Paul Doherty - The Midnight Man

Stephen stood with him and, by the time they had returned, Beauchamp had organized Cutwolf and others to use more sacking as a makeshift stretcher. The corpse was removed from the church. They left by the sacristy door. Parson Smollat, now partially recovered, murmured about the corpse door remaining bolted and locked and how its key was still missing. Stephen was just relieved to leave that abode of shadows. He turned, revelling in the sunlight and the pleasing breeze. He watched as Cutwolf hurriedly searched the corpse, now stretched out on the sacking. The sexton, however, only carried a few paltry possessions: coins, rosary beads, a small cross and a few nails but nothing else. No key to the corpse door could be found.

‘Take his corpse back to the priest’s house,’ Beauchamp ordered. ‘Brother Anselm, you accompany it, see that all is well. Sir William,’ Beauchamp turned to the merchant knight, ‘we shall meet in your chamber within the hour, yes?’

Anselm whispered to Stephen to follow him. The exorcist went to walk on but paused, crouching to examine dark stains on the paved path which went round the church. He picked at the congealed specks, plucked a piece up and sniffed at it, rubbing it between his fingers. He scrutinized similar droppings then rose to his feet. ‘Strange,’ he murmured, ‘but let us go on.’ They walked through the cemetery towards a small wicket gate which led into the enclosure before the priest’s house, a fine pink-plastered, black-timbered dwelling built on a grey stone base with a blue-slated sloping roof. Parson Smollat explained how the sexton had two chambers, which could be approached by an outside staircase. The exorcist intoned the De Profundis as they approached the steps.

Stephen, however, remained distracted. He felt as if they were being followed: the sound of dry leaves whirled and rasped behind them, yet when he looked back there was nothing but the swaying wilderness of wild grass. He glanced back at the church. A shape like a gargoyle or babewyn was crouched on the sloping slate roof, black and hideous like some wild ape. He glanced again but it was gone. Stephen’s eye was caught by movement at the top of the tower — shifting shapes as if bowmen, hooded and cloaked, clustered there. ‘Stephen, Stephen!’ a woman’s voice called. He glanced across the bending grass which parted to reveal a black tombstone — from this a wicked white face, hair all a-tangle, glared furiously at him. Stephen stumbled and swiftly crossed himself.

They reached the wicket gate and went through on to the cobbled courtyard before the pretty-fronted priest’s house. Isolda, wimple all awry, hands outstretched, came out. She began to chant a hymn of mourning until Parson Smollat gathered her in his arms and led her away. They took Simon’s corpse up the outside staircase. The door to his two chambers hung unlocked, and they entered. Stephen was immediately struck by their ordinariness. Two white-washed cells with crucifixes and painted cloths on the walls, a few sticks of furniture, coffers and caskets. They placed the corpse on the narrow bed but, even as they arranged the dead man’s limbs into some form of dignity, both Anselm and Beauchamp were busy about the chamber. They examined the tattered, grimy sheets of parish records piled on the chancery table in the second chamber. Coffers and caskets were opened. Stephen was surprised at how swiftly both Beauchamp, looking rather tired and absorbed, and Anselm sifted through the dead man’s possessions. Parson Smollat, accompanied by a now comforted Isolda, came up the outside stairs. Beauchamp asked the woman to look after the corpse, adding that he would leave Cutwolf and his companions to assist her in cleaning and washing the body. ‘We must go,’ the royal clerk declared. ‘Parson Smollat, we shall wait for you below.’

Beauchamp, Anselm and a slightly nervous Stephen left the chamber and went down to wait in the courtyard. ‘Magister,’ Stephen pleaded, ‘where have you been, what have you been doing?’ He glanced swiftly at the royal clerk. ‘You are coughing blood. You should not be involved in this.’

‘Brother Anselm.’ Beauchamp grabbed the exorcist’s arm. ‘What is this spitting blood? Have you been poisoned?’

‘No, no.’ The exorcist smiled, exerting all his charm and beckoning them away from the door of the priest’s house. ‘I have been studying here and there and my cough is as old as I am. Now, Stephen, do not fret or worry.’ He rubbed the side of the novice’s face. ‘Be at peace,’ he urged. ‘Think of God’s goodness and,’ he teased, ‘Alice’s smile. You have enjoyed yourself. No,’ Anselm wagged a finger, ‘I will not talk about myself. Let us talk more about poor Simon.’

‘We discovered nothing,’ Beauchamp declared. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘Except this.’ Anselm twisted a piece of parchment, small and greasy with age between his fingers. ‘A mere scrap.’ He handed this to Beauchamp, who simply pulled a face and passed it to Stephen. The novice read the scrawl repeated time and again in dog Latin, Norman French and English. The message was simple and stark: ‘Now Lucifer was the friend of Saint Michael.’ As the Angelus bell abruptly tolled, Stephen thought about the arbour and sitting next to Alice.

‘Stephen?’

‘Er, nothing, Magister.’ He handed the strip of parchment back to Anselm. ‘I don’t know what that means. Look, the others will be waiting.’

They all, Parson Smollat included, eventually gathered in Sir William’s elegant chancery chamber. The perfume of the quilted leather chairs and stools mingled with the fragrance from the flower pots, chafing dishes and braziers. Stephen wondered how such exquisite beauty could exist alongside the horrors they had just witnessed. ‘Well,’ Sir William asked, lacing his podgy fingers together, ‘we really must close the church now. Yes, Parson Smollat?’

The priest gulped noisily but nodded in agreement.

‘What happened?’ Anselm demanded.

‘From the little we know,’ Sir William replied, ‘Simon went into the church. He entered by the corpse door. Once inside he pulled across the bolts and locked the door. He must have taken the key with him.’

‘And this has not been found?’ Anselm intervened.

‘Yes,’ Sir William agreed. ‘Apparently it wasn’t on his corpse.’

‘I searched the church with Almaric when you took poor Simon’s corpse back to his chambers.’ Gascelyn spoke up. ‘Brother Anselm, that key has disappeared.’

‘So,’ the exorcist demanded, ‘how did the sexton die?’

‘We’ve discussed that,’ Sir William replied. ‘Brother Anselm, it is a mystery except for one conclusion.’

‘Which is?’

‘The sacristy door was locked and bolted — you saw that. So it would seem that Simon entered by the corpse door, drew those bolts, locked it and threw away the key or hid it somewhere. He then went into that darkened transept, pulled his dagger and cut his own throat.’

‘Impossible.’

‘What other solution is there?’ Almaric sniffed. ‘Go back, examine the corpse door. The bolts were drawn. If you draw them back, the door remains locked because the key is missing. Simon must have killed himself, or was forced to, or some secret assassin entered that church. But how? There are no tunnels or secret passageways. Some demon, surely, Brother?’ Almaric grew more loquacious and Stephen suspected that the curate had drunk deeply from the goblet of claret in front of him. ‘Surely,’ he repeated, ‘a man can be so terrified by demons, by the horrors which lurk behind the veil as to take his own life?’

‘I would agree,’ the exorcist conceded, ‘and you all think that?’ He stared around the polished walnut table, slightly dusty from the great bowl of lilies in the centre, their yellow seeds now peppering the polished top. Everyone nodded in agreement. Beauchamp looked rather askance, even sullen as he mulled over his own dark thoughts. The royal clerk caught Stephen’s glance and stared coolly back. The novice wondered if Cutwolf had told him everything, including Stephen’s own suspicions about this mysterious and enigmatic clerk.