‘He was a mutton-monger.’ Adele paused to listen to a cackle of laughter from the taproom. Stephen scrutinized this cunning woman, her soul steeped in malice. She had an aura of squalid unease, a dirtiness of spirit.
‘He was always one for the ladybirds.’ She continued: ‘Prostitutes.’ Adele sniggered. ‘Well, not now.’ She fingered the silver chain around her thick, sweaty neck: a small gold swan hung delicately from it. Both looked out of place next to the dirt-lined seams and wrinkles of her skin. ‘One in particular.’ Adele sniffed. ‘Edith Swan-neck is what that princess of the night called herself. Bought her this as a present, he did.’
‘And?’
‘The little whore disappeared, God knows where. Bardolph searched but even her sisters of the night at The Oil of Gladness couldn’t tell him.’
‘So the necklace?’ Anselm asked.
‘Bardolph claimed he found it in the cemetery at Saint Michael’s, lying in the grass. Oh, that was some time ago. Anyway, after that he’d say strange things. .’
‘Mistress?’ Anselm drew a coin from his belt purse and put it on top of an upturned barrel.
‘He said he would have his revenge against Parson Smollat.’
‘Revenge?’
‘I don’t know why. Bardolph also boasted how he would be rich one day — then I would see him in a different light. I have, haven’t I?’ she sneered. ‘Corpse light!’ Again, she sniffed. ‘I can tell you no more. He left this morning as usual, told me to look after the alehouse. God alone knows what happened.’ Adele’s fingers edged towards the coin on the barrel but Anselm picked it up and slipped it back into his purse.
‘If you have anything more, Mistress, but not until then.’
They left the alehouse and walked through the gloaming towards the torches flickering on the main thoroughfare. These had been lit by the wardsmen who had also fired the rubbish heaps to create more light and some warmth for the destitute slinking out of their corners and recesses. Some of these brought scraps of raw meat to grill and cook over the flames. The smell of rancid fat swirled everywhere. Stephen kept close to Anselm for this was the haunt of the night-walkers, the brothers and sisters of the dark, the fraternity of the bone: carrion-hunters, snakes-men, moonrakers, slop-collectors and all the rest who waited for the cover of night to do their work. The two Carmelites were swiftly inspected and ignored. A group of mounted archers appeared and the bobbing shadows and weasel-faces, all cowled and hooded, quickly disappeared. Anselm took advantage of this, stopping by a fire, watching the archers clatter by.
‘Magister, Bardolph?’
‘What do you think, Stephen?’ Anselm replied. ‘What do I think? Are we thinking what we are supposed to be thinking?’
‘Magister, you are talking in riddles.’
‘So I am — my apologies. Was Bardolph’s death the result of the haunting? Did he become possessed? Was he forced up to the top of that tower and made to jump? Or was he fleeing from some horror which crawled out of the walls?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Stephen replied, looking to his right as the people of the dark began to gather again. ‘I reflected on what happened while Adele was chattering. I saw Bardolph’s corpse, all pure in its white shroud, except for that sin-eater.’
‘Paganism,’ Anselm intervened, ‘but continue, Stephen.’
‘In life Bardolph was a man cloaked in dirt and mud. We found traces of that on the tower near the place where he fell.’
‘And?’
‘I watched you, Magister, as we went down that tower. You found no trace of mud or dirt on the steps or stairwell. Is that right?’
‘Yes, correct. You are the most observant of novices. What else?’
‘Bardolph didn’t like heights. True, he could have been possessed but why should demons take someone they already have? A man immersed in the lusts of the flesh.’
Anselm softly clapped his hands. ‘The most subtle of novices. And?’
‘I believe Bardolph was carried to the top of that tower and thrown down. He was probably taken up wrapped in a sheet or a piece of canvas which would account for no trace of mud being left on the stairs or steps.’
‘Stephen, I believe the same. Yet, when Bardolph fell, was not everybody clustered around that table in Sir William’s house?’
‘Except for the Midnight Man and his coven?’
‘I agree. Bardolph’s assassins, whoever they may be, want us to regard Bardolph as the victim of secret, dark forces. He was, but those powers were of this world rather than the next.’
‘Magister, what do you think is happening?’
‘It is very simple.’ Anselm stretched his hands out to the flame. ‘Now you are cold, you draw close to this fire. What came first? Why, the idea, of course. If you were warm would you even give this bonfire a second glance? Now, Stephen, think of something unpleasant.’
‘My father!’
Anselm laughed softly. ‘If you must. However, do you feel your body react at the thought of this man who believes you are madcap and fey-witted, so much so that he wanted to lock you away in some convent home? He dismissed what you saw, heard and felt, as the result of upset humours. He cast you out. Now, Stephen, what do you feel? A beating of the heart? A tumult in the stomach and bowels? So, change your thoughts and think of something pleasant. Alice Palmer, the maid who kissed you?’ He nudged Stephen. ‘That will not be difficult. Think of her lovely lips, the gentle cusp of her cheek, her pretty eyes. Oh, God be thanked,’ Anselm murmured, ‘for the vision of women. You feel happy, contented, flattered?’ Anselm grasped a piece of stick and prodded the flames making the sparks flutter and rise. ‘The business of Saint Michael’s and the abbey is very similar. Powerful emotions are expressing themselves in the phenomena we see. The cause is not human weakness but something much darker: ice-cold malice.’
‘Such as?’
‘Murder, Stephen — horrid, cruel, calculating murder allied to a malicious interference from the spirit world.’
‘Murder?’
‘Oh, yes, Stephen — the slaughter of innocents. Some hideous crime which shrieks for justice — not Bardolph’s, but whose, as yet, we do not know. Now,’ he sighed, ‘your august but severe father asked me to educate you and so I shall.’ Anselm swiftly glanced over his shoulder. ‘Oh, by the way,’ he whispered, ‘I think we are being followed. Anyway, Stephen, have you ever been to a brothel? No, I don’t think you have. Well, it’s The Oil of Gladness in Gutter Lane for us.’
Anselm asked directions from a surprised beadle supervising the feeding of the different bonfires now burning merrily along the runnel. The Carmelites strode off, pushing through the now gathering throng as the Worms of London, the poor and all their associates, swarmed out of their rat-like dens to search for what the city had left them. The streets were busy as the different fraternities from the guilds dispensed their charity: the Brotherhood of the Heavenly Manna, the Society of the Crumb, the Sisterhood of Martha, the Brethren of Lazarus — men and women garbed in penitential robes pulling hand-carts and barrows full of food, meat, bread and fruit rejected by the markets. Torches glowed. Flames juddered against the whipping breeze. Smells and cries carried. Beadles, bailiffs and wardsmen wandered armed with cudgels, swords, pikes and ropes, searching for those sanctuary men who thought they could leave the safety of their havens at St Paul’s and St Martin’s to wander the streets hunting for food, plunder and further mischief. London’s underworld had opened up. Anselm, clutching his satchel, walked fast. He kept to the centre of the street though he was careful of the filth-crammed sewer.
They reached The Oil of Gladness in Gutter Lane. From the outside it looked like a small, prosperous tavern with smartly-painted red woodwork and mullioned glass windows in all three stories. The door was guarded by two well-known water-pads: thieves who stole from barges on the river. Anselm greeted both like old friends. ‘This is my companion, a novice,’ Anselm declared.
The two monsters stepped fully into the pool of light created by the torches flaring either side of the doorway. ‘Stephen, this is Stubface. You can see why. He had the pox which pitted his face while the other,’ Anselm gestured at the smaller of the two, ‘is Wintersday, called so because, allegedly, he is short and very nasty. Well, my
