HAUNT OF MURDER, A

by P. C. Doherty

  ‘I went up to her chamber,’ Aunt Catherine said, her voice catching. ‘I found a garland of flowers on her bed. She must have intended to wear it this morning but she was in such a hurry, so eager to see Ralph, so determined not to be late.’ Aunt Catherine put her face in her hands and sobbed. The sight of her generous-hearted aunt, loving as any mother, sitting there sobbing, her body shaking with grief, and Uncle Robert, ever practical, now not knowing what to do, was too much for Beatrice. She kissed each on the brow. ‘If I could I’d break through,’ she said from the bottom of her heart. ‘I’d tell you not to mourn, not to grieve.’ And she turned and went down the stairs, out across the moon-washed garden into the high street.

  She wandered aimlessly, staring at the things she had taken for granted only a few hours earlier. At the end of the high street a light was burning in a rear window. This was Elizabeth Lockyer’s cottage, a good-hearted old woman who made simples and herb poultices for those who could not afford the fees of physicians, leeches or apothecaries. A few weeks earlier Elizabeth herself had fallen ill and her life was despaired of. Now Beatrice went into the cottage and up into the bed loft to see how she was.

  Elizabeth Lockyer lay with her head back against a dirty bolster, her grey hair soaked in sweat. She was alone and undoubtedly at death’s door. Her skin was tight, eyelids fluttering, mouth open. She feebly stretched out a hand to reach for a cup of water but knocked it over. The water soaked the dirty horse blanket.

  ‘All alone,’ Beatrice whispered. ‘Oh, Elizabeth, all alone.’

  How often this old woman had gone out in the middle of the night to tend to a sick child or an expectant mother. Now she was dying in this shabby, ill-smelling bed loft without the comfort of even a priest. Beatrice crouched beside the thin straw bed. She tried to grasp the old woman’s vein-streaked hand and wipe her brow. Elizabeth opened her eyes, staring up at her, smiling.

  ‘Is it you, Beatrice? Beatrice Arrowner? I have had such strange dreams.’ The words came in a rasp. ‘You’re a fine girl,’ the old woman whispered. ‘Always generous. It’s good of you to come. Won’t you wait, just for a while?’

  ‘I am here,’ Beatrice replied, wondering if the old woman could hear her. She crouched, the silence broken only by mice scrabbling in the corner. The end came quickly. The death rattle in the old woman’s throat grew stronger, the breathing more rapid, then Elizabeth gave a great sigh and lay still.

  Beatrice stared down at the corpse. Would the same thing happen as with Goodman Winthrop? She felt a blast of heat. One of the golden spheres she had seen in the castle chapel appeared out of the darkness. It spun, turning and twisting above the corpse, and grew larger. Elizabeth Lockyer’s spirit, looking the same as she did on her death bed, rose. The old woman was bewildered, dazed. As she stared in confusion, the sphere of light enveloped her. It was peopled by young men and women dressed in pale green and gold, laughing and talking. Beatrice watched fascinated. The young men and women spoke to Elizabeth. Beatrice could tell by the gestures of their hands, their smiles, the way their sapphire-blue eyes twinkled that they were reassuring her and offering her comfort.

  Elizabeth grew less agitated; her back straightened, the lines and wrinkles disappeared from her face, and as the years receded her hair grew longer, rich and black. The old, threadbare gown was also transmuted as this alchemy took place. Beatrice called out. Elizabeth turned and smiled but one of the figures came between her and Beatrice. The golden sphere rose, growing smaller, full of blazing light before it abruptly disappeared. Beatrice, standing alone in a tawdry chamber above a raddled, sweat-soaked corpse, felt a profound sense of desolation. Why was this happening? Had she been condemned? But what had she done in life? What wrong had she committed? Even Father Aylred had chuckled in amusement when she had gone to be shriven. ‘Petty faults, Beatrice,’ he had murmured. ‘They make God laugh more than weep.’

  Beatrice resisted the surge of fury which threatened to overtake her. She had never been prone to feel sorry for herself yet here she was, plucked from life by some foul assassin and cast adrift in this grey world. She was haunted by spectres, ghouls and phantasms, excluded from the light whose warmth she had tantalisingly felt.

  She wandered out into the street. A man in tattered garments came running up; his face was pinched and leering, his neck strangely twisted. He clacked a dish and jabbered at her. Beatrice, growing accustomed to this world of spectres, ignored him and turned away.

  ‘Beatrice! Beatrice Arrowner!’

  The young woman standing near the horse trough was a vision of beauty. Golden hair hanging loose down to her shoulders framed an ivory face perfectly formed, red lips, laughing green eyes slightly slanted at the corners. She was dressed in a beautiful gown of blue and gold, with silver-toed and silver-heeled boots on her feet. A golden bracelet with silver hearts hung from one wrist, and round her neck a filigree chain held a gold disc with a red ruby in the centre.

  ‘You are sad?’ The young woman’s voice was soft and musical.

  ‘What is your name?’ Beatrice snapped.

  ‘Why, Clothilde. Do you like your new world, Beatrice?’

  ‘No, no, I don’t!’

  ‘And your murder?’

  ‘How do you know?’ Beatrice demanded. ‘How do you know about my death?’

  ‘I saw you fall,’ Clothilde replied, taking Beatrice’s hand. ‘I saw you fall like a star from Heaven. You know you did not slip?’ She gently caressed the side of Beatrice’s head. ‘That terrible blow sent you spinning out of life.’

  ‘Please don’t play games with me!’

  Clothilde drew even closer and Beatrice marvelled at the perfume this unexpected visitor wore. ‘Don’t be such a child, Beatrice. Think coolly, reflect. Why should someone want to kill young Mistress Arrowner? What enemies did you have?’

  ‘I had none.’ Beatrice looked up at the sky. It was empty now of the shifting forms and shapes. ‘I had none,’ she repeated. ‘I cared for all my friends. I rarely had harsh words.’

  ‘So what did you have that someone else wanted?’ Clothilde asked.

  ‘Why, nothing,’ Beatrice replied. ‘My aunt and uncle have no riches. I had no treasure – that’s what people kill for, isn’t it?’

  Clothilde laughed. ‘You mentioned the word treasure. You had Ralph.’

  ‘But I had no rivals, or none that I know of,’ she added in alarm.

  ‘No, no, don’t vex yourself,’ Clothilde reassured her. ‘But what was Ralph searching for?’

  Beatrice stared into those light-green eyes. ‘I met a young man,’ she replied slowly. ‘Do you know him? Crispin?’

  Clothilde nodded.

  ‘He said the same, that I was not supposed to die.’

  ‘Think!’ Clothilde’s voice was low and urgent. ‘Remember, Beatrice. You went up on to the parapet walk. You were looking for Ralph. Remember how dark it was. Someone was waiting for you in that shadowy tower.’

  ‘But I was wearing a gown,’ Beatrice protested.

  ‘And Ralph was wearing a cloak,’ Clothilde pointed out. ‘All the assassin saw was a dark shape, clothes fluttering in the breeze, footsteps along the stone walk.’

  ‘Oh no! They thought I was Ralph!’ Beatrice gasped. ‘They killed me because they thought I was Ralph. That means they will kill again. I must get back!’

  ‘No, no.’ Clothilde held her hands. ‘Two deaths in one night, Beatrice, will provoke suspicion.’

  ‘It’s Brythnoth’s treasure, isn’t it? Ralph said he was close to discovering its whereabouts. Whoever killed me wanted to silence him. What can I do?’ If Clothilde hadn’t held her fast with a force which kept her rooted to the spot, Beatrice would have fled back to Ravenscroft.

  ‘Hush now!’ the rich, low voice soothed. ‘Don’t fret yourself, Mistress Arrowner. Perhaps I can help you.’

  Beatrice stared at Clothilde. She had never seen such beauty, except in a painted Book of Hours Father Aylred had shown her.

  ‘Who are you?
What are you?’ she asked. ‘Where do you come from? Why do you want to help me?’

  ‘Because we are alone, Beatrice, lost on the other side of death. Don’t you want justice, vengeance on your killer?’

  ‘What does it all mean?’ Beatrice demanded. ‘I see silver discs and golden spheres of light.’ She stared across the street. Goodman Winthrop’s corpse still lay sprawled at the mouth of the alleyway. ‘Horrid shapes like knights in armour but with no faces, only eyes which glow in the darkness. Sometimes these shapes see me, sometimes they’re just like wisps of smoke.’

  ‘In time all will be made clear,’ Clothilde replied reassuringly. ‘I have lived in this world for many a year. I know it well. I can explain it. Once, many, many years ago, I was like you.’

  ‘And what happened?’ Beatrice asked.

  ‘Never mind.’ Clothilde laughed, shook her head and smoothed the golden hair away from her face. ‘Killed like you, I was. Sent out into the darkness before my time. But I exacted vengeance.’

  ‘How?’ Beatrice demanded. ‘We are cut off from the living by a thick, glass-like wall. They cannot see, hear or touch us, nor can we them.’

  ‘There is a way,’ came the reply. ‘In time.’

  ‘You play with me.’

  ‘No, I don’t, Beatrice. You remember Father Aylred’s stories about the terrible cries from Midnight Tower? This glass wall can be penetrated but, as in life, it takes time and skill.’

  ‘If you know so much then say who killed me.’

  ‘I would if I could, Beatrice. But look around you. We are no different from the living. We cannot be in all places at all times.’

  ‘And the treasure? Brythnoth’s cross? Is it a fable?’

  ‘In time that, too, can be found. Now, come with me, Beatrice.’

  Beatrice hung back warily. Clothilde’s beautiful face seemed a little more pointed, the even white teeth reminded her of a cat, and those green eyes were very watchful.

  ‘Where is Goodman Winthrop?’ she asked.

  ‘Why, Beatrice, with the demons. After death the true self manifests itself. As in life so in death. But come, I wish to show you something. Questions later.’ Clothide grasped Beatrice by the hand.

  They moved quickly along the high street out into the country lanes. The strange bronze light was all around them. It was night yet they could see where they went. They walked but they seemed to travel faster as if borne by swift horses. Beatrice felt the ground beneath her slip away. She would stop and stare at places she recognised: a turnstile, a gate, the brow of some hill. Each had memories from her previous life. Her companion had fallen silent. Now and again she’d whisper to herself in a language Beatrice couldn’t understand. The houses and farms fell away and they entered that desolate part of Essex which ran down to the estuary of the Blackwater, a bleak place even on a summer’s day. Now it seemed like the heathland of Hell. Beatrice paused as they climbed the hill overlooking the water. In a small copse she glimpsed a movement. She let go of her companion’s hand and went across. A beggar man, one she had seen at the Golden Tabard days earlier, was crouched beneath the bush. A piece of threadbare sacking covered his shoulders and his seamed face was dirty and coated in sweat.

  ‘He’s ill,’ Beatrice declared. ‘He has the same fever as Elizabeth Lockyer. Can’t we help?’

  Clothilde glanced up at the sky. ‘Daylight will soon break.’

  ‘So, the stories are true,’ said Beatrice. ‘Ghosts can only walk at night!’

  Clothilde laughed deep in her throat. ‘Children’s tales! But the shapes I wish to show you will disappear.’

  Beatrice ignored her. She peered at the beggar man and stretched out a hand to stroke his face. There was no response.

  ‘He is dying.’ Clothilde’s voice was harsh. ‘There is nothing we can do. Each man’s fate is a line of thread which is played out to the end.’

  Beatrice was full of pity. The beggar man was old, with balding pate, unkempt beard and moustache. He must have crawled out here like a dog to die.

  ‘Life is harsh,’ Clothilde murmured.

  ‘So is death,’ Beatrice retorted. ‘I will not leave him. His end must be near.’ She ignored the hiss of annoyance from her companion.

  Beatrice remembered the words of the Requiem and recited them. A short while passed and the beggar man’s shaking ceased. There was no death rattle, just a sigh and he lay still. Beatrice waited to see what would happen. The same manifestation occurred. The beggar man’s shade stood beside the corpse. The old man looked up at the sky, hands beseeching in death as they did in life. No golden spheres appeared, nor those black, cavernous shapes. Instead, figures dressed like monks, hoods and cowls obscuring their faces, clustered round the deceased. They were urging him to accompany them. He was reluctant, arguing back. One of the figures passed a hand over his face as if showing him something; the beggar man fell silent and, with a figure on either side, he walked away and disappeared, leaving his dirty corpse on the heathland.

  Beatrice looked at Clothilde who was standing behind her staring out towards the river, and just for a moment she thought Clothilde was Crispin. She grew frightened.

  ‘What is happening?’ she asked.

  ‘If you want my help,’ Clothilde replied, ‘hurry now!’ And, grasping Beatrice’s hand, she led her to the brow of the hill.

  Chapter 4

  The mud flats of the Blackwater estuary stretched below Beatrice. She had been here before with Aunt Catherine to cut rushes, search for herbs, even catch fish. It was a desolate place where the gulls and cormorants wheeled and whined and a biting wind always seemed to blow. Now it was changed. The estuary was a battlefield. Men were hacking and cutting at each other. In the river beyond, Beatrice could see long, rakish ships, their prows carved as dragons, griffins and wolves, their sails furled. A hostile army had landed. The invaders wore steel conical helmets whose broad nose guards hid most of their faces. In the early dawn light Beatrice could see their standards; one showed a red, snarling dragon, another a huge black raven with yellow beak and talons. The men they fought were grouped round a great standard depicting a fighting man against a green and gold background. Beside this standard, crosses lashed to lances were held high in the air.

  Beatrice was no soldier but she could see that the defenders were hard pressed. They were retreating inland, leaving the dead piled two or three high. The sand was red with blood and the air loud with the crash of steel against wood, cries, groans, shouted orders.

  ‘Look.’ Clothilde pointed with her finger. ‘That warrior beside the Fighting Man standard is Earl Brythnoth.’

  Beatrice stared fascinated at the tall, blond-haired giant surrounded by his house carls in their chain-mail byrnies. Some wore helmets, others were bareheaded. Brythnoth was gesturing with his arm, shouting orders, urging the shield wall to hold fast.

  ‘But this happened many years ago,’ Beatrice said.

  ‘A shade of the past,’ Clothilde replied. ‘Now, look what is about to happen. Watch Brythnoth carefully.’

  The giant earl stepped back as if he wished to distance himself from the fighting. He was talking quickly to a young man kneeling beside him. As Beatrice watched, Brythnoth took something from round his neck; the gold glinted in the light. He thrust it into the young man’s hand.

  ‘Brythnoth is giving Cerdic the holy cross,’ Beatrice whispered. She clasped her hands, for a few seconds forgetting her own situation. If only Ralph was here. If he could only see what she was witnessing.

  ‘Watch!’ Clothilde plucked at her.

  The young man, shield slung behind him, sword in hand, was now leaving the battlefield, climbing the hill towards them. Round his neck hung the beautiful cross. He came straight towards them, ignorant of their presence. He reminded Beatrice of Ralph with his pale face, generous mouth, large staring eyes. He was obviously exhausted. His chain mail was covered in blood and gore, cuts and scratches scored his face and hands.

  He stopped on the brow of the h
ill and looked back, lips moving worldlessly. Beatrice stared at the cross. It was exquisitely carved with strange emblems and motifs and in the centre, above the gold crosspiece, a blood-red ruby glowed like a living flame. Cerdic took one last look at the fighting and ran down the hill towards the trackway into Maldon.

  ‘Come, Beatrice,’ said Clothilde, ‘let’s follow him.’

  They hastened in pursuit, keeping the spectre of the long dead soldier in view.

  ‘Has this happened before?’ Beatrice asked.

  ‘Of course!’ Clothilde replied.

  ‘Then you must know where he hides it.’

  Clothilde shook her head. ‘You will see. You will see.’

  At last they reached Ravenscroft Castle. It looked so familiar, so ordinary. But Cerdic was running on as if the castle didn’t exist. He crossed the moat and disappeared into the barbican. They followed and found the castle bailey deserted apart from a sleepy-eyed pot boy who was letting the dogs out, and his sister, the goose girl, who was summoning her charges to take them on to the green. Beatrice forgot about the treasure and felt a deep sadness for the familiar scene.

  ‘You must remember, Beatrice,’ said Clothilde, ‘that what you have seen are the shapes and shades of former things. Cerdic left the battlefield and came to Ravenscroft. However, on the day he died, no castle stood here, only a brook which is now the moat, and a wooden palisade where Brythnoth camped before marching against the invaders.’ She shrugged. ‘Cerdic’s ghost comes here with the cross then disappears. So now you know, the treasure really exists. It lies somewhere near and Ralph could find it.’

  The door to the keep flew open and Father Aylred came out. A silver and gold cloak hung from his shoulders and in his hands, covered by a white linen cloth, was the ciborium holding the Host. A boy from the castle carried a lighted candle before him.

  ‘It’s Father Aylred!’ Beatrice exclaimed. ‘He must be taking the viaticum to a member of the garrison who is sick. Father Aylred!’ she called but the priest walked on.