Paul Doherty - The Midnight Man

Beauchamp, escorted by Holyinnocent, elbowed and thrust his way forward. They gained entrance through a narrow iron door into the prison proper, a true vision of hell: a warren of evil-smelling passageways where the reek and stench poisoned the nostrils and stifled the throat. They passed open chambers where key-clanking janitors guarded what they scornfully called ‘human vermin’ — prisoners with long filthy beards and straggling wild hair, all swathed in dirty rags. The keeper who led them into the stygian darkness screamed at everyone to step aside, only to be answered by raucous shouts and curses. They went down some steps lit by flaring torches. The smell grew more rank and unbearable. The walls glistened with snail slime. Spiders big as bumble bees spun their webs to span niches and corners. They reached a circular cavern called Limbo. In the centre rose a huge stone called Black Dog with a squat tallow candle burning on top. Holyinnocent pointed to the heavy doors which faced them, whispering how these were the condemned cells. While the keeper unlocked one of the cell doors, Holyinnocent explained how many a condemned felon had dashed his brains out against Black Dog rather than take the ride in the death-cart.

Stephen, holding a sponge soaked in vinegar against his nose, went and sat on one of the battered benches. This was a truly evil place. The atmosphere oppressed him. Cries, despairing and pleading, pestered his ears. A feathery shadow crept across the floor, spilling over him, creating a wave of deep fear and panic. A haggard face came shooting out of the murk, its bone-white features twisted in an angry snarl, bloodshot eyes full of some nameless fury.

‘Stephen, Stephen?’

The novice shook his head. Anselm stood, beckoning him. The cell door was now flung back. The turnkey had dragged out a shambling figure loaded with iron fetters, barefooted and dressed in the long black gown of the condemned. He was virtually unrecognizable, his head and face being hidden by a mass of tangled hair, moustache and beard. The turnkey pushed the prisoner down a passageway. Beauchamp told Holyinnocent to stay while he and the two Carmelites followed the turnkey along the slime-covered passageway, up a short flight of steps into a surprisingly clean, neat chamber. The walls were painted a brilliant white and a crucifix hung beneath the barred windows high in the wall. There was a sturdy table with benches on all four sides. The turnkey lit the fat tallow candle in the centre of the table and left. Beauchamp made sure the entrance was free of eavesdropping, slammed the door shut and, going across, pushed the prisoner down on a stool.

‘This is the chaplain’s room,’ Anselm explained. ‘I insisted it be fashioned like this. I used to come here to shrive the condemned. Are you condemned?’ Anselm sat down close to the prisoner. All Stephen could glimpse were the man’s bright, smiling eyes.

‘This is another kind of shriving,’ Beauchamp murmured. ‘Everything will be in a whisper. Brothers, may I introduce Roger Bolingbrok, former Dominican friar, also known as William Chattle, Peter Waltham and so on and so on. One of my most redoubtable spies or Judas men. Isn’t that right, Roger?’

The prisoner smiled in a flash of white teeth, lifting his manacled hands to clear the hair from his face.

‘I cannot show you any mercy.’ Beauchamp’s voice was barely above a whisper. ‘At least not now.’

‘Will he hang?’ Stephen asked.

The prisoner grinned and winked at the novice.

‘Oh, no,’ Beauchamp replied. ‘Tomorrow a writ will arrive which confirms Master Bolingbrok’s claim to be a cleric. He will be handed over to the Church, tried before an ecclesiastical tribunal at Lambeth and exiled to some monastery in the wilds of Northumberland. He will be shaved, bathed and given fresh clothes for the journey. He will travel no further north than Saint Albans, where Master Bolingbrok will escape to reappear in London under another guise. Now,’ Beauchamp became brisk. ‘Brother Anselm, Brother Stephen, I have made reference to the Midnight Man’s exploits in the cemetery of Saint Michael’s. How his black Mass and dark rites went so wrong he had to flee.’

‘Were you there?’ Anselm asked the prisoner.

‘No, but Rishanger was.’

‘How do you know?’

‘As I told Sir Miles when I was first taken up,’ Bolingbrok explained, voice all cultured, ‘I was condemned and thrown into the common hold before being moved,’ Bolingbrok grinned, ‘to a more comfortable chamber. People regard a condemned man as already dead so they chatter as if you are. The villains of Newgate know all about Rishanger. He was a thief, a receiver of stolen property. He also had a nasty reputation as a warlock. He tried to buy safe passage abroad without a licence. He told a Gascon sailor what had happened at Saint Michael’s — how he had been a spectator of something which had gone horribly wrong.’

‘What?’

‘He didn’t say, except that a notorious warlock had tried to raise the spirit of a dead man but instead summoned up all the powers of hell.’

‘Why should Rishanger tell that to a Gascon sailor?’ Stephen queried.

‘Oh, that is easy enough, isn’t it, Sir Miles?’ Anselm replied. ‘To leave England without proper licence, especially for a goldsmith, is very dangerous and just as much for the captain of any ship.’

‘Rishanger daren’t lie.’ Bolingbrok moved in a clatter of chains, his rags exuding an odious smell. ‘He couldn’t point to some petty misdemeanour to explain his flight so he told the truth, as far as he could. Not that he was a member of a coven — merely an observer.’

‘Which is why,’ Anselm broke in, ‘when Rishanger was attacked at Queenhithe, the captain of the cog refused to help any further.’

‘True,’ Bolingbrok agreed. ‘Safe, quiet, illegal passage is one thing, sword and dagger play on one of London’s wharfs is another. Rishanger paid heavily for that passage in more ways than one.’

‘And since then,’ Beauchamp asked, ‘what else have you discovered mingling amongst the dead men?’

‘The assassins who attacked Rishanger, who may have killed his mistress, though Rishanger himself could have done that, must be members of the Midnight Man’s coven. No one knows anything.’ Bolingbrok licked dry, cracked lips. ‘You will be out of here soon enough,’ Beauchamp soothed, ‘eating and drinking merrily.’

‘Rishanger,’ Bolingbrok explained, ‘was attacked at Queenhithe. He fled along the river to be murdered in the King’s own abbey. Rumours abound of a great treasure being found with him. Such news runs like flame amongst the stubble. Usually people know those responsible for such an attack but, on this occasion, nothing! No one, and I mean no one, knows anything about what happened in the abbey.’ The prisoner shook his chains. Stephen became aware of the appalling cries from above.

‘The crying, screeching, swearing, roaring, bawling and shaking of chains,’ Bolingbrok whispered to him, ‘are the plain chant of Newgate, but they hide the true business of London’s Hades, the real chatter. Who does what to whom, where, when, how and why? But not on this business.’ He pushed back his matted hair.

‘Sir Miles, I assure you, I am done here.’

‘Tell me,’ Stephen spoke up, ‘is there chatter amongst all this chaffing, swearing and shaking of chains about young women disappearing?’

Bolingbrok looked at Beauchamp, who nodded. ‘Why is a young Carmelite interested in that?’

‘Because I am,’ Anselm retorted. ‘Is there?’

‘There is,’ Bolingbrok whispered. ‘Some of the pimps are full of it. Young women disappear, but they also reappear in one form or another. This doesn’t happen here. Whispers crackle. They say a blood-drinker is on the loose.’