Paul Doherty - A haunt of murder

‘I had none.’ Beatrice looked up at the sky. It was empty now of the shifting forms and shapes. ‘I had none,’ she repeated. ‘I cared for all my friends. I rarely had harsh words.’

‘So what did you have that someone else wanted?’ Clothilde asked.

‘Why, nothing,’ Beatrice replied. ‘My aunt and uncle have no riches. I had no treasure – that’s what people kill for, isn’t it?’

Clothilde laughed. ‘You mentioned the word treasure. You had Ralph.’

‘But I had no rivals, or none that I know of,’ she added in alarm.

‘No, no, don’t vex yourself,’ Clothilde reassured her. ‘But what was Ralph searching for?’

Beatrice stared into those light-green eyes. ‘I met a young man,’ she replied slowly. ‘Do you know him? Crispin?’

Clothilde nodded.

‘He said the same, that I was not supposed to die.’

‘Think!’ Clothilde’s voice was low and urgent. ‘Remember, Beatrice. You went up on to the parapet walk. You were looking for Ralph. Remember how dark it was. Someone was waiting for you in that shadowy tower.’

‘But I was wearing a gown,’ Beatrice protested.

‘And Ralph was wearing a cloak,’ Clothilde pointed out. ‘All the assassin saw was a dark shape, clothes fluttering in the breeze, footsteps along the stone walk.’

‘Oh no! They thought I was Ralph!’ Beatrice gasped. ‘They killed me because they thought I was Ralph. That means they will kill again. I must get back!’

‘No, no.’ Clothilde held her hands. ‘Two deaths in one night, Beatrice, will provoke suspicion.’

‘It’s Brythnoth’s treasure, isn’t it? Ralph said he was close to discovering its whereabouts. Whoever killed me wanted to silence him. What can I do?’ If Clothilde hadn’t held her fast with a force which kept her rooted to the spot, Beatrice would have fled back to Ravenscroft.

‘Hush now!’ the rich, low voice soothed. ‘Don’t fret yourself, Mistress Arrowner. Perhaps I can help you.’

Beatrice stared at Clothilde. She had never seen such beauty, except in a painted Book of Hours Father Aylred had shown her.

‘Who are you? What are you?’ she asked. ‘Where do you come from? Why do you want to help me?’

‘Because we are alone, Beatrice, lost on the other side of death. Don’t you want justice, vengeance on your killer?’

‘What does it all mean?’ Beatrice demanded. ‘I see silver discs and golden spheres of light.’ She stared across the street. Goodman Winthrop’s corpse still lay sprawled at the mouth of the alleyway. ‘Horrid shapes like knights in armour but with no faces, only eyes which glow in the darkness. Sometimes these shapes see me, sometimes they’re just like wisps of smoke.’

‘In time all will be made clear,’ Clothilde replied reassuringly. ‘I have lived in this world for many a year. I know it well. I can explain it. Once, many, many years ago, I was like you.’

‘And what happened?’ Beatrice asked.

‘Never mind.’ Clothilde laughed, shook her head and smoothed the golden hair away from her face. ‘Killed like you, I was. Sent out into the darkness before my time. But I exacted vengeance.’

‘How?’ Beatrice demanded. ‘We are cut off from the living by a thick, glass-like wall. They cannot see, hear or touch us, nor can we them.’

‘There is a way,’ came the reply. ‘In time.’

‘You play with me.’

‘No, I don’t, Beatrice. You remember Father Aylred’s stories about the terrible cries from Midnight Tower? This glass wall can be penetrated but, as in life, it takes time and skill.’

‘If you know so much then say who killed me.’

‘I would if I could, Beatrice. But look around you. We are no different from the living. We cannot be in all places at all times.’

‘And the treasure? Brythnoth’s cross? Is it a fable?’

‘In time that, too, can be found. Now, come with me, Beatrice.’

Beatrice hung back warily. Clothilde’s beautiful face seemed a little more pointed, the even white teeth reminded her of a cat, and those green eyes were very watchful.

‘Where is Goodman Winthrop?’ she asked.

‘Why, Beatrice, with the demons. After death the true self manifests itself. As in life so in death. But come, I wish to show you something. Questions later.’ Clothide grasped Beatrice by the hand.

They moved quickly along the high street out into the country lanes. The strange bronze light was all around them. It was night yet they could see where they went. They walked but they seemed to travel faster as if borne by swift horses. Beatrice felt the ground beneath her slip away. She would stop and stare at places she recognised: a turnstile, a gate, the brow of some hill. Each had memories from her previous life. Her companion had fallen silent. Now and again she’d whisper to herself in a language Beatrice couldn’t understand. The houses and farms fell away and they entered that desolate part of Essex which ran down to the estuary of the Blackwater, a bleak place even on a summer’s day. Now it seemed like the heathland of Hell. Beatrice paused as they climbed the hill overlooking the water. In a small copse she glimpsed a movement. She let go of her companion’s hand and went across. A beggar man, one she had seen at the Golden Tabard days earlier, was crouched beneath the bush. A piece of threadbare sacking covered his shoulders and his seamed face was dirty and coated in sweat.

‘He’s ill,’ Beatrice declared. ‘He has the same fever as Elizabeth Lockyer. Can’t we help?’

Clothilde glanced up at the sky. ‘Daylight will soon break.’

‘So, the stories are true,’ said Beatrice. ‘Ghosts can only walk at night!’

Clothilde laughed deep in her throat. ‘Children’s tales! But the shapes I wish to show you will disappear.’

Beatrice ignored her. She peered at the beggar man and stretched out a hand to stroke his face. There was no response.

‘He is dying.’ Clothilde’s voice was harsh. ‘There is nothing we can do. Each man’s fate is a line of thread which is played out to the end.’

Beatrice was full of pity. The beggar man was old, with balding pate, unkempt beard and moustache. He must have crawled out here like a dog to die.

‘Life is harsh,’ Clothilde murmured.

‘So is death,’ Beatrice retorted. ‘I will not leave him. His end must be near.’ She ignored the hiss of annoyance from her companion.

Beatrice remembered the words of the Requiem and recited them. A short while passed and the beggar man’s shaking ceased. There was no death rattle, just a sigh and he lay still. Beatrice waited to see what would happen. The same manifestation occurred. The beggar man’s shade stood beside the corpse. The old man looked up at the sky, hands beseeching in death as they did in life. No golden spheres appeared, nor those black, cavernous shapes. Instead, figures dressed like monks, hoods and cowls obscuring their faces, clustered round the deceased. They were urging him to accompany them. He was reluctant, arguing back. One of the figures passed a hand over his face as if showing him something; the beggar man fell silent and, with a figure on either side, he walked away and disappeared, leaving his dirty corpse on the heathland.

Beatrice looked at Clothilde who was standing behind her staring out towards the river, and just for a moment she thought Clothilde was Crispin. She grew frightened.

‘What is happening?’ she asked.

‘If you want my help,’ Clothilde replied, ‘hurry now!’ And, grasping Beatrice’s hand, she led her to the brow of the hill.

The mud flats of the Blackwater estuary stretched below Beatrice. She had been here before with Aunt Catherine to cut rushes, search for herbs, even catch fish. It was a desolate place where the gulls and cormorants wheeled and whined and a biting wind always seemed to blow. Now it was changed. The estuary was a battlefield. Men were hacking and cutting at each other. In the river beyond, Beatrice could see long, rakish ships, their prows carved as dragons, griffins and wolves, their sails furled. A hostile army had landed. The invaders wore steel conical helmets whose broad nose guards hid most of their faces. In the early dawn light Beatrice could see their standards; one showed a red, snarling dragon, another a huge black raven with yellow beak and talons. The men they fought were grouped round a great standard depicting a fighting man against a green and gold background. Beside this standard, crosses lashed to lances were held high in the air.