Paul Doherty - The Midnight Man

‘Their hands?’ Holyinnocent muttered.

Anselm inspected them, lifting them up. Even in the poor light, Stephen, standing beside the exorcist, could see that they were blackened. Anselm sniffed at Parson Smollat’s and let them drop. ‘Oil,’ he declared, ‘possibly saltpetre. Did they start the fire then come here and hang themselves?’

‘So it would seem,’ Beauchamp answered. ‘Let us inspect them more closely. Bolingbrok, cut them down.’

Sir Miles walked off towards the blazing inferno now consuming St Michael’s; even as he did, part of the roof cracked and collapsed in a furious surge of fire and spark. Standing behind him, Stephen stared back across the cemetery.

At the gate Beauchamp and Sir William’s retainers were holding back the gathering crowd, assuring them there was nothing to be done. The fire would be left to burn. Sir William had already proclaimed that as there were no buildings standing nearby, the danger was slight. So, apart from the usual warnings about every household being wary of sparks and to have ladders, hooks and buckets of water at the ready, there was nothing to be done for the church.

‘A cleansing fire, eh, Stephen?’ Anselm, who had finished his inspection, came up to stand beside him.

‘What truly happened here, Magister?’

‘God knows, but Saint Michael’s church is finished.’

Anselm turned away as Beauchamp, along with Cutwolf, strode off towards the priest’s house. The henchman’s flaring cresset streaked the darkness, the flames flickering in the direction of the church as if they were eager to join that violent conflagration. Stephen continued to watch the fire. Molten lead streaked down the walls, a grey, moving sludge, and the fire had now spread to the tower; an ominous red glow already lit the high open windows. The more Stephen stared at that maelstrom of flame, the deeper his anxiety grew — a chilling apprehension that this fire would do little to cure the evil which hung over this place just as heavy and as real as the thick clouds of smoke now pouring into the night. Stephen caught his breath. He glimpsed movement against the hellish red nimbus around the windows. Figures and shapes moved swiftly, as if the gargoyles and babewyns had come to life and were leaping about the fire.

‘ Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, ’ the voices sang. ‘ Dominus Deus Sabaoth — Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Hosts.’

The choir of voices shrilled across the cemetery. Stephen looked over his shoulder; Bolingbrok and the rest were cutting down the corpses. Gascelyn had managed to provide canvas sheets. They worked unaware of anything apart from the burning church and those two ghastly bodies. The singing, however, low and carrying, came from the other side of the cemetery. Stephen walked across and stared into the night. He swallowed hard, clenching his mouth tight against the apparitions. No longer tendrils of mist or vapour but figures, stark and clear, now gathered threateningly amongst the tombstones and crosses. He could not make out individual faces but they stood unmoving, staring across at either him or the burning church. Gathering his courage, Stephen walked slowly towards them. The cowled figures shifted gently in the gloom. ‘Light and peace,’ a voice whispered. Stephen started as something raced through the gorse in front of him, rustling the grass: a dark, darting shadow of an animal, snorting and snarling like some fierce dog. Stephen blinked at the abrupt flashes of light. He felt himself shoved in the chest. A face, horrible in every aspect, gasped and mouthed before him. Crouching down, Stephen tried hard to control his panic. The vision disappeared; nothing but the bleak night lit by that conflagration.

Stephen rejoined the rest. Bolingbrok had finished sheeting the corpses. They followed the torch-bearers through the cemetery, across the enclosure and into the priest’s house. Stephen was immediately struck by its ordinariness: the kitchen was clean, well-swept and tidy, the great carving table scrubbed a dull white, clear except for a bunch of keys lying on top of a piece of greasy parchment. The rushes on the floor were green and wax-like, the pink-painted walls shiny in the candlelight. The fire in the grate had burnt low, the small ovens either side still warm, the copper and brass pans, pots and cutlery hung orderly on their hooks. The corpses were laid out on the floor. Stephen stared at the ghoul-like faces, twisted and frozen in their final death agonies. Beauchamp and Cutwolf, who had conducted a swift search of the other chambers, strode into the kitchen. ‘Nothing!’ Beauchamp declared. ‘Nothing at all.’ Everyone remained silent while Anselm administered the last rites. Once completed and the corpses covered, Cutwolf and the rest guarded the door. The two Carmelites, Beauchamp, Sir William, Gascelyn and Almaric gathered around the great kitchen table.

‘The fire broke out suddenly, without warning,’ Sir William began. ‘It would seem Parson Smollat, God save him, together with his woman Isolda, started it. They moved oil, kindling and other combustibles into the church.’ He pointed at the keys. ‘Parson Smollat apparently had these all the time. Brother Anselm, you found them and that scrap of parchment on his corpse. Both his hands and those of Isolda were stained with oil and pitch, saltpetre and even grains of cannon powder.’

‘I would agree,’ Anselm declared.

‘Did they commit suicide?’ Stephen asked abruptly.

‘So it would seem.’ Anselm sighed. ‘There is no trace of force or imprisonment on their corpses; I was most vigorous in my inspection. My only conclusion is that Parson Smollat and Isolda, for God knows what reason, started that fire then hanged themselves in the shade of that yew tree.’ He gestured around. ‘Look at this house. Sir Miles, you have searched as carefully as any royal surveyor — nothing is out of place! Both the parson and Isolda appear to have lived a normal life. They apparently finished their evening meal in the kitchen then decided on their own deaths and the destruction of the church they served. Parson Smollat must have quietly purchased oil and other materials.’ Anselm paused to clear his throat. ‘Parson Smollat even wrote what might be a confession. We shall come to that. However, did he and Isolda act in their right minds? I don’t know. The parson also held the keys, which raises the strong possibility that he may have had a hand in Simon the sexton’s mysterious death. Was all this deliberate? Or did the infernal powers which haunt this site possess both him and his woman?’ Anselm shook his head. ‘Sir William, I would be grateful if you would make a careful search of what Parson Smollat bought over the last few days.’

‘I can answer that.’ Almaric spoke up. ‘Parson Smollat was very busy. A cart-load of purveyance was delivered just before Nones today. I thought they were the usual supplies but he must have bought oil and the other kindling.’

‘Perhaps,’ Sir William spoke up, ‘the poor be-knighted fool thought he could cleanse this place.’ The merchant knight scratched his unshaven, sweaty cheek. ‘Perhaps he and Isolda then regretted it and decided to take their own lives. I shall miss them,’ he added sadly. ‘Smollat was a good man, though easily frightened. Perhaps he viewed all that had happened as a judgement on himself. Yet in a way he was correct about the purification.’

‘What do you mean?’ Beauchamp asked sharply.

‘Sir Miles, our church is burning. There is nothing we can do about that — let it burn. The ward has been alerted — let the flames spend themselves. Once it is done, we will cleanse this site. I promise,’ Sir William became more invigorated, ‘a new and splendid church will rise like a phoenix from the ashes.’