haunted by spectres, ghouls and phantasms, excluded from the light whose warmth she had tantalisingly felt.
She wandered out into the street. A man in tattered garments came running up; his face was pinched and leering, his neck strangely twisted. He clacked a dish and jabbered at her. Beatrice, growing accustomed to this world of spectres, ignored him and turned away.
‘Beatrice! Beatrice Arrowner!’
The young woman standing near the horse trough was a vision of beauty. Golden hair hanging loose down to her shoulders framed an ivory face perfectly formed, red lips, laughing green eyes slightly slanted at the corners. She was dressed in a beautiful gown of blue and gold, with silver-toed and silver-heeled boots on her feet. A golden bracelet with silver hearts hung from one wrist, and round her neck a filigree chain held a gold disc with a red ruby in the centre.
‘You are sad?’ The young woman’s voice was soft and musical.
‘What is your name?’ Beatrice snapped.
‘Why, Clothilde. Do you like your new world, Beatrice?’
‘No, no, I don’t!’
‘And your murder?’
‘How do you know?’ Beatrice demanded. ‘How do you know about my death?’
‘I saw you fall,’ Clothilde replied, taking Beatrice’s hand. ‘I saw you fall like a star from Heaven. You know you did not slip?’ She gently caressed the side of Beatrice’s head. ‘That terrible blow sent you spinning out of life.’
‘Please don’t play games with me!’
Clothilde drew even closer and Beatrice marvelled at the perfume this unexpected visitor wore. ‘Don’t be such a child, Beatrice. Think coolly, reflect. Why should someone want to kill young Mistress Arrowner? What enemies did you have?’
‘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
