The Midnight Man (30 page)

‘So you have no proof.' Gascelyn picked up the crossbow. Stephen flinched as the henchman took a bolt from the small, stout quiver on his belt.

‘Proof, Gascelyn, proof – what does it matter now? You know, Sir William knows, Almaric knows. You cannot let us walk free.'

Higden edged closer, head slightly to one side. ‘You're a curious one, Anselm. I am fascinated by you. We could tell each other so much.' He grinned, eyes widening in mock surprise. ‘Learn from each other.' He gestured at the heaped treasure. ‘This is ours, you are ours. What can you do? What proof do you really have, eh?'

Anselm got to his feet. Sir William followed, hand going for his sword hilt. Gascelyn slipped a barb into the groove of the small arbalest.

‘I have already told you that I was a gambler, Sir William,' Anselm replied curtly. ‘I used to be a sinner to the bone. My offences were always before me. Drinking, lechery and above all gambling.' He smiled thinly. ‘I truly gambled tonight. I gambled that you would come. I wagered that I would find the treasure. I offered odds that you would act as you have.'

‘Odds?'

‘I was right.' Anselm abruptly threw his head back. ‘
De profundis!
' he shouted with all his strength. ‘
Clamavi ad te Domine
.
Domine exaudi vocem meam
– Out of the depths I have cried to you, oh Lord. Lord, hear my voice!'

Higden and his two henchmen, taken by surprise, could only finger their weapons. Stephen jumped to his feet as a fire arrow arched through the night sky and smashed in a flutter of heavy sparks on to the floor of the nave. Two more followed before Higden and his henchmen could recover. Dark shapes appeared in the doorways and gaps of the ruined church. Hooded archers, war bows strung, arrows notched. They slowly spread out across the nave; behind them swaggered Cutwolf, Bolingbrok and Holyinnocent, their swords drawn.

‘What is this?' Higden drew himself up, ‘What is this?' He pointed accusingly at Anselm. ‘You said you didn't trust them.'

‘I was deceiving you. I also thank you for withdrawing your own guards. Master Cutwolf, Clerk of the Secret Chancery, has been watching you; he has certainly been watching me. I welcome him to this colloquium – this discussion.'

‘You have levelled serious allegations,' Almaric blurted out. ‘What real proof do you have?'

‘Oh, I shall show you that,' Anselm replied. ‘Master Cutwolf, ask your archers to withdraw slightly but be ready to loose.' Anselm sat down, gesturing with his hand. ‘All of you do likewise.'

Higden looked as if he was going to protest. He looked over his shoulder at Cutwolf then reluctantly obeyed, untying his war belt to sit more comfortably, though his sword hilt was not far from his fingers. The other two followed. Stephen watched. Higden was cunning, powerful, the weight of evidence against him seemed slight; after all, he had come to this church at Anselm's bidding. They had found the lost treasure. Higden could still hand this over and appear as the King's own hero.

‘You Higden, Gascelyn and Almaric, are blood-drinkers,' Anselm began. ‘You hunt and capture young women. You abuse them and kill them. You enjoy the power. You love watching a woman suffer before she dies. I met your like in France and elsewhere. War, for you, is simply an excuse for your filthy, murderous practices.'

‘How dare you!' Almaric snarled.

‘Shut up!' Anselm paused over a fit of coughing. ‘All of you, shut up! You three, together with men like Rishanger, served abroad. You plundered the French. You raped and murdered but the great hole in your soul has a deeper, more sinister darkness. You are warlocks, wizards. You dabble in the damned arts and converse with the demon lords of the air. You may have even used your victims' blood to further this. The sacrifice of cockerels and night birds is nothing compared to that of a human heart, or a chalice full of some young woman's hot blood.'

‘Proof?' Higden insisted.

‘Yes, proof?' Gascelyn repeated. ‘You will need proof before the King's Bench, for the Justices in Eyre. Your madcap theories are not enough.'

‘You returned to England and continued your filthy practices.' Anselm's voice was almost conversational. ‘Rishanger's lonely garden with its secret cellar or pit was ideal. Young women were invited there. We now know their hideous fate. You act like some blasphemous religious order, cells within cells. You, Higden, your two acolytes and possibly Rishanger, knew the truth behind the Midnight Man. All of you are deeply implicated. Meeting at Rishanger's house or some other desolate place, using your wealth to swell the number of your coven – men and women like Bardolph and Adele. You also had your bodyguard, your cohort of killers, guards in black leather, to be whistled up like a hunting pack.'

‘Evidence?' Higden made to rise.

‘Oh, I will come to that by and by. You, Higden, became a peritus, skilled in the black arts. A true nightmare, you would cast about in search of secret rituals and precious items to deepen your so-called powers, artefacts such as the Philosopher's Stone – the key to all alchemy.'

‘I threw Rishanger out of my house over that.'

‘Mere pretence, a disguise to conceal the truth, a public demonstration that you had nothing to do with such a man. You had that wax figurine of yourself deliberately placed in Rishanger's house so as to portray yourself as an inveterate enemy of such a wicked soul. I suspect you never really liked or trusted Rishanger. Time proved you right.' Anselm paused to cough and clear his throat, wiping blood-flecked lips on a piece of cloth.

Stephen glanced around. Almaric and Gascelyn sat, eyes blinking, now and again the occasional nervous gesture. Cutwolf and his companions remained impassive: faces of stone, eyes almost blank as if they had already made up their minds what to do – but what?

‘Now at Glastonbury, the so-called magical stone of Merlin, a rock of allegedly great power, had been found during the reign of the present King's grandfather and placed along with other precious items in the treasury crypt at Westminster which Puddlicot later pillaged.'

‘I know nothing of Glastonbury. As I said, I have never been there.'

‘Correct – you have never visited the abbey. I checked. I am sure you would love to do so. However, Higden, you like to keep your hand hidden – you cleverly cover your tracks. You,' Anselm pointed at Almaric, ‘are different. You were born close to Glastonbury, weren't you? You were at school there. You served as a novice and became a skilled carpenter. You were taught by the abbey artisans before you left. You took to wandering. You were later ordained as a priest, becoming a chaplain under the royal banners and serving in France, where you met your true master here.'

‘What nonsense!' the curate scoffed.

‘Facts,' Anselm countered. ‘You knew all about the discoveries at Glastonbury and told your master here. Rich and powerful, he became absorbed with finding such items, along with the rest of the treasure Puddlicot had stolen.' Anselm paused, head down.

Stephen stared around. No voices, no visions. Nevertheless, he sensed a whole host of invisible witnesses were gathering, pressing in on every side to listen. This ruined, charred nave had become a fearsome judgement hall. Cutwolf and his companions, grim and silent, were the executioners. One way or another, this would end in blood.

‘You, Higden,' Anselm continued, ‘searched, as secretly as you could, everything about Puddlicot, even though you openly pretended ignorance about him. You secured the advowson to this church. You moved house to be closer. I suspect Rishanger bought Puddlicot's dwelling at your insistence.' Anselm took a deep breath. ‘With me and mine, whatever we did you pretended, like mummers in a play, though I noticed you always avoided my attempts to exorcise. Yet you made one mistake very early on. How did you know Rishanger's particular house in Hagbut Lane once belonged to Puddlicot? Who told you that?' Higden refused to answer. Anselm shrugged and continued. ‘Time passed. You appointed Parson Smollat to the benefice – a good but very weak priest with more than a fondness for the ladies, someone you could control.'

Higden simply smirked.

‘The cemetery was searched. You used Bardolph for that, digging the earth, preparing graves, but you discovered nothing. Your blood-drinking at Rishanger's house continued. Eventually you decided that enough corpses were buried there, although I suspect you hated being dependent on Rishanger. By now you had your new death house in Saint Michael's cemetery. A well-fortified, stout and lonely building with, I suspect, a prison pit beneath. You enticed your victims into it.'

‘How?' Higden gibed. ‘And if I did, where are they buried?'

‘I sat by the lychgate,' Anselm retorted. ‘I spent an entire afternoon there. I was surprised at how many young women of various means and livings go by. Before the trouble started, I am quite sure a few would use the cemetery as a place to rest. Margotta Sumerhull, the maid from The Unicorn, went there and disappeared – so did Edith Swan-neck. Who enticed them in? You, Almaric, a priest who could be trusted, or Gascelyn, the handsome squire? An invitation to talk, to sup? Would they like to walk through, perhaps see the new building? Others were easier – whores and prostitutes hired under the cloak of dark. That death house is well-named; once there, they would be imprisoned.' The exorcist paused. ‘A poor dancer died there, didn't she, Gascelyn? Eleanora? She came back to haunt you with her perfume and stamping feet. Little wonder you became so wary but Higden made you stay there?' Anselm leaned forward. ‘The death house will be searched. I am sure a pit lies beneath where those poor girls were pinioned before they were brutally enjoyed and murdered.'

‘There is a pit,' Gascelyn, face all flushed, protested. ‘But for storing.'

‘Silence!' Cutwolf held up a hand, snapping his fingers. The captain of archers hurried over, pushing back his cowl to reveal a sharp, nut-brown face. Cutwolf whispered, the man murmured his agreement and left the nave with two of his companions.

‘And the corpses?' Higden's steely poise had slipped.

‘Oh, very easy. Saint Michael's is the parish cemetery of the ward. Many beggars die in Dowgate. They are brought here, wrapped tightly in canvas sheets, bound with cord and placed in the laystall close to the old burial pit. I have seen them. It's an ideal place. The soil there is always loose and soft from the lime and other elements caked in the ground. Who would dream of untying and unrolling the dirty shrouds to inspect the naked cadaver of some hapless beggar? However, in some cases, those shrouds contained the corpses of murdered young women such as Margotta and Edith. Buried quietly, swiftly, their bodies soon rotted.

‘The pit could be opened?' Bolingbrok declared.

‘Yes, it could be,' Anselm agreed. ‘That burial pit was also your unholy sanctuary, Higden, a place you could practice your midnight rites. However, let us return to Rishanger's gruesome garden. Sometime last year, while burying your victims at Rishanger's house, the Cross of Neath and Queen Eleanor's dagger were found, along with a parchment script saying how the remaining treasure was under the guardianship of God's protector. This confirmed your belief that Puddlicot had buried most of the treasure somewhere in or around Saint Michael's Church, Candlewick. You made secret searches using the likes of Bardolph. He was unsuccessful so you decided to consult the dead. You organized, I am sure, the most malignant of all such ceremonies: a black mass celebrated over that burial pit during the deep heart of the night.

‘I am not a priest!'

‘No, but Almaric is and, as is common with such rites, something truly hideous occurred. You called into the darkness, Sir William, and a demonic chorus sang back. You raised a fiery nest: not only the hapless ghost of Puddlicot and the souls and spirits of those you had murdered both there and, I believe, elsewhere, but the prowling demons – those powerful, malevolent spirits who hunt the arid lands of the spiritual life. So fearsome were they that you and your coven had to flee.'

‘Very interesting!' Higden snapped. ‘Brother Anselm, I am prepared to surrender myself to the King's clerks. I will, in a different place and at a different time, demand evidence – proof positive for your outrageous allegations.'

Stephen glanced quickly at Cutwolf and Bolingbrok and a chill seized his heart. Cutwolf, just for a brief moment, betrayed his own uncertainty.

‘Rishanger,' Anselm continued, ignoring the interruption, ‘became agitated. His relationship with you was not as strong as that of your two henchmen here. Perhaps he resented sharing the treasure found in his garden. More importantly, he had seen your vaunted powers brought to nothing. How the disturbances at St Michael's were now attracting the attention of both Crown and Church. Rishanger decided to flee. He may have killed his mistress Beatrice, or that might have been the work of your black-garbed assassins who then pursued and murdered Rishanger in Westminster Abbey.' Anselm chewed the corner of his lips. ‘You also tried to raise the dead there, didn't you, and failed? No wonder members of your coven became nervous and uncertain. You must have been truly furious at Rishanger's treachery, his attempt to flee and the bungled work of your assassins. Now the Crown knew what was at stake: they had the Cross of Neath and Queen Eleanor's dagger. Sir Miles Beauchamp and the Secret Chancery were alerted.'

Anselm paused, fingering the wooden cross around his neck. Stephen glanced up and flinched at the evil, gaunt face glaring down at him from the pitch dark. He shifted his gaze.

‘Hate-made holes slick with blood. Soul weary, the spirits gather to sing sorrowful songs,' a voice taunted. Stephen glanced up at the moving, dancing shapes which floated and darted like shards of ash. A billow of dust swept by, only to dissipate in a pool of light.

‘Shrouded in sadness,' the voice whispered. ‘Release must come!'