Paul Doherty - A haunt of murder

Ralph heard his name being called and looked down. Father Aylred was gazing up at him.

‘Ralph,’ he called. ‘If I say a Mass in Midnight Tower would you be my altar boy?’

Ralph nodded and, nursing his secret, hurried down the steps.

‘When will you say the Mass?’

Father Aylred looked calm, more composed. ‘Soon,’ he replied. ‘What were you doing up on the parapet, Ralph?’ He stepped closer. ‘What’s wrong? Your face is pale, your eyes are bright. Do you know who the killer is?’

‘Not yet, Father, but God does!’

‘Why can’t I intervene?’ Beatrice stared desperately as her lover and Father Aylred walked back across the green. ‘What are we?’ she screamed at Brother Antony who watched her, his eyes full of compassion.

‘Beatrice, you are an Incorporeal. I have told you. You are not of their world but of another.’

‘But I can speak, I can see, I can hear, I have my body!’

‘Yes, you have,’ he said kindly. ‘But they have all changed.’

‘That’s not possible.’

‘Yes it is, Beatrice. Even in the world you have left, one substance can take many forms. Water can turn to ice, it can be still or fast-running; it can be small, it can be large, it can be salt-filled, it can be clear. It rises and it comes down. So it is with you. Your body has not been taken away, it has simply changed, as your consciousness has.’

Beatrice gazed around. The strange coppery tint had grown in strength. She was becoming accustomed to her new world. She even knew how to rest, to withdraw into a warm darkness, shutting off her consciousness, asleep but not asleep. Nevertheless, she was growing frantic. This existence was like watching a mummer’s play or studying the tale told on some tapestry. She had not seen the attack on Ralph in Devil’s Spinney but she had become aware of his cries and, within the twinkling of an eye, she had been there. She had pulled down the briar so he could grasp it, she was sure she had! Or had it been a breeze or simply some subtle treachery of this strange light? She did not know who had attacked him, and she did not see the killer who had struck from the Salt Tower. She had seen Beardsmore fall and the wraiths gather to collect his soul. She had wanted to move, discover the identity of the mysterious assassin but she had been too terrified to leave Ralph. She had been with him in the green-filled darkness beneath the moat. And in the Salt Tower she had known of Eleanora’s death, heard her heart-rending cries as her soul was taken off. Deep in her mind, Beatrice believed that knowledge of the killer was deliberately forbidden her. If she had kept her wits and tried to find out his identity, some obstacle would have arisen, as it had when Cerdic disappeared.

‘Can’t I intervene?’ she asked.

Brother Antony smiled. ‘In a way you can but that is something you must earn, Mistress Arrowner.’ He touched her gently on the lips. The silver disc now shone at the back of his head, a circle of gleaming light. ‘Be careful. Remember what I said about the Minstrel Man.’ He walked away then disappeared as if into thin air.

Beatrice stood staring across the green. She was changing, becoming more powerful. She was fully aware of herself; she accepted that she was dead but her determination had grown. She was aware of her own will thrusting out, wishing to intervene, to protect the man she so dearly loved and had so tragically lost.

‘Are you well, Beatrice Arrowner?’

Crispin and Clothilde were next to her, hands joined. They stood like beautiful twins smiling at her.

‘Brother Antony warned me against you.’

‘Of course he did.’ Clothilde threw her head back and laughed, a tinkling sound. ‘He is the guardian of the wastelands. It is his task to keep you in order.’ Clothilde pointed to the sentries on the parapet walk. ‘Just like they protect the castle.’

‘You promised to help me.’

‘And in time we will,’ Crispin replied languidly. ‘But we must have your trust, Beatrice. Everything in life, and in death, has a price; it must be earned, must be bought. Nothing is free.’

‘What is it you want?’

‘Your trust, Beatrice. Here we are,’ Crispin stretched out and stroked her hair, ‘willing to help and yet you stand like a wench in the marketplace studying us as if we are hucksters!’

‘What is happening in Midnight Tower?’ Beatrice asked, trying to distract herself from Crispin’s light-blue eyes.

‘The priest summed up the truth of it. Spiritual life is, as Brother Antony says, akin to water. In most people, and in most places, it lies sluggish like a lazy river at the height of summer, then something stirs its depths.’ Crispin’s face became excited. ‘It grows stronger and fuller. The currents beneath pull and tug and the surface is disturbed.’

Beatrice studied these silver-haired twins. She wanted to believe what they said. They looked so beautiful. Brother Antony was so plain. All he could give was good advice while horrors bubbled around the man she loved and threatened to engulf him.

‘Who is the killer?’ she demanded.

‘In time, Mistress Arrowner.’

She turned away in disgust and, before they could stop her, ran towards the wall, through it and out into the heathland. She reached Devil’s Spinney and walked among the great oak trees. She had been with Ralph on the parapet walk. She had heard his whispers. She knew what he had discovered. This was an ancient place. She had become accustomed to the shapes and shadows, those strange priests with their ivy garlands and bronze, sickle knives, the terrible sacrifices they made to their demons. Even now they were clustered, chanting in a tongue she could not understand. Other phantasms appeared: that terrible knight in armour, his band of robbers around him, hanging some unfortunate peasant, drowning others in the marsh. They sat on their horses and laughed as the unfortunates shrieked for mercy before disappearing into the green, dark slime. Such phantasms no longer troubled her. Brother Antony had explained that they were mere shadows of what had been. Now and again she encountered the occasional wandering soul. Never a child but sometimes a man or woman lost in their own world, disturbed, distracted, unwilling to go on. She was also conscious of those beings who met the souls of the dead, the seraphim, glowing orbs of light, and the wraiths clustered together like monks chanting their psalter, and the demons, mailed men, knights in armour, hunting for souls.

‘Mistress Arrowner!’

Two figures stepped out from the trees. Beatrice recognised Robin and Isabella, a young man and his wife. She had met them here before. They had explained how, many years ago, they had owned a tavern on the Maldon road, which had been burnt by French corsairs who brought their galleys up the Blackwater estuary before riding inland. They were merry souls, unable really to explain why they had not moved on.

‘Perhaps we loved this world,’ Isabella had laughed. ‘We had such a good life, Beatrice. Robin served ales and wines while I cooked in the kitchens. On one occasion we even served the King.’ She blinked. ‘I forget his name…’

Beatrice had come to accept them. They always appeared hand in hand, chattering incessantly about the petty things of their lives, what they had done, whom they had met.

‘What are you doing here?’ Robin came forward, thumb stuck in the belt round his green jerkin, his brown leggings pushed into strange-looking boots. He was clean shaven and had smiling brown eyes beneath his auburn hair. Isabella looked similar but thinner, more prone to laughter than her husband.

Beatrice told them everything she had learnt.

‘Then why don’t we help?’ Isabella suggested.