Rishanger's victims.'

‘Did he practice his black rites here?'

‘No,' Anselm replied, ‘they need consecrated ground for that. This house stands alone, the garden protected by a very high wall. Inquisitive neighbours can't peer in. It's the perfect place to entice a young street-walker to be taken down to that ungodly crypt to become Rishanger's plaything.'

‘But Edith Swan-neck's necklace was found in Saint Michael's cemetery. Do you think her corpse is buried here?' Stephen asked.

‘I do not know, Stephen. I cannot answer that.' The exorcist paused as Holyinnocent came into the garden, shouting that the graves at St Michael's had been opened and now awaited their inspection.

By the time they reached St Michael's a crowd had gathered outside the lychgate. The ward was now alerted. The throng of angry people were resentful at what was happening, openly grumbling at this disturbance of the dead following so soon after the macabre death of Bardolph the gravedigger. The afternoon was greying over, the clouds gathering low and threatening. The sunlight had faded, heightening the feeling of sombre menace which Stephen always experienced when entering the cemetery. Cutwolf and his men, who had drunk deeply at a nearby tavern to fortify themselves, had exchanged harsh words with the angry parishioners. The henchmen now sprawled with their backs against tombstones and crosses but scrambled to their feet as Sir William Higden, followed by Almaric, Gascelyn and Parson Smollat, strode out of the church to greet the royal clerk and the two Carmelites.

‘I hope this is necessary,' Sir William snapped. ‘The graves are open.'

‘I now doubt if we will find anything here,' Anselm crossed himself, ‘just as we didn't discover anything at Rishanger's house. Sir William, you are a royal justice in this ward, yes?'

Sir William, his face now concerned, nodded.

Anselm gestured at Beauchamp, who described in sharp, curt sentences what they had found and what they intended to do. ‘Cutwolf!' The royal clerk waved at Sir William to hold his questions. ‘Cutwolf, go to Rishanger's house, take your men and impress every layabout between here and that dead demon's abode. You have my authority and that of the local justice. Dig up the entire garden until you find what is undoubtedly buried there. Now, Parson Smollat, the first grave?'

They moved across to the deep pit Cutwolf and his men had cleared. At the bottom lay a mouldy coffin, nothing better than a cheap arrow chest. Gascelyn, Smollat and the sexton, helped by the others, seized the ropes Cutwolf had lashed around the coffin and slowly began to raise it.

The chest swayed, hitting the sides of the pit. Shards of wood and lumps of soil broke free. A chilling, difficult task, as if the corpse inside was resisting this violent interruption to its eternal sleep. At last the coffin broke free of the earth, and as they settled it on the side of the grave, the top part of the chest broke away to reveal a yellowing, twisted skull, jaws gaping in a ghastly grin. ‘Master Ralph Fluberval,' Parson Smollat announced. ‘Once a tanner, certainly a sinner.' The parson laughed at his grim joke. ‘A widower, miserly he was, went to God after suffering a violent bout of the flux. Bardolph dug the grave.' Anselm knelt down, making the sign of the cross over the skeleton's head. Ignoring the protests of the others, he ripped off the rest of the coffin lid, examined its grisly contents and went to stand over the grave. Gascelyn, without being asked, clambered into the yawning hole and dropped down. Sir William handed him a spade which he dug into the packed soil. ‘Brother Anselm,' he called up, ‘there is nothing here but dirt.'

‘Of course there isn't,' Anselm replied, ‘let us examine the others.' They moved away. Stephen crouched on the grass. He felt hungry, tired and wished they could return to The Unicorn. He watched them walk away. A door banged. He glanced over his shoulder at the church. The corpse door, shifted by the breeze, opened and shut again. Stephen rose, stumbling across the mounds, kicking aside the trailing briar branches and ankle-catching weeds. He reached the corpse door and stepped inside. The church was dark. Light still poured through some of the leaded lattice windows. Strokes of sunlight scarred the paving stones beneath. Candles flamed yet they seemed from afar like the fire of a forge deep in dark woods.

‘More horned than a unicorn,' a throaty voice mocked. ‘For all your chastity, novice, you have a nose for smelling out a dainty bit, haven't you, Stephen? Eager to get to her, are you?' Stephen stood, his back against the rusty, creaking corpse door. He peered through the gloom; his throat turned dry. A shadow against one of the drum-like pillars separated itself and moved towards him like a hunter speeds soft-shoed across the grass. ‘Like a heron pokes a walnut shell, isn't it, Stephen? Thinking of getting between her thighs, are you?' Darts of fire flickered and died. The hand of the shifting shadow came out, grasping Stephen's wrist in an eagle's grip. Just then he heard a knocking on the door behind him. Breathless, sweating, he turned, eager to escape from the nightmare. He opened the door. An old woman holding a lamp stood waiting. She was almost bent double, clothed in rags, hair covering her shrivelled face. Around her head was a dirty dishcloth, while her face, neck and hands were a mass of wrinkles; toothless, her lips receded over blood-red gums. All around her purple lips sprouted tufts of soft, white hair which gave her the look of a whiskered, demure cat, apart from her eyes – small black holes dancing with malice. ‘Come with me.' The old head bobbed like that of a sparrow. Her movements were jerky, her eyes glittered and her lips twisted in a grin. She gestured with her hand. ‘Come with me.' The voice curled in a viper-like hiss. Stephen looked beyond her. There was no graveyard now, just a long, dirty room. The plaster on the walls was crumbling, the blackened beams dotted with cruel hooks. Cobwebs hung thick and heavy as tapestries. A cat lay sprawled on an ash heap; when it lifted its head its face was human like that of the harridan. The cat opened its mouth and spoke. ‘Ah, Stephen,' it purred, ‘man's flesh is viler than the skin of a sheep. When sheep are dead their skin still has some use, for it is pulled clear and written upon. But, with men, flesh and blood profit nothing.'

Stephen hastily stepped forward, only to find himself falling.

‘Stephen, Stephen!'

The novice shook his head and opened his eyes. Anselm crouched beside him, gently tapping his face. Close by stood Beauchamp, a dark shape, just like that black shadow which had confronted him in the church. ‘I saw you go into Saint Michael's,' the clerk drawled, ‘but then you never came out so . . .' his voice trailed off.

‘Does he suffer from the falling sickness?' Parson Smollat bustled up. Stephen gazed past him at where the rest stood, heads together.

‘Stephen, you're just hungry, aren't you, lad?' Anselm asked. The novice clambered up. The day was drawing on. Dusk was creeping in. Somewhere a lych bird, the ever chattering nightjar, made its chilling call.

‘There is nothing here,' Anselm declared, ‘nothing but old bones, shroud shards and crumbling wood. Let us go.'

The Carmelites made their farewells and, accompanied by Beauchamp and his retainers, re-entered the narrow lanes of Dowgate.

‘Who will re-inter the dead?' Stephen asked.

‘Let Parson Smollat take care of that,' Anselm replied. ‘I must say our parson does seem a much preoccupied man.'

They continued up the lanes. Trading was drawing to an end and citizens were making their way home along the messy thoroughfares. Apprentices still shouted. Beggars shook their clacking dishes. But, as Anselm murmured, the day was done and they were all for the dark. A cold, stiff breeze forced them to keep their cowls up across their heads. Garish signs displaying all kinds of heraldry, mythical beasts and guild insignia, creaked on rusty chains. Lanterns, lamps and tapers flared at windows or glimmered through the chinks of shutters. They reached The Unicorn, where the stable yard was busy with a line of sumpter ponies and two huge carts delivering purveyance. Coals glowed from the small forge in its narrow shed where the smith still pounded the anvil. The air was a fog of different smells: burning hair, smoking charcoal, the rich tang of manure and the various cooking smells from the kitchen and buttery. Two pie men, who had used the tavern bakery, came out with their trays slung about their necks, eager to entice passers-by with cries of ‘Warm patties, really hot! Warm patties, scorching hot!' Stephen and his companions shoved through these. Beauchamp's men went ahead into the tavern. Stephen followed and closed his eyes momentarily in pleasure at its cloying warmth and savoury smells. Alice appeared along a passageway, looking rather dishevelled. Flour dusted her blue veil and gown as well as her hands and face. Nevertheless, she still gave Stephen the sweetest smile and swiftly called for her father, a tall, balding Minehost with a fine face and deep, welcoming voice. The apron he wore was clean, as were the napkins over his left arm. He bowed at Sir Miles and the two Carmelites before ushering them into the taproom; this was very spacious though rather low, with an arched ceiling resting on a huge pillar painted green and gold. Common tables ranged either side of the room with private spacious booths in the large bay windows partitioned from the rest by vividly painted screens.

Minehost, who introduced himself as ‘Master Robert, formerly of Bristol,' guided them to one of these window-tables. Three places had been laid. The taverner, his voice betraying his West Country burr, assured Beauchamp that Cutwolf, whom he knew very well, and all his companions would be well looked after. Alice stood just behind him, wiping her brow on the back of her wrist, those lovely, smiling eyes still dancing at Stephen. Suddenly her smile faded. ‘They say,' she called out, ‘you are looking for corpses at Saint Michael's and Rishanger's house. News flies faster than swallows in Dowgate.'

‘Hush now, girl.' Her father made to remonstrate but Sir Miles, who'd doffed his cloak and sword belt, busy making himself comfortable, held up a hand, smiling so appreciatively at Alice that Stephen felt a stab of jealousy.

‘Mistress, you are correct – we are looking for corpses.'

‘Margotta Sumerhull?' Alice's voice trembled; her father put his arm around her shoulder and gently led her away. Servitors came to take their orders. Sir Miles declared he would pay and for the best ale and wine, which were brought. Cormanye, pork fillets in wine and black pepper, aloes of beef steeped in thyme and sage with a pot of lumbard mustard, white, soft bread cuts and dishes of buttered vegetables were ordered. Anselm recited the Benedicite and blessed the table. They washed their hands in stoups of rose water and settled back to enjoy the delicious smells coming from the kitchen. Stephen hoped Alice would reappear but her father thought otherwise, serving them himself. They ate in silence until Beauchamp put down his horn spoon. He stretched across the table, grabbed Stephen's wrist and squeezed it. ‘What really happened to you at Saint Michael's? Is it the falling sickness?'

‘I don't think so,' Anselm intervened.

‘It has happened before,' Stephen added.

‘And the cause?'