Marie O'Regan - The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women (Mammoth Books)

The leader of the troupe leaned in. That smell of mouldering fruit and damp straw . . . Nicholas almost choked against it.

“Word was put our way concerning Dean Richards’s recent incapacity.”

Nicholas tried to process the statement. The man’s flippancy grated. But before he could respond, the boy with the horns butted in.

“Want us to warm up them working folk, Mr Savage?” The boy produced a black velvet bag held by two sticks, almost identical to the collection purses used in the cathedral.

“Good idea, Thom. Go on now, fellas. Get us a crowd going.”

The devil boy and the other three climbed the stairs between Nicholas and the man in green. Leaving their organic perfume in the air, the four strode over to the scaffolded west front.

Mr Savage, as the devil boy had referred to him, called after them. “Ask after the best ale house. One with lodgings.” He arched a thick black eyebrow. “Some people need guidance. Without a strong hand, we’re as lost as lambs. And there are always wolves on the prowl, hey, minister?” The man’s shoulders shook in amusement. Tiny bells inside his clothing tinkled.

Nicholas folded the plans and slid them into a pocket of his cassock. “It is good to see a Lichfield son return to the fold. And now, if you will excuse me.” He glanced pointedly up at the late afternoon sky. “The weather sickens.”

He was about to hurry off when Mr Savage brought his huge green face closer. The man’s breath smelled of freshly dug soil. His eyes shone blue-white.

“Dean Richards sent word that he wishes to see me. Be a good fellow and lead the way.” His heavy brow bulged. “That’s a demand, Canon Nicholas.”

The Deanery was a red-brick Queen Anne mansion with tall chimneys and a central pediment. Ailen, the green man, imagined an interior dedicated to stoked fireplaces, plum pie and antique furnishings. Indeed, the house provided all of these things when a bustling housekeeper let them in – in spite of her clear alarm at Ailen’s costume. The comforts of the house did not extend to the dean’s bedroom, however. Following the faintly sanctimonious young canon across the threshold, Ailen was disappointed to find the room in semi-darkness and the air perfumed with lavender. Disappointed because he had hoped a strong-willed man like Dean Richards would not have taken ill after his fright.

“The Shakes,” Ailen muttered under his breath.

Canon Nicholas glanced back. “Excuse me?”

Ailen shook his head. “Nothing.”

A lamp burned low on the bedside cabinet. By its weak light, he saw eiderdowns piled high on a large bed, wall-mounted crucifixes, dried lavender arrangements – to soothe the nerves – and long tapestry curtains drawn tight to keep the cold out. Or something other.

Sound issued from beneath the eiderdowns. Muttered prayer – or, as Ailen understood it, just another form of incantation.

“Dean Richards?” said Nicholas.

The covers were thrown back. Dean Richards stared out, wild-eyed and with a halo of white hair about his head.

“Nicholas?” The Dean scrubbed his fists into his eyes. He blinked at Ailen, mole-like. “And you, friend? Are you phantom or mortal man?” A shiver visibly passed through the man and he hugged himself.

“Mortal, if in the guise of a handsome devil.” Ailen grinned – which prompted the dean to clutch the eiderdowns up to his chin.

“Forgive my crass humour, Dean Richards. It comes of a good many years spent on tour with a mummers’ troupe.”

“Mummers?” The dean chewed the word over. “The archbishop’s people mentioned a mummer. Pied Piper of the dead, they called him.”

“Aye. That’d be on account of this.” Reaching into his pack, Ailen pulled out a long metal pipe. Worked in silver and brass, the instrument appeared to be a cross between an oboe and a mechanical Chinese dragon. “I blow here.” Ailen pointed to the reed-tipped tail. “Notes are produced here.” He indicated a series of plated “gills” along the tail pipe. “I change pitch with these.” Two wing sections coruscated where the pipe fattened at the body section. “And here is the mouth.” He worked a series of nodules along the neck to exercise the metal jaw.

“So you are our Spirit Catcher?” Dean Richards relaxed his grip on the eiderdowns and sat up.

“What’s a Spirit Catcher?” The canon’s voice was laden with fear and judgement.

“The man who will cleanse our great cathedral of its unwelcome parishioners,” said the dean, rifling through the drawer of a bedside cabinet. “Ah.” He produced a purse and rested back against his pillows.

“Eight shillings and ninepence for the tall spirits. A crown apiece for the two girls.” He arched an eyebrow. “Half up front.” Loosening the string at the neck, he handed the purse to the canon. “Count it out please, Nicholas.”

The canon faltered. Ailen knew it pained the pious young man to play any part in the transaction. After all, such talk of ghosts bore more in common with the earth spirits entertained in pagan rites than with Christian doctrine. But Ailen could see many things others could not, including the canon’s desire to please his seniors and progress through the church hierarchy. He wasn’t surprised when Nicholas kept his concerns private and dug around inside the purse.

Dean Richards gestured to a chair off in the shadows. “Sit with me a while, Spirit Catcher. Let me tell you what I know.”

An hour later, the dean slipped back into his muttered prayer and strange hugging of the eiderdowns. Ailen stood up. Coins belonging to the church jangled in his pocket. He slid the dragon pipe back inside his pack and retrieved an envelope, which he presented to Nicholas.

“Arrowroot, garlic, lilac, mint, and mercury. Sprinkle the powder on the windowsills, the threshold and at the foot of the bed.”

Nicholas looked as if Ailen had handed him the severed hand of a baby.

“I want nothing to do with your witchcraft!”

“Then the Shakes will continue to pollute the dean. Leave him be or use this.” He held up the envelope pointedly then laid it down on top of the bedside cabinet. “Your choice.”

The King’s Head, Bird Street, reputedly opened its doors in 1495 and had since served as a coaching inn, birthed the Staffordshire regiment, and acquired its fair share of ghosts over the centuries.

Approaching the building, Ailen saw a silver-blue orb flicker at a window on the third floor. Voices came to him – men readying themselves for battle, their muskets and pikes knocking against armour as they moved. He was struck by a thick bitumen stench, felt the dry heat of flames. A woman screamed inside the public house. But the sound did not belong to the living. Instead, the scream looped back on itself and then faded.

Unlike the activities in the cathedral which the dean had described, these hauntings were moments in time caught in the King’s Head’s ancient footings. Even the screaming kitchen maid who had perished in a fire was just a shade. He saw her as he stepped into the bar. Most would experience her movement past them as a brief sensation of cold. Closing the door at his back, Ailen watched her sweep the floor, heedless of the patrons in her path.

He was brought back to the land of the living by a blackened face looming in.

“Cutting it close. But the crowd’s nice and eager. Here.” Willy Bones, part-time exorcist, full-time Fool, shoved a pint of ale into Ailen’s hand. “Quaff it quick. Our Saint’s about to announce us.”

Ailen sank a draught from the ale glass. The King’s Head had a generous quota of patrons, all gathered around the edges of the room to allow for a makeshift stage. Thom’s character, Little Devil, stood to the back alongside the anaemic Doctor, Naw Jones. Playing the part of Saint George, ex-clergyman Popule Brick faced the audience and bowed.