‘Stephen?’
‘Er, nothing, Magister.’ He handed the strip of parchment back to Anselm. ‘I don’t know what that means. Look, the others will be waiting.’
They all, Parson Smollat included, eventually gathered in Sir William’s elegant chancery chamber. The perfume of the quilted leather chairs and stools mingled with the fragrance from the flower pots, chafing dishes and braziers. Stephen wondered how such exquisite beauty could exist alongside the horrors they had just witnessed. ‘Well,’ Sir William asked, lacing his podgy fingers together, ‘we really must close the church now. Yes, Parson Smollat?’
The priest gulped noisily but nodded in agreement.
‘What happened?’ Anselm demanded.
‘From the little we know,’ Sir William replied, ‘Simon went into the church. He entered by the corpse door. Once inside he pulled across the bolts and locked the door. He must have taken the key with him.’
‘And this has not been found?’ Anselm intervened.
‘Yes,’ Sir William agreed. ‘Apparently it wasn’t on his corpse.’
‘I searched the church with Almaric when you took poor Simon’s corpse back to his chambers.’ Gascelyn spoke up. ‘Brother Anselm, that key has disappeared.’
‘So,’ the exorcist demanded, ‘how did the sexton die?’
‘We’ve discussed that,’ Sir William replied. ‘Brother Anselm, it is a mystery except for one conclusion.’
‘Which is?’
‘The sacristy door was locked and bolted — you saw that. So it would seem that Simon entered by the corpse door, drew those bolts, locked it and threw away the key or hid it somewhere. He then went into that darkened transept, pulled his dagger and cut his own throat.’
‘Impossible.’
‘What other solution is there?’ Almaric sniffed. ‘Go back, examine the corpse door. The bolts were drawn. If you draw them back, the door remains locked because the key is missing. Simon must have killed himself, or was forced to, or some secret assassin entered that church. But how? There are no tunnels or secret passageways. Some demon, surely, Brother?’ Almaric grew more loquacious and Stephen suspected that the curate had drunk deeply from the goblet of claret in front of him. ‘Surely,’ he repeated, ‘a man can be so terrified by demons, by the horrors which lurk behind the veil as to take his own life?’
‘I would agree,’ the exorcist conceded, ‘and you all think that?’ He stared around the polished walnut table, slightly dusty from the great bowl of lilies in the centre, their yellow seeds now peppering the polished top. Everyone nodded in agreement. Beauchamp looked rather askance, even sullen as he mulled over his own dark thoughts. The royal clerk caught Stephen’s glance and stared coolly back. The novice wondered if Cutwolf had told him everything, including Stephen’s own suspicions about this mysterious and enigmatic clerk.
‘In which case,’ Anselm tapped the table top, ‘Saint Michael should be placed under interdict until it is cleansed and purified.’
‘Or pulled down?’ Sir William declared. ‘I have petitioned both the Crown and the Archbishop. The entire church should be razed to the ground.’
‘In the meantime,’ Parson Smollat asked, ‘what do I do?’ The priest looked agitated, his balding brow laced with sweat.
‘It is not the end of the world, parson,’ Sir William said kindly. ‘You can look forward to a new church.’
‘If the King and the Archbishop should agree.’ Beauchamp asserted himself, resting his arms on the table. ‘But for the moment,’ he emphasized his points on his fingers, ‘we do not know who the Midnight Man is or his coven. We do not know how he learned about the lost treasure or the robber Puddlicot, yet he has. He has used, to little or no effect, the black arts to learn more. He performed those rites at Westminster and at Saint Michael’s, Candlewick. We know he failed but not how or why this ended in failure, causing such a fierce stir amongst the living dead. Hence the hauntings, the demon infestation of Saint Michael’s and the abbey. Somehow or other,’ Beauchamp paused, ‘I believe the Midnight Man discovered two items of the lost treasure. Rishanger seized these, attempted to flee and was murdered.’ The royal clerk carefully rubbed his hands together. Stephen sensed something false, as if Beauchamp was not revealing his true thoughts. ‘Now, Rishanger was undoubtedly a member of the warlocks coven,’ the royal clerk continued. ‘He may even be the Midnight Man himself, for that sinister figure has fallen remarkably silent. Rishanger was certainly a blood-drinker. He abducted and murdered young women, then buried them in that dire garden of his. Beatrice, Rishanger’s leman, was also murdered, her corpse abused by Rishanger or others — we do not know the truth. Finally, were Rishanger’s other victims the object of his murderous lust or were they used in his diabolic rites?’ Beauchamp shrugged. ‘Again, we do not know.’
‘Then there are the other mysterious deaths,’ Anselm declared. ‘How did Bardolph fall from the top of that church tower? And Simon, his throat cut, locked in a church? Adele, poisoned by a mysterious visitor? Who this was or why they should murder her is, again, a mystery.’
‘Why can’t you free us from all of this?’ Parson Smollat almost shouted. ‘You are the exorcist. Anselm. You failed and then you disappeared.’
‘Yes, I failed. I did so because I have failed to dig out the root of all this, a malignant human wickedness. Yes, I did disappear but I have been very, very busy. I have searched the records. I have also travelled to the great Abbey of Glastonbury in Somerset.’ His words created an immediate silence.
‘Now it comes!’ a voice hissed into Stephen’s ear. ‘Now the wheel spins yet again.’ Stephen glanced over to the corner where a figure sat, a blood-red translucent veil covering its head, face and body. Stephen’s heart skipped a beat. He watched those red-mittened hands: the ends of the fingers were like long white worms, the nails painted a deep blue. Stephen murmured a prayer. The hands were moving. Stephen panicked. They must, he prayed, not pull up that veil and reveal the sinister face beneath — a witch’s face! Stephen abruptly pushed back his stool.
‘Glastonbury,’ Sir William spluttered. ‘Why there?’
Stephen rocked backwards and forwards on the stool. He glanced over again: the corner was empty but a drum, deep in the house, began to beat, followed by the faint trails of a trumpet blast. ‘A l’outrance!’ a voice cackled. ‘Usque ad mortem — to the death, so the tournament begins.’ Stephen felt a blast of heat, as if an oven door had been thrown open and he had been thrust before it.
‘Stephen,’ Beauchamp gestured at the wine dresser, ‘do you want something to drink?’
‘No.’ The novice rubbed his clammy hands along his jerkin. ‘No, I am sorry, I was daydreaming.’
‘As was I,’ Anselm added quickly. He had noticed his novice’s discomfort and was eager to distract attention. ‘Sir William, you asked about Glastonbury? Well, I also searched the records in the Tower, studying every item of treasure stolen from the crypt. Now, as you know, during the reign of Edward I, the present King’s grandfather, the monks of Glastonbury allegedly opened Arthur’s tomb in their abbey. Arthur’s body, a veritable giant, was discovered along with his flaxen-haired Guinevere. However, according to the abbey chronicle and local legend, they also found Merlin’s Stone and other magical items belonging to that great magus.’
‘What,’ Beauchamp asked abruptly, ‘is Merlin’s Stone?’
‘The philosopher’s stone,’ Anselm replied. ‘The means to perform alchemy, to transmute base metals into gold.’
‘Rishanger believed in that nonsense,’ Sir William barked. ‘I told you the murderer came here, begging me for money to achieve that, do you remember?’
‘I certainly do,’ Anselm agreed. ‘Anyway, I travelled down to Glastonbury; the almoner of that great abbey is a friend of mine. He showed me Arthur’s grave and in the library chronicle, a most fascinating account of the discovery.’
‘I have never been there,’ Sir William intervened. ‘I would love to.’