Paul Doherty - The Midnight Man

‘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.