‘I asked,’ the clerk replied tersely, ‘after the treasures were found near Rishanger’s corpse.’
‘Has any other such treasure been found in the city?’ Sir William asked.
‘No.’ Beauchamp shook his head. ‘The royal surveyors have been most scrupulous.’ He paused as one of the window-shutters, loose from its clasp, banged noisily. Stephen, the nearest, rose. He pulled the shutter closed and stared back at the narrow face, eyes all bloodshot, mouth gaping, long hair straggling down, pushed up against the opaque, square window glass. Stephen caught his breath. The lips moved soundlessly, as if cursing him.
‘Stephen?’
‘Sorry, Magister.’ Stephen glanced over his shoulder. Anselm was staring at him curiously.
‘Sir William?’
‘Yes?’ The merchant knight glanced in surprise at the novice.
‘Magister, my apologies, but that young woman, Alice Palmer, daughter of the tavern master at The Unicorn?’
‘What about Alice?’ Parson Smollat asked. ‘Oh, she’s approached you, hasn’t she? About one of the slatterns at the tavern — a young woman called Margotta Sumerhull who has apparently disappeared?’
‘Yes, yes, she has asked the same of me.’ Sir William leaned back in his chair. ‘Sir Miles, I appeal to you. How many young women in London just disappear?’
The royal clerk nodded. ‘The chancery coffers and pouches are crammed with such enquiries.’ Stephen caught the note of despair in the clerk’s voice.
‘I organized a search,’ Sir William added. ‘Ask Parson Smollat’s parishioners. But to no avail. However,’ Sir William rubbed his hands together, ‘we have talked enough. My cooks have prepared brawn in mustard, some savoury doucettes made from the sweetest, freshest pork, all mixed in with honey and pepper.’ He paused as Simon the sexton rose swiftly to his feet.
‘Sir William, please excuse me.’ Simon pointed to the hour candle standing in its ornate bronze holder on a corner table. ‘God waits for no one. The archangel guild meet for their weekly devotions before the statue. I must ring the bells, open the doors. .’
Sir William excused him and Simon hurried out. Anselm and Sir Miles began to collect their sheaves of manuscripts. Sir William rose and walked away, deep in conversation with Gascelyn and Amalric. Stephen stared around this comfortable chamber, its lime-washed walls above the highly polished, dark oak panelling, the lowered candelabra shedding a ring of glowing light. He rose and walked across to study the heraldic shields fastened on the wall. One boasted a silver pen with three gold books on a blue field depicting the insignia of St Hilary of Poitiers. Next to this the arms of St Thanus of Alexandria, the courtesan who converted to Christ, and beneath it a white scroll with the Latin tag: ‘You who have made me, have mercy on me’, written in black on a blue and violet field. Stephen studied these even as he guiltily recalled his meeting with Alice Palmer — her kiss so soft and warm, the faint trace of perfume about her. Excitement flushed his face. He only wished he could meet her again. What would it be like, he wondered, to court a young woman such as her? He tried to push aside the usual dark temptation of despondency. How refreshing it would be, Stephen wondered, to break from the shapes, shadows and glimmerings constantly on the border of both his vision and consciousness. He had rejoiced to be free of his father and his wealthy Winchester mansion. The White Friars had welcomed him warmly, educated him as rigorously as any scholar in the schools of Oxford and Cambridge. Magister Anselm had proved to be both a brilliant teacher and a very close friend. Stephen had gone to him to be shrived, to confess these very temptations of the flesh as well as those of the spirit. He had asked Anselm if all the phenomena, phantasms and visions were really true? Hadn’t Stephen’s own father raged like a man possessed against such fancies? Was there a physical explanation? Anselm had surprisingly agreed. ‘Most hauntings and so-called spiritual occurrences,’ he had declared, ‘are illusions, the result of some very cunning sleight of hand. But there are those which are true. Yet, even then I concede,’ Anselm had kept repeating this as one of his sacred rules, ‘such events or phenomena are always firmly rooted in the human will, in human wickedness, the devious perversity of the human heart.’
Stephen started from his reverie as he heard the Midnight Man being mentioned by Anselm. He walked back to the table where Sir Miles was explaining to the exorcist that neither officials of the Crown nor those of the Church, despite all their resources, could hunt down and trap that most elusive of warlocks. Beauchamp paused as the bells of St Michael’s began to peal. They did for a while then abruptly paused, stilling all conversation in the chamber.
‘What is the matter?’ Sir William strode to the chamber door, flinging it open as the bells began to clang again but this time discordantly, sounding out the tocsin. Sir William, followed by his household, hurried out of the room, clattering down the stairs.
‘We also should go.’ Beauchamp strapped on his sword belt, beckoning to the two Carmelites to accompany him. By the time they reached the tiled entrance hall the servants had also been roused. They passed through the main doorway, down the steps across the rutted trackway to the lychgate. A crowd had gathered — a few going up the winding path to the main door of the church. Sir Miles ordered these to step aside. Stephen noticed how many of those in the cemetery wore a blue and gold livery with a great medallion celebrating St Michael’s victory over Satan on a chain around their necks. The light was dimming; the air fresh after the showers; the rain glinting on the grass and shrubs of the cemetery. As they hurried up the path Stephen noticed a group clustered to the right of the soaring bell tower. One or two were pointing up to the belfry where the tocsin still boomed out. Sir Miles strode off then hurried back, meeting them at the foot of the church steps. ‘Bardolph the gravedigger,’ he murmured. ‘According to members of the guild, they heard the bells tolling and, as they approached the church, saw Bardolph’s body fall from the tower bouncing like a pig’s bladder on to the roof, spinning like a top to the ground.’ Beauchamp crossed himself. ‘Parson Smollat is administering the rites of the dead, and Almaric is with him. Let’s find out. .’
They hastened up the steps, through the doorway and left through the narrow entrance into the bell tower. Simon the sexton ceased pulling the two oiled, hempen ropes. He stood gasping for breath, almost oblivious to Sir William’s constant questions. Gascelyn came clattering down the tower steps. ‘Nothing,’ he exclaimed. ‘No one is there.’
‘Simon,’ Sir William gently touched the sexton’s face with his gloved hand, ‘Simon, what happened in this benighted church?’
‘I er, came in,’ Simon stammered. ‘All was quiet.’ He gestured around the bare-walled chamber furnished with a stool, table and a battered, iron-ribbed chest, its concave lid thrown back. ‘I took out my gloves and the woollen clasp for the ropes. All was quiet. I prepared myself saying the usual prayer to Saint Michael.’ He smiled, though his eyes were full of fear, his red-poxed face deeply flushed. ‘Then one to Saint Gabriel and Saint Raphael — they are also archangels. Our two bells are named after them.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Sir William urged. ‘And?’
‘I began to pull, trying to establish a rhythm. I heard movement further up the stairwell. There are chambers above; they serve as lofts. I wondered whether children were playing there or if a beggar hid hoping for a warm night’s sleep.’ Simon scratched his thinning hair. ‘I am sure I heard footsteps. Anyway, I began the peal. I heard screams, shouts and cries. A guild member came hurrying in saying that someone had fallen from the tower.’
Simon grasped the bell rope as if to give it another pull.