me,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘the dead do speak to the living, as my tale will prove.’
The Physician’s Tale
Part Four
‘Questions.’ 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.
‘Questions.’ Anselm’s voice cracked like a whip, making everyone sit up and concentrate. ‘First question: Saint Michael’s Church is undoubtedly haunted as well as plagued by malevolent spirits, yes? Second question.’ Stephen was now busy writing, using the cipher Anselm had taught him, very similar to that employed in the royal chancery. ‘Second question,’ Anselm repeated. ‘Who are they and why are they acting like this?’
‘Puddlicot?’ Beauchamp broke in.
‘Third question.’ Anselm nodded at the royal clerk in a moment of realization. ‘Why is Saint Michael’s haunted by the ghost of Richard Puddlicot? True, this was his parish church. He took sanctuary here but, despite this, was dragged out. He now protests at the outrage while he also haunts the crypt of Westminster Abbey. The poor soul is lost in his own tormented past. Fourth question,’ Anselm tapped the table, ‘we now tread on firmer ground. At the last All Souls the Midnight Man and his coven celebrated their black rites here at Saint Michael’s. Perhaps they did the same at Westminster? At first we considered the choice of Saint Michael’s to be random — now we are not so sure. This brings us to our fifth question: was the purpose of the Midnight Man’s satanic celebration to search for Puddlicot’s buried treasure? If so, how did they know about it? Sixth question: did they find some of the treasure? Undoubtedly so! The Cross of Neath and Queen Eleanor’s dagger but how, where and when? Question seven.’ Anselm paused to take a sip of water. ‘Was Rishanger a member of the Midnight Man’s coven? How did he seize such treasure? Who killed him and his Mistress Beatrice? Question eight, Bardolph’s death: was he driven to the top of that tower — was he possessed, forced to commit suicide? Question nine: Adele, Bardolph’s wife, a member of this parish — yes, Parson Smollat?’
The priest, pale-faced with anxiety, nodded in agreement.
‘Why was she murdered in her shabby alehouse which possesses not one religious artefact? Oh, by the way, Parson Smollat, did you bring your book of the dead as I asked?’
The parson lifted a sack from where he had placed it, close to his feet, and drew out the leather-bound ledger. ‘What do you want with it?’ Smollat’s voice quavered.
‘In a while,’ Anselm replied. ‘Sir Miles, your men are ready?’
‘Of course!’
‘What is this, Anselm?’ Sir William asserted himself. ‘You ask questions but surely you are here to provide the answer to why Saint Michael’s is haunted.’
‘As yet I cannot do that properly. I do not know what lies at the root of all this. I have one more question, or perhaps two. So, question ten: Bardolph the gravedigger. He desperately searched for his lady love, Edith Swan- neck. He found a necklace he had given her lying in Saint Michael’s cemetery. What happened to Edith, and what are these rumours about other young women disappearing?’
The chamber fell silent. Stephen stopped writing. Abruptly he raised his head. He was sure, certain, that he heard faint chanting.
‘So what do you suggest, exorcist?’ Sir Miles sat, hands clasped, half-concealing his face. ‘I must also give answers to those in authority.’
Anselm snapped his fingers at Parson Smollat. ‘My friend, I want you to give us the names of the last four people buried before the thirty-first of October last year and, when we are ready, take us into the cemetery where, I hope, with the help of your men, Sir Miles, to open their graves.’
‘Why?’ Smollat stuttered, ‘For God’s sake, that is sacrilege!’
‘Not if we are searching for the truth.’
‘Anselm!’ Sir William’s face tensed with anger. ‘Why this, why now?’
‘Because, Sir William, I am trying to answer my own questions. Listen now.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ Almaric interrupted, ‘you said you might have two other questions. Do you have a second?’
‘Yes, you did,’ Gascelyn confirmed.
‘Oh, that,’ Anselm smiled icily, ‘is linked to my final proposition. Bardolph, unlike us, God forgive him, discovered something. I am sure it was to his great profit but, more than that, I cannot say.’
‘So what now?’ Sir Miles asked. ‘Anselm, don’t you have any firm conclusions?’
‘Oh, I have propositions, hypotheses. Let me explain. I believe the Midnight Man, whoever he is, discovered the secret of Puddlicot’s treasure. How and when I don’t know.’ Anselm breathed in. ‘I believe he and his coven discovered two items from that lost hoard. How, when and why? Again, I do not know. I believe Rishanger was a member of his coven. He stole those items and tried to flee — he and his mistress were both killed. Rishanger fled because he realized that the Midnight Man had not only failed to establish the whereabouts of the rest of the treasure through the practice of the black arts but had summoned up much more malignant forces. In doing so, the Midnight Man had attracted the attention of both Court and Church. I also suggest that perhaps Bardolph — certainly his wife, Adele — was part of the Midnight Man’s coven.’ Anselm shook his head at the cries of protest from Parson Smollat and Almaric.
‘I confess, I am not too sure about Bardolph but I would suggest Adele definitely was. She was silenced because of what Bardolph may have discovered or may have told her.’
‘Which is what?’ Parson Smollat queried.
‘In truth, I don’t know, parson. Do you? Didn’t Bardolph go to you to be shrived? Did he confess? Can you tell us anything outside the seal of confession?’
‘Nothing.’ Parson Smollat sighed, licking his lips. ‘Bardolph talked of his love for Edith Swan-neck. He asked if I knew of any other young maidens who had disappeared.’ Smollat’s voice faltered. Stephen stared at him. He had met the parson a number of times over the past few days and the priest was certainly changing, becoming more nervous and agitated. A troubled spirit, Stephen concluded, but was he wicked, malicious? Parson Smollat certainly seemed to be losing his confidence by the day, his anxiety clearly expressed in his unshaven face, unkempt robes and dirty fingernails, which constantly scrabbled over the table top.
‘What do you want?’ Smollat bleated. ‘Brother, what do we do now?’
