Paul Doherty - The Midnight Man

‘Of course there isn’t,’ Anselm replied, ‘let us examine the others.’ They moved away. Stephen crouched on the grass. He felt hungry, tired and wished they could return to The Unicorn. He watched them walk away. A door banged. He glanced over his shoulder at the church. The corpse door, shifted by the breeze, opened and shut again. Stephen rose, stumbling across the mounds, kicking aside the trailing briar branches and ankle-catching weeds. He reached the corpse door and stepped inside. The church was dark. Light still poured through some of the leaded lattice windows. Strokes of sunlight scarred the paving stones beneath. Candles flamed yet they seemed from afar like the fire of a forge deep in dark woods.

‘More horned than a unicorn,’ a throaty voice mocked. ‘For all your chastity, novice, you have a nose for smelling out a dainty bit, haven’t you, Stephen? Eager to get to her, are you?’ Stephen stood, his back against the rusty, creaking corpse door. He peered through the gloom; his throat turned dry. A shadow against one of the drum-like pillars separated itself and moved towards him like a hunter speeds soft-shoed across the grass. ‘Like a heron pokes a walnut shell, isn’t it, Stephen? Thinking of getting between her thighs, are you?’ Darts of fire flickered and died. The hand of the shifting shadow came out, grasping Stephen’s wrist in an eagle’s grip. Just then he heard a knocking on the door behind him. Breathless, sweating, he turned, eager to escape from the nightmare. He opened the door. An old woman holding a lamp stood waiting. She was almost bent double, clothed in rags, hair covering her shrivelled face. Around her head was a dirty dishcloth, while her face, neck and hands were a mass of wrinkles; toothless, her lips receded over blood-red gums. All around her purple lips sprouted tufts of soft, white hair which gave her the look of a whiskered, demure cat, apart from her eyes — small black holes dancing with malice. ‘Come with me.’ The old head bobbed like that of a sparrow. Her movements were jerky, her eyes glittered and her lips twisted in a grin. She gestured with her hand. ‘Come with me.’ The voice curled in a viper-like hiss. Stephen looked beyond her. There was no graveyard now, just a long, dirty room. The plaster on the walls was crumbling, the blackened beams dotted with cruel hooks. Cobwebs hung thick and heavy as tapestries. A cat lay sprawled on an ash heap; when it lifted its head its face was human like that of the harridan. The cat opened its mouth and spoke. ‘Ah, Stephen,’ it purred, ‘man’s flesh is viler than the skin of a sheep. When sheep are dead their skin still has some use, for it is pulled clear and written upon. But, with men, flesh and blood profit nothing.’

Stephen hastily stepped forward, only to find himself falling.

‘Stephen, Stephen!’

The novice shook his head and opened his eyes. Anselm crouched beside him, gently tapping his face. Close by stood Beauchamp, a dark shape, just like that black shadow which had confronted him in the church. ‘I saw you go into Saint Michael’s,’ the clerk drawled, ‘but then you never came out so. .’ his voice trailed off.

‘Does he suffer from the falling sickness?’ Parson Smollat bustled up. Stephen gazed past him at where the rest stood, heads together.

‘Stephen, you’re just hungry, aren’t you, lad?’ Anselm asked. The novice clambered up. The day was drawing on. Dusk was creeping in. Somewhere a lych bird, the ever chattering nightjar, made its chilling call.

‘There is nothing here,’ Anselm declared, ‘nothing but old bones, shroud shards and crumbling wood. Let us go.’

The Carmelites made their farewells and, accompanied by Beauchamp and his retainers, re-entered the narrow lanes of Dowgate.

‘Who will re-inter the dead?’ Stephen asked.

‘Let Parson Smollat take care of that,’ Anselm replied. ‘I must say our parson does seem a much preoccupied man.’

They continued up the lanes. Trading was drawing to an end and citizens were making their way home along the messy thoroughfares. Apprentices still shouted. Beggars shook their clacking dishes. But, as Anselm murmured, the day was done and they were all for the dark. A cold, stiff breeze forced them to keep their cowls up across their heads. Garish signs displaying all kinds of heraldry, mythical beasts and guild insignia, creaked on rusty chains. Lanterns, lamps and tapers flared at windows or glimmered through the chinks of shutters. They reached The Unicorn, where the stable yard was busy with a line of sumpter ponies and two huge carts delivering purveyance. Coals glowed from the small forge in its narrow shed where the smith still pounded the anvil. The air was a fog of different smells: burning hair, smoking charcoal, the rich tang of manure and the various cooking smells from the kitchen and buttery. Two pie men, who had used the tavern bakery, came out with their trays slung about their necks, eager to entice passers-by with cries of ‘Warm patties, really hot! Warm patties, scorching hot!’ Stephen and his companions shoved through these. Beauchamp’s men went ahead into the tavern. Stephen followed and closed his eyes momentarily in pleasure at its cloying warmth and savoury smells. Alice appeared along a passageway, looking rather dishevelled. Flour dusted her blue veil and gown as well as her hands and face. Nevertheless, she still gave Stephen the sweetest smile and swiftly called for her father, a tall, balding Minehost with a fine face and deep, welcoming voice. The apron he wore was clean, as were the napkins over his left arm. He bowed at Sir Miles and the two Carmelites before ushering them into the taproom; this was very spacious though rather low, with an arched ceiling resting on a huge pillar painted green and gold. Common tables ranged either side of the room with private spacious booths in the large bay windows partitioned from the rest by vividly painted screens.

Minehost, who introduced himself as ‘Master Robert, formerly of Bristol,’ guided them to one of these window-tables. Three places had been laid. The taverner, his voice betraying his West Country burr, assured Beauchamp that Cutwolf, whom he knew very well, and all his companions would be well looked after. Alice stood just behind him, wiping her brow on the back of her wrist, those lovely, smiling eyes still dancing at Stephen. Suddenly her smile faded. ‘They say,’ she called out, ‘you are looking for corpses at Saint Michael’s and Rishanger’s house. News flies faster than swallows in Dowgate.’

‘Hush now, girl.’ Her father made to remonstrate but Sir Miles, who’d doffed his cloak and sword belt, busy making himself comfortable, held up a hand, smiling so appreciatively at Alice that Stephen felt a stab of jealousy.

‘Mistress, you are correct — we are looking for corpses.’

‘Margotta Sumerhull?’ Alice’s voice trembled; her father put his arm around her shoulder and gently led her away. Servitors came to take their orders. Sir Miles declared he would pay and for the best ale and wine, which were brought. Cormanye, pork fillets in wine and black pepper, aloes of beef steeped in thyme and sage with a pot of lumbard mustard, white, soft bread cuts and dishes of buttered vegetables were ordered. Anselm recited the Benedicite and blessed the table. They washed their hands in stoups of rose water and settled back to enjoy the delicious smells coming from the kitchen. Stephen hoped Alice would reappear but her father thought otherwise, serving them himself. They ate in silence until Beauchamp put down his horn spoon. He stretched across the table, grabbed Stephen’s wrist and squeezed it. ‘What really happened to you at Saint Michael’s? Is it the falling sickness?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Anselm intervened.

‘It has happened before,’ Stephen added.