Paul Doherty - The Midnight Man

Chaucer watched the physician, who had turned slightly and was now peering over his shoulder. Chaucer followed his gaze. The physician was staring at the Wife of Bath, now recovered from her former state of quiet surprise. She raised her goblet in response to the physician’s stare. Chaucer rose and walked over to the far wall as if interested in the painted cloth, describing in rough brushwork the great epic of Roland and Oliver. He waited. The physician left, walking into the garden, the Wife of Bath soon after. Chaucer, allowing curiosity to reign over courtesy, quietly followed. The buttery yard was empty. Chaucer walked across to the lattice screen over which wild roses sprouted from a thick green bush. Soft-footed as a cat, he stopped short of the flower bed: in the faint light he could see the brittle twigs which would snap under his boots. The physician and the Wife of Bath were sitting on a turf seat on the other side of the rose-covered fence. Straining his ears, Chaucer heard snatches of their hushed conversation. ‘Do souls still hover?’ The Wife of Bath’s question trailed clearer than the whispered reply of the physician. ‘Sometimes,’ Chaucer heard, ‘they sweep in,’ but the rest was hidden by the screech of a night bird deep in the garden. Chaucer heard the phrases ‘grisly murder’ and ‘that hideous burning’. A sound made him turn. The summoner stood in the doorway to the tavern. Chaucer walked over. In the pool of light the summoner’s face appeared leaner, more purposeful than the usual vacuous, slobbery-lipped look, nose red as a rose, skin scabby as a leper’s.

‘Good evening, Master Chaucer. What do you think of our physician’s tale? Truth? Fable?’

‘Do you know, master summoner? I suspect some of the characters of this miracle play do live and breathe and are not so far from us.’

‘Really?’

‘Summoner, what is your name? Do not reply, we are legion because we are so many. I suspect your demons thrive at the bottom of a deep-bowled wine goblet.’

‘True, true,’ the summoner glanced over Chaucer’s shoulder, ‘but now our physician returns.’

‘Your name, friend?’

‘Why, Master Chaucer, I am Bardolph, come again,’ and, laughing softly to himself, the summoner went back into the taproom.

‘Master Chaucer?’ The physician, the Wife of Bath trailing behind him, strode through the darkness. ‘Master Chaucer,’ he repeated, ‘you are curious whether this is fable or fact?’ He grabbed Chaucer by the elbow. ‘Believe me,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘the dead do speak to the living, as my tale will prove.’

‘Questions.’ Anselm tapped the table in Sir William Higden’s chancery chamber. ‘We will deal with this as we would a problem in the halls of Oxford. Put forward certain questions to be addressed. Sir William, Curate Almaric is taking notes for you. Stephen will do the same for myself and Sir Miles. Gentlemen,’ Anselm pointed to Simon the sexton and Gascelyn, ‘you may listen and,’ he shrugged, ‘and add anything we may have overlooked.’

‘Is this really necessary?’ Sir William looked peevish after what appeared to be a poor night’s sleep. The powerful merchant knight’s face was shaven and gleaming with oil, but the dark rings under his eyes betrayed the fact that he had drunk too deeply of the claret he apparently loved. While Anselm made soothing noises, Stephen glanced around the luxurious chamber. He was particularly fascinated by the brilliantly hued tapestries of blue, red, green, silver and gold depicting the legends of King Arthur, be it the Knights of the Round Table or Galahad’s pursuit of the Holy Grail. Stephen recalled how his own father had taken him to the great Abbey of Glastonbury where Arthur and Guinevere were supposed to lie buried, their tomb being discovered during the reign of the present King’s grandfather. Were those happy days? Stephen wondered. The past seemed so distant, so strange, as if he was recalling someone else’s life. His time with Anselm had so changed him. .

‘We should begin,’ Beauchamp insisted. The royal clerk, elegant as ever in a dark green cotehardie over a white cambric shirt and black hose, pointed to the green-ringed hour candle in the centre of the table. ‘Soon the Angelus will ring.’

‘I was only wondering,’ Sir William protested, ‘why a second exorcism cannot take place? I mean. .’ He wandered off into a litany of speculation. Stephen picked up a quill pen and sharpened it. He felt refreshed and eager for the day. Anselm and he had risen early, celebrated a dawn Mass then broken their fast. Afterwards Anselm, without explanation, had instructed Stephen to pack his panniers with a change of clothes and all he might need for a long stay away from White Friars. The exorcist had refused to elaborate but had promised the novice he would like the surprise.

‘Questions.’ Anselm’s voice cracked like a whip, making everyone sit up and concentrate. ‘First question: Saint Michael’s Church is undoubtedly haunted as well as plagued by malevolent spirits, yes? Second question.’ Stephen was now busy writing, using the cipher Anselm had taught him, very similar to that employed in the royal chancery. ‘Second question,’ Anselm repeated. ‘Who are they and why are they acting like this?’

‘Puddlicot?’ Beauchamp broke in.

‘Third question.’ Anselm nodded at the royal clerk in a moment of realization. ‘Why is Saint Michael’s haunted by the ghost of Richard Puddlicot? True, this was his parish church. He took sanctuary here but, despite this, was dragged out. He now protests at the outrage while he also haunts the crypt of Westminster Abbey. The poor soul is lost in his own tormented past. Fourth question,’ Anselm tapped the table, ‘we now tread on firmer ground. At the last All Souls the Midnight Man and his coven celebrated their black rites here at Saint Michael’s. Perhaps they did the same at Westminster? At first we considered the choice of Saint Michael’s to be random — now we are not so sure. This brings us to our fifth question: was the purpose of the Midnight Man’s satanic celebration to search for Puddlicot’s buried treasure? If so, how did they know about it? Sixth question: did they find some of the treasure? Undoubtedly so! The Cross of Neath and Queen Eleanor’s dagger but how, where and when? Question seven.’ Anselm paused to take a sip of water. ‘Was Rishanger a member of the Midnight Man’s coven? How did he seize such treasure? Who killed him and his Mistress Beatrice? Question eight, Bardolph’s death: was he driven to the top of that tower — was he possessed, forced to commit suicide? Question nine: Adele, Bardolph’s wife, a member of this parish — yes, Parson Smollat?’

The priest, pale-faced with anxiety, nodded in agreement.

‘Why was she murdered in her shabby alehouse which possesses not one religious artefact? Oh, by the way, Parson Smollat, did you bring your book of the dead as I asked?’

The parson lifted a sack from where he had placed it, close to his feet, and drew out the leather-bound ledger. ‘What do you want with it?’ Smollat’s voice quavered.

‘In a while,’ Anselm replied. ‘Sir Miles, your men are ready?’

‘Of course!’

‘What is this, Anselm?’ Sir William asserted himself. ‘You ask questions but surely you are here to provide the answer to why Saint Michael’s is haunted.’

‘As yet I cannot do that properly. I do not know what lies at the root of all this. I have one more question, or perhaps two. So, question ten: Bardolph the gravedigger. He desperately searched for his lady love, Edith Swan-neck. He found a necklace he had given her lying in Saint Michael’s cemetery. What happened to Edith, and what are these rumours about other young women disappearing?’