Paul Doherty - The Midnight Man

The chamber fell silent. Stephen stopped writing. Abruptly he raised his head. He was sure, certain, that he heard faint chanting.

‘So what do you suggest, exorcist?’ Sir Miles sat, hands clasped, half-concealing his face. ‘I must also give answers to those in authority.’

Anselm snapped his fingers at Parson Smollat. ‘My friend, I want you to give us the names of the last four people buried before the thirty-first of October last year and, when we are ready, take us into the cemetery where, I hope, with the help of your men, Sir Miles, to open their graves.’

‘Why?’ Smollat stuttered, ‘For God’s sake, that is sacrilege!’

‘Not if we are searching for the truth.’

‘Anselm!’ Sir William’s face tensed with anger. ‘Why this, why now?’

‘Because, Sir William, I am trying to answer my own questions. Listen now.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Almaric interrupted, ‘you said you might have two other questions. Do you have a second?’

‘Yes, you did,’ Gascelyn confirmed.

‘Oh, that,’ Anselm smiled icily, ‘is linked to my final proposition. Bardolph, unlike us, God forgive him, discovered something. I am sure it was to his great profit but, more than that, I cannot say.’

‘So what now?’ Sir Miles asked. ‘Anselm, don’t you have any firm conclusions?’

‘Oh, I have propositions, hypotheses. Let me explain. I believe the Midnight Man, whoever he is, discovered the secret of Puddlicot’s treasure. How and when I don’t know.’ Anselm breathed in. ‘I believe he and his coven discovered two items from that lost hoard. How, when and why? Again, I do not know. I believe Rishanger was a member of his coven. He stole those items and tried to flee — he and his mistress were both killed. Rishanger fled because he realized that the Midnight Man had not only failed to establish the whereabouts of the rest of the treasure through the practice of the black arts but had summoned up much more malignant forces. In doing so, the Midnight Man had attracted the attention of both Court and Church. I also suggest that perhaps Bardolph — certainly his wife, Adele — was part of the Midnight Man’s coven.’ Anselm shook his head at the cries of protest from Parson Smollat and Almaric.

‘I confess, I am not too sure about Bardolph but I would suggest Adele definitely was. She was silenced because of what Bardolph may have discovered or may have told her.’

‘Which is what?’ Parson Smollat queried.

‘In truth, I don’t know, parson. Do you? Didn’t Bardolph go to you to be shrived? Did he confess? Can you tell us anything outside the seal of confession?’

‘Nothing.’ Parson Smollat sighed, licking his lips. ‘Bardolph talked of his love for Edith Swan-neck. He asked if I knew of any other young maidens who had disappeared.’ Smollat’s voice faltered. Stephen stared at him. He had met the parson a number of times over the past few days and the priest was certainly changing, becoming more nervous and agitated. A troubled spirit, Stephen concluded, but was he wicked, malicious? Parson Smollat certainly seemed to be losing his confidence by the day, his anxiety clearly expressed in his unshaven face, unkempt robes and dirty fingernails, which constantly scrabbled over the table top.

‘What do you want?’ Smollat bleated. ‘Brother, what do we do now?’

‘Sir Miles.’ Anselm gestured at the royal clerk. ‘I want your men to open the graves of the last four people buried in Saint Michael’s Cemetery before the Feast of All Souls last.’ Anselm rose to his feet. ‘Parson Smollat, Sir William, I suggest you supervise this. Sir Miles, once your henchmen have reached the coffins or shroud cloths of the dead, they are to seek us out at The Unicorn in Eel-Pie Lane or elsewhere.’

Stephen hid his confusion and surprise as Anselm prepared to leave. Sir Miles summoned Cutwolf and the others into the chamber, giving them strict orders on what to do. Parson Smollat was now feverishly consulting the book of the dead, Simon the sexton peering over his shoulder, watched by a very taciturn Sir William. Gascelyn and Almaric had already adjourned to one of the spacious window embrasures, quietly discussing what the exorcist had suggested.

Once they had made their farewells and walked out into the street, Anselm and Beauchamp strode ahead, deep in conversation, with Stephen hurrying behind. The lane was busy, thronged with crowds, so Stephen was pleased to be by himself. He could also reflect on why they were going to The Unicorn and desperately hoped to catch a glimpse of the fair Alice. He only exchanged a few pleasantries with one of Beauchamp’s henchmen, Holyinnocent, who had been chosen to escort them to the tavern. The day was certainly busy. The constant chatter, tramping of feet and crashing wheels of the high-sided carts were a constant din. Hucksters, peddlers, apprentice boys and tinkers screamed and shouted for business, desperate to catch the eye or grasp a cloak to sell some trinket, pot, pan, knife or piece of cloth. Strange sights appeared and merged into the moving crowd. A babbling half-wit rolled a barrel into the street then upended it to stand on; once ready he proclaimed to the puffed up, ribbon-bedecked gallants who gathered around to poke fun at him that he was the Prophet Jonah come again. Beadles and market marshals strode pompously with their wands, ready to wrap the back and legs of those trading without licence. Funeral processions merged with guild solemnities in a bobbing confusion of lighted candles, swinging thurifers as well as different chants and prayers. Anselm and Beauchamp strode on through this noisy bustle. Now and again Holyinnocent would recognize a friend and exchange good-natured banter. Occasionally they had to stand aside for malefactors, all dirty and bedraggled, being marched down to the pillories, stocks and thews. A bawd and her pimp followed tied to the tail of a cart while a fat, sweaty-faced beadle lashed their naked backs and bottoms with a rod, splashing himself and passers-by with specks of blood.

Stephen was aware of the world closing in around him, a stark contrast to the simplicity and serenity of the cloister. Cartwheels squeaked, bawds shrieked, porters grumbled. ‘The Children of this World’, as Anselm called them, swarmed either side in filthy rags or sumptuously embroidered silver brocaded clothes, shuffling and shouldering each other, jostling and jeering, haggling and hustling. They reached The Unicorn, a pleasant-fronted tavern standing in its own courtyard, which stretched up to the main door. Stables and outhouses flanked two sides. The tavern itself was a lofty, three-storey mansion of black timbers and pink plaster on a stone base. Stephen was surprised they did not enter. Instead, Holyinnocent was told to take the baggage in and rejoin them. As soon as he did, Anselm winked at Stephen and declared they had other places to visit. ‘Minehost has your baggage,’ Holyinnocent whispered to Stephen as he rejoined them. ‘And we are off to Newgate.’

They took the broad alleyway leading up to the formidable prison built into the ruins of the old city wall. A grim, slimy-walled lane with every second house a tavern under its creaking, battered sign. The Sanctuary of Dead Man’s Place: this was the haunt of thieves who stared out through chinks and gaps in doors and shutters. They recognized Beauchamp’s insignia and let them pass through. A hunting horn wailed a warning while a hoarse whisper, ‘King’s Man’, ran before them up the long, dark tunnel. The message kept the bullies with their swords and staves, as well as their harridans armed with spits and broomsticks, from sallying forth. They left the alleyway and entered the great, fleshing market, which flourished in the shadow of the huge sombre towers of Newgate, a place swimming in blood. The carcasses of poultry and livestock were being swiftly slaughtered, hacked and then hung from hooks above the stalls. A shambles of blood, stinking guts, entrails and boiling salt. Red-spattered butchers and their boys roared for business while beggars, dogs, cats and kites fought for the juicy scraps.