‘Yes,’ Benedicta whispered. ‘I suppose angels come in all shapes and sizes!’
Cranston was about to make a tart reply when the door swung open. Walter and Eleanor Hobden greeted them. Athelstan took an instant dislike to both of them. The man seemed sly and secretive, whilst the sharp- featured, gimlet-eyed Eleanor looked a veritable harridan.
‘Father, you are welcome.’
The Hobdens stood aside and ushered them in. Athelstan entered the darkened passageway, trying to control his anxiety, as well as a shiver of apprehension which made him flinch and tense as if expecting a blow.
‘I have brought Sir John,’ he declared haltingly. ‘Sir John Cranston, Coroner of the city. And this is Benedicta, a member of my parish council.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘In these cases it’s best to have witnesses.’
The Hobdens, standing on either side of the fire, just stared hard-eyed and Athelstan fought to control his mounting unease. What was happening here? he wondered. Why did this house make him feel so apprehensive? He scarcely knew the Hobdens and yet he found the atmosphere in their house oppressive, redolent of an unspoken evil.
‘Where is your daughter?’ he asked, conscious of how subdued both Cranston and Benedicta had become. He glanced over his shoulder. Cranston’s usual cheery expression was now grave and sombre as if the house had taken some of his usual ebullience away.
‘Elizabeth’s upstairs,’ Waiter muttered. ‘Father, have you brought the oils and water?’
‘Of course.’
‘It will begin soon,’ Eleanor Hobden spoke up. ‘Once darkness falls the demon manifests itself.’
‘In what ways?’ Cranston snapped before Athelstan could stop him.
Walter shook his thin shoulders. ‘Father Athelstan knows that,’ he whined. ‘Elizabeth speaks but with her mother’s voice. Then there’s the knocking on the walls, the smell, the accusations.’ His voice trailed off.
‘How did your wife die?’ Athelstan asked. ‘I mean, your first wife?’
‘Of an abscess inside her,’ Eleanor replied brusquely. ‘We called the best physicians but they could do nothing. She just faded away. I was a distant cousin of Sarah’s and, when she fell ill, I came to nurse her. Father, there was nothing that could be done.’
Athelstan turned as a bent old woman crept, like a shadow, into the room.
‘This is Anna,’ Walter announced. ‘Elizabeth’s nurse.’
The old woman drew closer, her wrinkled face creased into a hapless smile.
‘Elizabeth has driven even me away,’ she moaned. ‘She will have nothing to do with me at all.’
Athelstan studied Anna’s black button eyes, wispy grey hair and narrow nose, and sensed a malice which only deepened his unease.
‘Do you want some wine?’ the Hobdens offered.
‘No, no.’ Athelstan grasped the bag holding the oils and stoup of holy water even tighter.
‘Can I assist?’ Anna offered.
‘No,’ Eleanor Hobden intervened harshly. ‘Anna, go back to the scullery. Walter and I can deal with this.’
Athelstan tensed as he heard a voice calling: ‘Walter! Walter!’
He looked at Hobden whose face had become even more pallid.
‘It’s beginning again,’ the man whispered. ‘It begins like this every night.’
‘Tush, man, it’s only your daughter calling you.’
‘No.’ Hobden’s eyes rolled like a frightened animal’s. ‘Sir John, I swear that’s my dead wife’s voice.’
Athelstan concealed the trembling which had begun in his legs.
‘We’d best go up,’ he said firmly. ‘Master Hobden, if you will show me the way?’
Like a condemned man treading the gallows steps, Hobden led them up the darkened, winding staircase to the second floor and along a passageway to a half-open door. He pushed this slowly open and stood, one hand on the lintel, staring into the candle-lit room. Athelstan, Cranston and Benedicta, close behind him, gazed at the young woman lying in the centre of the great four-poster bed, her dark hair bound behind her, the skin of her white face drawn so tight it emphasized her high cheek bones. She stared glassily at her father and the others.
‘So, you have brought visitors, Walter? Witnesses to your crime.’
Athelstan watched, curious, as the lips moved but the voice seemed hollow, disembodied.
‘Elizabeth!’ Hobden moaned. ‘Stop this!’
‘Stop what, Walter? You murdered me, killed me with red arsenic, poisoning me so you could marry another woman!’
‘That is not true!’
Walter was about to continue when the knocking began. At first slow, indistinct, but then it spread up from the bottom floor of the house as if some dark creature from Hell was scrabbling up behind the wainscoting.
Benedicta stood back. ‘Father,’ she whispered. ‘Be careful!’
Athelstan walked into the room and headed towards the foot of the bed. He was fascinated by the girl’s dark, glassy eyes and those lips spouting out their litany of accusation. The knocking continued like a drum beat and Athelstan gagged at the awful stench pervading the room. He gathered his courage.
‘Elizabeth Hobden, in Christ’s holy name, I beg you to stop! I command you to stop!’
Athelstan undid the neck of the bag and, hands shaking, took out the stoup of water and the asperges rod. He sprinkled holy water in front of him and made the sign of the cross but Elizabeth kept talking, her voice strident as she repeated over and over again the accusations against her father. Athelstan tried to hide his fear as he began the exorcism ceremony proper with the solemn litany of invocation, calling on Christ, His Blessed Mother and all the angels and saints. His words were drowned by the girl’s shouts and that awful pounding on the walls whilst the smell became even more offensive.
Athelstan tried to continue even as a small inward voice began to question his own faith. He glanced over his shoulder and glimpsed Benedicta’s white face and Hobden standing terrified at the doorway. Of Cranston there was no sign. Oh, Sir John, Athelstan thought, now in my hour of need!
He looked back at the girl — those hate-filled eyes, shoulders and head rigid against the white bolsters. She seemed oblivious to his presence, staring past him at her father. Then suddenly, in the room below, as Athelstan began his prayers again, he heard a scream, a shout and the noise of running footsteps on the stairs. Cranston, breathing heavily, burst into the room, almost knocking Athelstan aside.
‘You bloody little bitch!’ he roared at the girl.
Athelstan stared at him in astonishment. He was aware that the pounding on the walls had stopped. The girl, however, continued to screech accusations until Cranston strode across to the bed and slapped her firmly across both cheeks. He then grasped her by the shoulders and shook her.
‘Stop it!’ he roared. ‘Stop it, you lying little hussy!’ He gazed angrily at Athelstan. ‘You have been tricked, Brother!’ He shook the girl again. ‘A subtle little conspiracy between this wench and her maid.’
His words had the desired effect. The girl became silent. The glare of hatred in her eyes faded as she glanced fearfully at Athelstan and then Sir John. Cranston sat on the edge of the bed and wiped the sweat from his brow.
‘This little minx,’ he breathed heavily, ‘and her nurse concocted this medley of lies and deceits. Come on, man!’ He waved Walter Hobden forward. The girl’s father stepped gingerly into the room whilst she hid her face in her hands and sobbed quietly. ‘Didn’t it ever occur to you,’ Cranston taunted Hobden, ‘that this was all mummery?’
‘But she drove Anna away,’ he wailed.
‘Listen, tickle brain,’ Cranston replied, getting to his feet, ‘that was part of the masque. The two only appeared estranged! Whilst Elizabeth held court up here, her good nurse, banished to the scullery, used chimney holes and gaps between the wainscoting to create the knocking sounds.’ He walked over to the small hearth. ‘This is an old house,’ he explained. ‘There are funnels and smoke flues, chimneys and other old gaps. If you go down to the scullery where the main cooking hearth is, you can, by rattling rods carefully placed up the chimney stack, create a disturbance all through the house. I have seen it done before. A children’s game, played on the eve of All Hallows.’ Cranston tapped the wainscoting. ‘And this probably helps. It makes the echoes even louder. I went down to the scullery and there was old Anna seated like a night hag beside the hearth, busy with her metal rods.’
‘But the voice?’ Eleanor Hobden came into the room.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, woman!’ Cranston scoffed. ‘Haven’t you ever heard anyone imitating a voice?’ He stared up at an astonished Athelstan. ‘I believe Crim, your altar boy, small as he is, can give a very good imitation of
