‘No, but Almaric is and, as is common with such rites, something truly hideous occurred. You called into the darkness, Sir William, and a demonic chorus sang back. You raised a fiery nest: not only the hapless ghost of Puddlicot and the souls and spirits of those you had murdered both there and, I believe, elsewhere, but the prowling demons — those powerful, malevolent spirits who hunt the arid lands of the spiritual life. So fearsome were they that you and your coven had to flee.’
‘Very interesting!’ Higden snapped. ‘Brother Anselm, I am prepared to surrender myself to the King’s clerks. I will, in a different place and at a different time, demand evidence — proof positive for your outrageous allegations.’
Stephen glanced quickly at Cutwolf and Bolingbrok and a chill seized his heart. Cutwolf, just for a brief moment, betrayed his own uncertainty.
‘Rishanger,’ Anselm continued, ignoring the interruption, ‘became agitated. His relationship with you was not as strong as that of your two henchmen here. Perhaps he resented sharing the treasure found in his garden. More importantly, he had seen your vaunted powers brought to nothing. How the disturbances at St Michael’s were now attracting the attention of both Crown and Church. Rishanger decided to flee. He may have killed his mistress Beatrice, or that might have been the work of your black-garbed assassins who then pursued and murdered Rishanger in Westminster Abbey.’ Anselm chewed the corner of his lips. ‘You also tried to raise the dead there, didn’t you, and failed? No wonder members of your coven became nervous and uncertain. You must have been truly furious at Rishanger’s treachery, his attempt to flee and the bungled work of your assassins. Now the Crown knew what was at stake: they had the Cross of Neath and Queen Eleanor’s dagger. Sir Miles Beauchamp and the Secret Chancery were alerted.’
Anselm paused, fingering the wooden cross around his neck. Stephen glanced up and flinched at the evil, gaunt face glaring down at him from the pitch dark. He shifted his gaze.
‘Hate-made holes slick with blood. Soul weary, the spirits gather to sing sorrowful songs,’ a voice taunted. Stephen glanced up at the moving, dancing shapes which floated and darted like shards of ash. A billow of dust swept by, only to dissipate in a pool of light.
‘Shrouded in sadness,’ the voice whispered. ‘Release must come!’
‘You.’ Anselm’s voice cracked under the strain. ‘You, Higden, became convinced that Puddlicot’s treasure hoard was here. You regarded my interference and that of Sir Miles as vexatious but not serious. More importantly, you needed to close this church so that you could search it thoroughly as well as control your own followers. Bardolph was not obeying. Recalcitrant, stubborn, absorbed with Edith Swan-neck, the gravedigger was not a member of your inner cell. However, I think he began to suspect your true identity, Sir William. The night we first attempted to exorcise this haunted place, Bardolph openly grumbled at the lack of burial fees. He was secretly making a barbed sally against you. How he was burying corpses, those of your victims, which brought him no income. He probably resented Gascelyn occupying the death house, assuming duties Bardolph considered his own. Above all, unbeknown to you, Bardolph had become obsessed with the whore Edith Swan-neck from a local brothel. Edith was, I believe, invited to Saint Michael’s by one of your coven who had noticed her beauty when either Gascelyn or Almaric visited the The Oil of Gladness. Was she told how she had caught the eye of no less a person than Sir William Higden? Full of herself, Edith hurried away. She was inveigled into the meadows of murder. She was abducted, killed, her corpse like the rest wrapped tightly in shroud sacking and buried by Gascelyn. Bardolph searched for her. He discovered his beloved definitely left for Saint Michael’s but then disappeared. He later found her necklace in the cemetery. Bardolph became furious, fearing full well what might have happened and holding you, Sir William, responsible. Full of anger and resentment, Bardolph’s twisted heart turned to the prospect of blackmail. He openly boasted about his rich prospects. He may have even mentioned something to Parson Smollat. He had to be silenced. Adele or someone else in the coven alerted the master to the danger. Bardolph was killed in this church by your minions here. His corpse, wrapped in a sheet, was carried to the top of the tower, unwrapped and pushed between the crenellations. It is,’ Anselm smiled grimly, ‘difficult to glimpse anything at the top of that soaring tower, especially when the sun moves into the west and the light begins to fade. More importantly, I stood there when the bells mysteriously tolled; that tower top shook like a tree in a furious gale. Bardolph’s corpse, resting between the turrets, simply toppled over when Simon the sexton began to peal the bells.’ Anselm spread his hands. ‘Just another mysterious death in this haunted church.’
‘But the sexton claimed,’ Almaric taunted, ‘that he heard someone walking up the steps of the tower.’
‘The spirits!’ Higden jibed.
‘No, no,’ Anselm retorted, ‘that was just poor Simon’s imagination and the effects of your minions going up and down the steps; trapdoors being opened, dust stirred, doors unlatched.’ Anselm paused as the captain of the archers came hurrying through the darkness. He leaned down and whispered into Cutwolf’s ear. ‘Well?’
Higden rose and stretched, stamping his feet. Cutwolf also got up to meet him, gesturing that Higden sit down. The merchant knight did so reluctantly. Cutwolf went off to whisper to the archers and came back. ‘There is a pit,’ he announced, ‘cleverly concealed beneath one of the paving stones of the death house. They lifted that and went down.’
‘And?’ Gascelyn could hardly keep the excitement out of his voice.
‘Nothing!’ Cutwolf replied. ‘Nothing but a barrel and some boxes.’
Stephen’s heart sank; Anselm sighed noisily.
‘However!’ Cutwolf snapped his fingers. ‘In moving the bed, Master Gascelyn, we found this.’ An archer handed over a small casket. Cutwolf lifted the lid to reveal a heap of bangles, cheap rings and necklaces. Cutwolf sifted amongst these and handed over a bracelet. ‘Read the inscription.’ Anselm examined the tawdry item and mouthed the word
‘You stupid fool!’ Almaric snarled, before Higden shouted a warning. Cutwolf screamed into the darkness and an arrow shaft whirled through the air, smashing into the wall behind them. ‘That proves nothing,’ Higden spluttered. ‘Gascelyn bought. .’
‘Silence!’ Cutwolf took his seat, gesturing at Anselm to continue.
‘Bardolph’s death was necessary for three important reasons.’ Anselm leaned forward, jabbing a finger at Higden who, like his two companions, was clearly agitated. Almaric sat, arms crossed, looking down at his feet; Gascelyn, hands on his knees, stared blindly before him.
‘Three important reasons,’ Anselm repeated. ‘The same applies to all the other mysterious murders here. First, to clear the board, to remove anybody who might get in your way. Secondly, to silence gossiping mouths. Finally, and most importantly, to depict this church and its cemetery as a haunt of demons,’ Anselm chuckled. ‘And that would not be difficult.’
‘Why?’ Cutwolf’s attitude had changed slightly, as if listening to something which would convince him about what he should do.
‘Oh, as I have said — to close this church and pull it down. Sir William would have free rein to explore, dig, pull up and push until he found Puddlicot’s treasure. Lord, the sheer wickedness of the logic! Publicly Sir William is the generous benefactor, promising the world a splendid church, a gorgeous new beginning. In truth, however, he is a Satanist, a blood-drinker, murderer and arsonist.’
‘Smollat burnt this. .’
‘No, no, Sir William, let me explain further. You murdered Bardolph for the reasons I have given. You then silenced Adele, leaving that flask of poisoned wine in her alehouse, a special mourning gift for her. Adele was a greedy woman — she drank the wine full of arsenic. She had to die just in case Bardolph had chattered. You visited her house in the guise of the local justice so one of your minions could search and remove anything suspicious.’ Anselm wiped his hands. ‘All neat and tidy.’ He gestured at Cutwolf. ‘Your water bottle, please.’ Anselm took a deep gulp and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He replaced the stopper and put the water bottle between his feet. ‘Simon the sexton died for the same three reasons. Was he, too, asking awkward questions? We found a scrap of parchment on his chancery desk written in English, Norman French and Latin. What did it say? “Now Lucifer was the friend of Saint Michael’s?” Lucifer, before he fell, was an archangel, too. Was Simon openly hinting about you, Sir William? A friend of Saint Michael’s Church and yet, at the same time, Lucifer, the fallen angel?’ Higden just glared back. ‘And of course, what a tale! A story to reinforce your intentions, Sir William. The poor sexton, driven to suicide, cutting his own throat in his own church — nonsense!’ Anselm sniffed. ‘Simon was lured into this nave. You cut his throat. You locked and bolted both the sacristy door and the main door. As far as the ancient corpse door is concerned — well, it sticks and groans when it opens. You removed the key and, after the murder, Almaric, a carpenter, coated the side of the door with a heavy glue; the type woodworkers use when they fashion a casket.
