Paul Doherty - The Midnight Man

‘In which case,’ Anselm tapped the table top, ‘Saint Michael should be placed under interdict until it is cleansed and purified.’

‘Or pulled down?’ Sir William declared. ‘I have petitioned both the Crown and the Archbishop. The entire church should be razed to the ground.’

‘In the meantime,’ Parson Smollat asked, ‘what do I do?’ The priest looked agitated, his balding brow laced with sweat.

‘It is not the end of the world, parson,’ Sir William said kindly. ‘You can look forward to a new church.’

‘If the King and the Archbishop should agree.’ Beauchamp asserted himself, resting his arms on the table. ‘But for the moment,’ he emphasized his points on his fingers, ‘we do not know who the Midnight Man is or his coven. We do not know how he learned about the lost treasure or the robber Puddlicot, yet he has. He has used, to little or no effect, the black arts to learn more. He performed those rites at Westminster and at Saint Michael’s, Candlewick. We know he failed but not how or why this ended in failure, causing such a fierce stir amongst the living dead. Hence the hauntings, the demon infestation of Saint Michael’s and the abbey. Somehow or other,’ Beauchamp paused, ‘I believe the Midnight Man discovered two items of the lost treasure. Rishanger seized these, attempted to flee and was murdered.’ The royal clerk carefully rubbed his hands together. Stephen sensed something false, as if Beauchamp was not revealing his true thoughts. ‘Now, Rishanger was undoubtedly a member of the warlocks coven,’ the royal clerk continued. ‘He may even be the Midnight Man himself, for that sinister figure has fallen remarkably silent. Rishanger was certainly a blood-drinker. He abducted and murdered young women, then buried them in that dire garden of his. Beatrice, Rishanger’s leman, was also murdered, her corpse abused by Rishanger or others — we do not know the truth. Finally, were Rishanger’s other victims the object of his murderous lust or were they used in his diabolic rites?’ Beauchamp shrugged. ‘Again, we do not know.’

‘Then there are the other mysterious deaths,’ Anselm declared. ‘How did Bardolph fall from the top of that church tower? And Simon, his throat cut, locked in a church? Adele, poisoned by a mysterious visitor? Who this was or why they should murder her is, again, a mystery.’

‘Why can’t you free us from all of this?’ Parson Smollat almost shouted. ‘You are the exorcist. Anselm. You failed and then you disappeared.’

‘Yes, I failed. I did so because I have failed to dig out the root of all this, a malignant human wickedness. Yes, I did disappear but I have been very, very busy. I have searched the records. I have also travelled to the great Abbey of Glastonbury in Somerset.’ His words created an immediate silence.

‘Now it comes!’ a voice hissed into Stephen’s ear. ‘Now the wheel spins yet again.’ Stephen glanced over to the corner where a figure sat, a blood-red translucent veil covering its head, face and body. Stephen’s heart skipped a beat. He watched those red-mittened hands: the ends of the fingers were like long white worms, the nails painted a deep blue. Stephen murmured a prayer. The hands were moving. Stephen panicked. They must, he prayed, not pull up that veil and reveal the sinister face beneath — a witch’s face! Stephen abruptly pushed back his stool.

‘Glastonbury,’ Sir William spluttered. ‘Why there?’

Stephen rocked backwards and forwards on the stool. He glanced over again: the corner was empty but a drum, deep in the house, began to beat, followed by the faint trails of a trumpet blast. ‘ A l’outrance! ’ a voice cackled. ‘ Usque ad mortem — to the death, so the tournament begins.’ Stephen felt a blast of heat, as if an oven door had been thrown open and he had been thrust before it.

‘Stephen,’ Beauchamp gestured at the wine dresser, ‘do you want something to drink?’

‘No.’ The novice rubbed his clammy hands along his jerkin. ‘No, I am sorry, I was daydreaming.’

‘As was I,’ Anselm added quickly. He had noticed his novice’s discomfort and was eager to distract attention. ‘Sir William, you asked about Glastonbury? Well, I also searched the records in the Tower, studying every item of treasure stolen from the crypt. Now, as you know, during the reign of Edward I, the present King’s grandfather, the monks of Glastonbury allegedly opened Arthur’s tomb in their abbey. Arthur’s body, a veritable giant, was discovered along with his flaxen-haired Guinevere. However, according to the abbey chronicle and local legend, they also found Merlin’s Stone and other magical items belonging to that great magus.’

‘What,’ Beauchamp asked abruptly, ‘is Merlin’s Stone?’

‘The philosopher’s stone,’ Anselm replied. ‘The means to perform alchemy, to transmute base metals into gold.’

‘Rishanger believed in that nonsense,’ Sir William barked. ‘I told you the murderer came here, begging me for money to achieve that, do you remember?’

‘I certainly do,’ Anselm agreed. ‘Anyway, I travelled down to Glastonbury; the almoner of that great abbey is a friend of mine. He showed me Arthur’s grave and in the library chronicle, a most fascinating account of the discovery.’

‘I have never been there,’ Sir William intervened. ‘I would love to.’

‘Yes, yes, you must go. Anyway, Edward the King took the stone and the other magical items and kept them amongst his trophies.’

‘Was Puddlicot a warlock?’ Parson Smollat asked.

‘No evidence exists for that.’

‘This business. .’ Beauchamp was eager to bring attention back to the matters in hand.

‘Ah, yes, this business.’ Anselm paused. ‘I thought, prayed, reflected and speculated.’ The exorcist rubbed his hands together slowly. ‘Undoubtedly the Midnight Man and his coven were blood-drinkers. Rishanger certainly was. They used that desolate house and that infernal pit in its dismal, isolated garden to entice young women and subject them to every kind of abuse. No wonder the place was haunted. However, the cemetery at Saint Michael’s, Candlewick is different.’

‘Yet undoubtedly haunted?’ Parson Smollat interjected.

‘Of course, but why?’ Anselm added hastily. ‘Rishanger could carry out his gruesome rites in his own dark temple. However, would young women willingly go into a cemetery? Even if they weren’t enticed but abducted, they could resist, protest — eventually such a crime would be noticed. I mean, God knows who used to wander that place — beggars, lovers, the curious?’

‘I agree,’ Parson Smollat slurred, ‘and yet it is haunted.’

‘When I first thought some innocents had been taken there and murdered, I did wonder if they had been killed and buried in graves already dug.’

‘But that means, Brother Anselm,’ Sir William declared, ‘you suspected Bardolph, even Parson Smollat?’

‘No, no,’ Anselm retorted. ‘Remember, I asked about burials there. A grave is invariably dug the day before the requiem Mass, yes?’

‘Correct,’ Parson Smollat agreed.

‘Accordingly, I wondered if the assassin would use such occasions to kill and, under the cloak of darkness, bury his victim in a grave already dug, then cover her with soil. The funeral takes place. The coffin or shroud cloth is lowered. The grave is filled in and no one is any the wiser!’ Anselm straightened up. ‘I was mistaken. However, I still believe that corpses, horribly murdered, lie somewhere else.’ Anselm gathered together his writing satchel. ‘As for poor Simon’s death — and I rightly call him poor Simon — believe me, my friends, a fiend did that, though not from hell but from Dowgate.’ Smiling grimly at his companions, Anselm rose, made his farewells, then left with Stephen.