Paul Doherty - The Midnight Man

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.