The Midnight Man (16 page)

The atmosphere of that desolate chapel enveloped Stephen in a sombre embrace. It was a place of sadness and hidden fears. For a few heartbeats the rood screen seemed to disappear, replaced by a luxurious, sprouting oak tree from which many corpses hung in manacles. This faded. Stephen became aware of the charcoal crackling in pots and the pleasing wisps of heavy incense.

‘The Chapel of the Damned,' Anselm explained. ‘Off the beaten track, not visited by many. Certainly not on the eve of the feast of Saint Mark.'

‘The same day Puddlicot broke into the crypt?'

‘Precisely, Stephen and, according to the records, the eve of his grisly execution two years later. All this, Mandrake Place, the church, the houses and the Fraternity of the Suspercol, were once the property of an English leper knight of the Order of Saint Lazarus. He bequeathed it to serve as a place where the corpses of those hanged in London and elsewhere might be brought.' Anselm pointed to the trapdoor. ‘Beneath that stretch are extensive burial pits of soil and lime. The corpses of many executed are brought here on the death-cart which they roll up that ramp into the church. They wrap each corpse in a sheet and lower it down for burial. I went down there once – a seemingly endless sea of bones and skulls.'

‘And Puddlicot lies here?'

‘Yes, Stephen, he does; his corpse no more than a tangle of bones.'

‘Why have we come here tonight? To catch a sighting?'

‘No, I do not think anything will happen here. We will, however, tarry at this, his last resting place. We shall assure his soul that we are its benefactor, not tormentor, as well as vow to arrange requiem Masses to be sung.' Anselm walked to the edge of the vault. He knelt and began to thread his rosary beads. As Stephen went to join him the main door opened and two women entered. The first was very old and grey-haired, with stooped shoulders, one hand grasping a walking cane, the other the arm of her companion. Both were dressed in the brown robes and white wimples of the Franciscan Minoresses who had their convent outside the old city wall near Aldgate. The two nuns stood watching them for a while before walking on up under the rood screen. Anselm hardly noticed them but continued reciting the Dirige psalms. Stephen crouched at the foot of a pillar. He tried to pray but his eyes grew heavy, aware of flashes of light around him and the dim murmur of voices. A commotion at the door roused him. He hurried back to find the guardian barring the way to a group of young, heavily-armed men. Former soldiers, Stephen concluded, judging by their close-cropped hair and hard, scarred faces. They were dressed in dark leather jerkins, tight hose pushed into their boots. Six in number, their leader had already drawn both sword and dagger.

‘What is this?' Anselm came out on to the porch and stood on the top step.

‘Brother Anselm.' The leader sheathed sword and dagger. ‘The hour is late but Sir Miles Beauchamp . . .'

‘What about him?'

‘We are his henchmen. I am Cutwolf.'

‘He mentioned your name to me once.'

‘My companions, Oldtoast and Mutton-monger.' Cutwolf waved a hand.

‘You have been following us?'

‘Of course, Brother Anselm. Your safety is close to the heart of Sir Miles and what he wants . . .'

‘What does he want?'

‘Your presence at Bardolph's alehouse, The Burning Bush.' Cutwolf grinned. ‘The widow, the now dead widow, was suddenly taken ill and died over an hour ago.' Cutwolf pointed to another of his companions. ‘Holyinnocent here brought the news. Sir Miles awaits.'

The Burning Bush was guarded by more of Beauchamp's men as well as royal archers from the Tower. The taproom inside was cleared, and Adele's corpse lay stretched out next to her husband. A linen cloth draped the body. Sir William and Sir Miles, together with Almaric, Simon and Gascelyn, were present. One of Adele's servitors cowered in a shadowy corner. The Carmelites moved into the circle of light around the corpses, where a nervous, shabbily-dressed physician was drying his hands.

‘What happened?' Anselm asked.

‘We were making ready for the burial of old Bardolph,' the street physician declared. ‘Adele brought a flask of wine, broached it and drank. Suddenly her head and neck were thrown back, and her throat and stomach swelled up. Her face turned as red as the crest of a cock. Her eyes, horrible to see, started out of her head, her tongue all swollen, turning a purplish-black.'

‘Possessed by demons,' Almaric whispered.

‘Nonsense!' Stephen exclaimed. Everyone stared at him.

‘Nonsense?' Beauchamp queried.

‘Poison,' Stephen replied, ‘arsenic poisoning.'

‘Tell us, learned physician,' Almaric taunted.

‘My father was a physician. He made me accompany him on all his visits,' Stephen retorted. ‘I have seen Adele's symptoms in at least three of my father's patients.'

‘Mere prattling!' Sir William replied.

‘Hush, now,' Anselm demanded.

‘I have seen these symptoms.' Stephen felt his confidence rise. ‘A very strong infusion of raw, red or white arsenic will cause such an effect. My father unmasked two poisoners. I watched them burn in the square before Winchester Cathederal.' Stephen glared around. ‘My father always made me write up the symptoms he examined. Adele's death was sudden and violent – the infusion must have been very strong. Arsenic,' he continued heatedly, ‘can be bought commonly enough. Some people – fools – use it either as a cure for stomach cramps or even as an aphrodisiac.'

‘But why?' Sir William scoffed. ‘Why her, and how did it happen?'

‘Sirs.' The servitor shuffled out of the darkness carrying a small flask, its stopper pulled back. ‘Sirs, this was delivered at the door. I saw the mistress bring it in. She drank from it, put it down and a short while later she was racked in agony.' Stephen took the flask; the stopper seal had been broken. The flask was almost empty but when he sniffed he detected something acrid mingling with the strong, fruity odour of claret. ‘If you still don't believe me,' Stephen fought off a wave of tiredness, ‘put this down for vermin to drink – they will not survive long.' Stephen grasped a pewter goblet from the top of a barrel, poured the remaining wine into it and shook the grainy sediment out into the glow of candlelight. ‘There are your demons.' Stephen pointed at the sediment. ‘The wine is heavily tainted; strong enough to snatch the soul from her body many times over.'

‘Somebody wanted Adele dead,' Anselm wondered out loud. ‘But who, and why? Let's search this place.'

‘Why?' Sir William declared.

‘I'll tell you when we find it,' Anselm quipped.

They conducted their search in the squalid taproom, the dirt-encrusted scullery and buttery, the two chambers above and the dust-filled attic. The rooms were filthy and chaotic, reeking of staleness and neglect. They emptied broken caskets and coffers, moved the straw-filled mattresses and black-stained bolsters but found only tawdry items. They all gathered, yawning and stretching, in the taproom, where someone had thrown the sheet back over Adele's corpse.

‘Magister,' Stephen whispered, ‘the hour is very late. I am exhausted.'

‘Gentlemen,' Sir William Higden stood next to both corpses, ‘surely we have finished here? I will take care of the cadavers. The hour of compline is long gone. These matters must wait for the morrow.'

Beauchamp and Anselm agreed. The royal clerk led the two Carmelites out of the shabby alehouse. Cutwolf and the others were waiting outside, torches held high. ‘Come,' Sir Miles smiled through the dark, ‘we will see you safely to White Friars.'

They moved off deep into the dark, the glow of torch on naked steel keeping the busy shadows at bay. The clink and clatter of weapons, the tramp of booted, spurred feet, stilled all other noise. Beauchamp walked in silence then came between Stephen and Anselm. ‘You do realize what was wrong with our search?' he asked.

‘We didn't find anything,' Anselm murmured. ‘We should have done. More curious still, Bardolph and Adele were parishioners yet never once in that shabby, mean house did I find a crucifix, a statue, a set of Ave beads or any other religious artefacts.' Anselm pulled his cowl up against the night breeze. ‘In fact, I suspect that someone went through that house before us and removed certain items.'

‘What?' Beauchamp asked.

‘Oh, anything associated with magic and the black rites,' Anselm replied. ‘I suspect Adele, perhaps even Bardolph, were members of a coven.'

‘The Midnight Man's?'

‘Very possible,' Anselm replied.

Stephen quickly crossed himself against a thought. Was it sinful, malevolent or the truth? Was the Midnight Man someone very close to them?

T
he physician rose and walked to the canopied hearth where he warmed his hands, rubbing them slowly, staring into the jagged flames. His fellow pilgrims sat in silence for a while before busying themselves. A few hastened out to the latrines and closet chambers. Minehost of The Tabard asked for some platters of dried meat, bread and fruit ‘to ward off' as he put it, ‘the demons growling in their stomachs'. The food was served, the jugs refilled.

Chaucer watched the physician, who had turned slightly and was now peering over his shoulder. Chaucer followed his gaze. The physician was staring at the Wife of Bath, now recovered from her former state of quiet surprise. She raised her goblet in response to the physician's stare. Chaucer rose and walked over to the far wall as if interested in the painted cloth, describing in rough brushwork the great epic of Roland and Oliver. He waited. The physician left, walking into the garden, the Wife of Bath soon after. Chaucer, allowing curiosity to reign over courtesy, quietly followed. The buttery yard was empty. Chaucer walked across to the lattice screen over which wild roses sprouted from a thick green bush. Soft-footed as a cat, he stopped short of the flower bed: in the faint light he could see the brittle twigs which would snap under his boots. The physician and the Wife of Bath were sitting on a turf seat on the other side of the rose-covered fence. Straining his ears, Chaucer heard snatches of their hushed conversation. ‘Do souls still hover?' The Wife of Bath's question trailed clearer than the whispered reply of the physician. ‘Sometimes,' Chaucer heard, ‘they sweep in,' but the rest was hidden by the screech of a night bird deep in the garden. Chaucer heard the phrases ‘grisly murder' and ‘that hideous burning'. A sound made him turn. The summoner stood in the doorway to the tavern. Chaucer walked over. In the pool of light the summoner's face appeared leaner, more purposeful than the usual vacuous, slobbery-lipped look, nose red as a rose, skin scabby as a leper's.

‘Good evening, Master Chaucer. What do you think of our physician's tale? Truth? Fable?'

‘Do you know, master summoner? I suspect some of the characters of this miracle play do live and breathe and are not so far from us.'

‘Really?'

‘Summoner, what is your name? Do not reply, we are legion because we are so many. I suspect your demons thrive at the bottom of a deep-bowled wine goblet.'

‘True, true,' the summoner glanced over Chaucer's shoulder, ‘but now our physician returns.'

‘Your name, friend?'

‘Why, Master Chaucer, I am Bardolph, come again,' and, laughing softly to himself, the summoner went back into the taproom.

‘Master Chaucer?' The physician, the Wife of Bath trailing behind him, strode through the darkness. ‘Master Chaucer,' he repeated, ‘you are curious whether this is fable or fact?' He grabbed Chaucer by the elbow. ‘Believe me,' he whispered hoarsely, ‘the dead do speak to the living, as my tale will prove.'

‘Q
uestions.' Anselm tapped the table in Sir William Higden's chancery chamber. ‘We will deal with this as we would a problem in the halls of Oxford. Put forward certain questions to be addressed. Sir William, Curate Almaric is taking notes for you. Stephen will do the same for myself and Sir Miles. Gentlemen,' Anselm pointed to Simon the sexton and Gascelyn, ‘you may listen and,' he shrugged, ‘and add anything we may have overlooked.'

‘Is this really necessary?' Sir William looked peevish after what appeared to be a poor night's sleep. The powerful merchant knight's face was shaven and gleaming with oil, but the dark rings under his eyes betrayed the fact that he had drunk too deeply of the claret he apparently loved. While Anselm made soothing noises, Stephen glanced around the luxurious chamber. He was particularly fascinated by the brilliantly hued tapestries of blue, red, green, silver and gold depicting the legends of King Arthur, be it the Knights of the Round Table or Galahad's pursuit of the Holy Grail. Stephen recalled how his own father had taken him to the great Abbey of Glastonbury where Arthur and Guinevere were supposed to lie buried, their tomb being discovered during the reign of the present King's grandfather. Were those happy days? Stephen wondered. The past seemed so distant, so strange, as if he was recalling someone else's life. His time with Anselm had so changed him . . .

‘We should begin,' Beauchamp insisted. The royal clerk, elegant as ever in a dark green cotehardie over a white cambric shirt and black hose, pointed to the green-ringed hour candle in the centre of the table. ‘Soon the Angelus will ring.'

‘I was only wondering,' Sir William protested, ‘why a second exorcism cannot take place? I mean . . .' He wandered off into a litany of speculation. Stephen picked up a quill pen and sharpened it. He felt refreshed and eager for the day. Anselm and he had risen early, celebrated a dawn Mass then broken their fast. Afterwards Anselm, without explanation, had instructed Stephen to pack his panniers with a change of clothes and all he might need for a long stay away from White Friars. The exorcist had refused to elaborate but had promised the novice he would like the surprise.