Paul Doherty - The Midnight Man

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‘And Puddlicot lies here?’

‘Yes, Stephen, he does; his corpse no more than a tangle of bones.’

‘Why have we come here tonight? To catch a sighting?’

‘No, I do not think anything will happen here. We will, however, tarry at this, his last resting place. We shall assure his soul that we are its benefactor, not tormentor, as well as vow to arrange requiem Masses to be sung.’ Anselm walked to the edge of the vault. He knelt and began to thread his rosary beads. As Stephen went to join him the main door opened and two women entered. The first was very old and grey-haired, with stooped shoulders, one hand grasping a walking cane, the other the arm of her companion. Both were dressed in the brown robes and white wimples of the Franciscan Minoresses who had their convent outside the old city wall near Aldgate. The two nuns stood watching them for a while before walking on up under the rood screen. Anselm hardly noticed them but continued reciting the Dirige psalms. Stephen crouched at the foot of a pillar. He tried to pray but his eyes grew heavy, aware of flashes of light around him and the dim murmur of voices. A commotion at the door roused him. He hurried back to find the guardian barring the way to a group of young, heavily-armed men. Former soldiers, Stephen concluded, judging by their close-cropped hair and hard, scarred faces. They were dressed in dark leather jerkins, tight hose pushed into their boots. Six in number, their leader had already drawn both sword and dagger.

‘What is this?’ Anselm came out on to the porch and stood on the top step.

‘Brother Anselm.’ The leader sheathed sword and dagger. ‘The hour is late but Sir Miles Beauchamp. .’

‘What about him?’

‘We are his henchmen. I am Cutwolf.’

‘He mentioned your name to me once.’

‘My companions, Oldtoast and Mutton-monger.’ Cutwolf waved a hand.

‘You have been following us?’

‘Of course, Brother Anselm. Your safety is close to the heart of Sir Miles and what he wants. .’

‘What does he want?’

‘Your presence at Bardolph’s alehouse, The Burning Bush.’ Cutwolf grinned. ‘The widow, the now dead widow, was suddenly taken ill and died over an hour ago.’ Cutwolf pointed to another of his companions. ‘Holyinnocent here brought the news. Sir Miles awaits.’

The Burning Bush was guarded by more of Beauchamp’s men as well as royal archers from the Tower. The taproom inside was cleared, and Adele’s corpse lay stretched out next to her husband. A linen cloth draped the body. Sir William and Sir Miles, together with Almaric, Simon and Gascelyn, were present. One of Adele’s servitors cowered in a shadowy corner. The Carmelites moved into the circle of light around the corpses, where a nervous, shabbily-dressed physician was drying his hands.

‘What happened?’ Anselm asked.

‘We were making ready for the burial of old Bardolph,’ the street physician declared. ‘Adele brought a flask of wine, broached it and drank. Suddenly her head and neck were thrown back, and her throat and stomach swelled up. Her face turned as red as the crest of a cock. Her eyes, horrible to see, started out of her head, her tongue all swollen, turning a purplish-black.’

‘Possessed by demons,’ Almaric whispered.

‘Nonsense!’ Stephen exclaimed. Everyone stared at him.

‘Nonsense?’ Beauchamp queried.

‘Poison,’ Stephen replied, ‘arsenic poisoning.’

‘Tell us, learned physician,’ Almaric taunted.

‘My father was a physician. He made me accompany him on all his visits,’ Stephen retorted. ‘I have seen Adele’s symptoms in at least three of my father’s patients.’

‘Mere prattling!’ Sir William replied.

‘Hush, now,’ Anselm demanded.

‘I have seen these symptoms.’ Stephen felt his confidence rise. ‘A very strong infusion of raw, red or white arsenic will cause such an effect. My father unmasked two poisoners. I watched them burn in the square before Winchester Cathederal.’ Stephen glared around. ‘My father always made me write up the symptoms he examined. Adele’s death was sudden and violent — the infusion must have been very strong. Arsenic,’ he continued heatedly, ‘can be bought commonly enough. Some people — fools — use it either as a cure for stomach cramps or even as an aphrodisiac.’

‘But why?’ Sir William scoffed. ‘Why her, and how did it happen?’

‘Sirs.’ The servitor shuffled out of the darkness carrying a small flask, its stopper pulled back. ‘Sirs, this was delivered at the door. I saw the mistress bring it in. She drank from it, put it down and a short while later she was racked in agony.’ Stephen took the flask; the stopper seal had been broken. The flask was almost empty but when he sniffed he detected something acrid mingling with the strong, fruity odour of claret. ‘If you still don’t believe me,’ Stephen fought off a wave of tiredness, ‘put this down for vermin to drink — they will not survive long.’ Stephen grasped a pewter goblet from the top of a barrel, poured the remaining wine into it and shook the grainy sediment out into the glow of candlelight. ‘There are your demons.’ Stephen pointed at the sediment. ‘The wine is heavily tainted; strong enough to snatch the soul from her body many times over.’

‘Somebody wanted Adele dead,’ Anselm wondered out loud. ‘But who, and why? Let’s search this place.’

‘Why?’ Sir William declared.

‘I’ll tell you when we find it,’ Anselm quipped.

They conducted their search in the squalid taproom, the dirt-encrusted scullery and buttery, the two chambers above and the dust-filled attic. The rooms were filthy and chaotic, reeking of staleness and neglect. They emptied broken caskets and coffers, moved the straw-filled mattresses and black-stained bolsters but found only tawdry items. They all gathered, yawning and stretching, in the taproom, where someone had thrown the sheet back over Adele’s corpse.

‘Magister,’ Stephen whispered, ‘the hour is very late. I am exhausted.’

‘Gentlemen,’ Sir William Higden stood next to both corpses, ‘surely we have finished here? I will take care of the cadavers. The hour of compline is long gone. These matters must wait for the morrow.’

Beauchamp and Anselm agreed. The royal clerk led the two Carmelites out of the shabby alehouse. Cutwolf and the others were waiting outside, torches held high. ‘Come,’ Sir Miles smiled through the dark, ‘we will see you safely to White Friars.’

They moved off deep into the dark, the glow of torch on naked steel keeping the busy shadows at bay. The clink and clatter of weapons, the tramp of booted, spurred feet, stilled all other noise. Beauchamp walked in silence then came between Stephen and Anselm. ‘You do realize what was wrong with our search?’ he asked.

‘We didn’t find anything,’ Anselm murmured. ‘We should have done. More curious still, Bardolph and Adele were parishioners yet never once in that shabby, mean house did I find a crucifix, a statue, a set of Ave beads or any other religious artefacts.’ Anselm pulled his cowl up against the night breeze. ‘In fact, I suspect that someone went through that house before us and removed certain items.’

‘What?’ Beauchamp asked.

‘Oh, anything associated with magic and the black rites,’ Anselm replied. ‘I suspect Adele, perhaps even Bardolph, were members of a coven.’

‘The Midnight Man’s?’

‘Very possible,’ Anselm replied.

Stephen quickly crossed himself against a thought. Was it sinful, malevolent or the truth? Was the Midnight Man someone very close to them?

Words Amongst the Pilgrims

The physician rose and walked to the canopied hearth where he warmed his hands, rubbing them slowly, staring into the jagged flames. His fellow pilgrims sat in silence for a while before busying themselves. A few hastened out to the latrines and closet chambers. Minehost of The Tabard asked for some platters of dried meat, bread and fruit ‘to ward off’ as he put it, ‘the demons growling in their stomachs’. The food was served, the jugs refilled.

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