The Midnight Man

by Paul Doherty

  ‘What did they want with me?’

  ‘To see what you know, because the trap is closing, Stephen. But don’t you worry. Where you go, your shadows will also follow.’

  ‘Why didn’t you try to arrest them?’

  ‘For what? No, my friend,’ Cutwolf grinned, ‘too dangerous and, I suspect, they are merely hired bully boys who know very little.’

  They returned to St Michael’s. Anselm still sat sunning himself against the wall, watching the people drift by. Stephen joined him, handing over the linen parcel, making no mention of what had happened. Cutwolf and his companions drifted into the cemetery, squatting down in the long grass, shouting and laughing with each other. Stephen bit into the still-warm pastry and watched, as Anselm did, the shifting scenes. A group of pilgrims, armed with iron-tipped staves and preceded by a priest swinging a smoking thurible, hurried down to Queenhithe, chanting the litany of St James of Compostella, whose shrine at Santiago they hoped to visit. Tumblers and tinkers, moon men and mountebanks, jongleurs and the tellers of tall tales swarmed by. Cutwolf and Bolingbrok joined the two Carmelites, sitting like young boys with their backs to the walls, faces to the sun, commenting on all who passed: the court fops in their prigging fineries, the beadles and bailiffs, the staggering drunks and sober-clad officials.

  As the daylight began to fade, the more colourful of Dowgate citizens, those who lived in the Mansions of Darkness, emerged fresh for a night’s mischief. Cutwolf knew many of them by name and reputation. ‘Hedge-Popper’ and ‘Hob the Knob’ were two pickpockets; ‘Peck Face’ a professional beggar and ‘Rattle Ears’ a well-known cheat. Anselm seemed to enjoy himself and yet the more Stephen watched, he realized his master was mostly interested in the young drabs, whores and doxies who passed by. ‘I have learned something,’ Anselm breathed, ‘the Holy Spirit be thanked. I confess my arrogance. I can now begin to learn.’

  He finished the pastry and was about to get up when the two Franciscan Minoresses suddenly appeared in the mouth of the alleyway opposite and hobbled across. ‘Light immortal, light divine,’ a voice whispered, only to be answered by the snarl of a fierce dog – a chilling, resounding sound which sent Stephen scrambling to his feet. He wiped the sweat on his jerkin as the two women approached. The first was very elderly and venerable with a seamed, wizened face, eyes like small black currants in a flour-white skin. The other was also old but still vigorous, sharp of eye and firm of mouth, with the natural authority of a Mother Superior. They paused and bowed at Anselm, who returned the courtesy. ‘You are Anselm, the Carmelite, the exorcist?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘We have much in common, Brother Anselm.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Richard Puddlicot.’

  Anselm just gasped.

  ‘Puddlicot!’ Stephen stared at the older woman, thinning hair peeping from beneath her wimple, eyes milky blue, mouth chomping on pinkish-red gums.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Joanne Picard,’ the old woman whispered. ‘God have mercy on me, and on him. I was Puddlicot’s mistress. Now I am his relict.’

  She leaned on her companion and smiled. Despite her age, Joanne Picard was resolute in both speech and manner.

  ‘You must be . . .?’

  ‘Close to my eighty-eighth winter.’ The old woman laughed softly. ‘I was barely sixteen when I lost the love of my life.’ The bony, black-spotted, vein-streaked hand clutching her companion squeezed hard. ‘And this is Eleanor, our daughter.’ Anselm stood surprised and shocked.

  ‘Magister?’

  ‘Not here, Stephen, sisters.’ Anselm grasped both of them by the hand. ‘Stephen, run ahead and tell Master Robert at The Unicorn that he has guests.’

  ‘But not the royal clerk,’ Eleanor Picard declared firmly. ‘Not him!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I trust you, exorcist, we trust you, novice, but not him.’

  Anselm glanced at Cutwolf, gently shaking his head. The henchman just lifted his hand in reply, then he and Bolingbrok sauntered back into the cemetery to join their companions. Stephen hurried off. Master Robert and Alice had returned to The Unicorn. Busy in the taproom, hair a little dishevelled, her pretty face tickled with sweat and her eyes rounded in mock grief, Alice confessed, flicking flour from her sleeves, how she’d had to distract herself while her beloved had disappeared without a word.

  Stephen recited a list of apologies, which only put Alice into a fit of giggles. She kissed him merrily on the mouth and demanded to know why he was in such haste. When he told her, Alice immediately called her father and, dragging Stephen in to help, they prepared the most private of the window-seats. Anselm eventually arrived with the two ladies and Stephen joined them behind the screen. Now he could tease Alice, shaking his head in mock solemnity at her enquiries. Both women refused to eat, saying they would do so later in the day at their convent, although they gratefully accepted a jug of Rhenish and a dish of marzipan which Joanne merrily declared to be her favourite. Anselm did not need to question them. Eleanor Picard, once she had taken a deep mouthful of the sweet white wine, moved the decorated horn box with its bright tallow candle to the centre of the table. She talked swiftly and pointedly. She declared how her mother had been Puddlicot’s mistress after he had returned to London from Flanders. A carpenter by trade from a reputable Oxford family, Puddlicot had dabbled in the export of wool, which had been severely disrupted by Edward I’s sharp disagreement with the Flemings. Puddlicot arrived in London full of anger at the King and determined to make a fortune at the Crown’s expense by robbing the crypt. Eleanor described how Puddlicot had suborned the leading monks of Westminster and others, enticing them into his outrageous scheme. Finally she explained how both Puddlicot and his gang had been broken by a royal clerk, John Drokensford, later Bishop of Bath and Wells.

  ‘My father, as you know,’ Eleanor fought back tears, ‘fled for sanctuary at Saint Michael’s, Candlewick.’ She took a deep breath. ‘He sheltered there. The parson at the time, Henry Spigurnel, gave him sanctuary.’

  ‘Was he part of your father’s coven?’ Anselm asked.

  ‘I think so. I suspect he helped my father hide most of the looted treasure.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Richard never told me,’ Joanne Picard whispered. Despite her age, Stephen realized that her wits were sharp, even wary of eavesdroppers in the tavern.

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘How the treasure lay under the protection of God’s guardian!’

  ‘Saint Michael the Archangel?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Joanne laughed quietly. ‘I visited him when he was in sanctuary. Puddlicot was a true roaring boy. He didn’t give a fig about life or death. He told me how he’d buried two pieces of treasure, the Cross of Neath and Queen Eleanor’s dagger, in the garden of our house in Hagbut Lane.’

  ‘The same one occupied by Rishanger?’

  ‘The same,’ Joanne agreed. ‘Richard told me that and how he had left me a message with those two items about how he’d put the rest of the treasure under the protection of God’s guardian. He said he would give me further details but later that day he was taken by force. During the attack Parson Henry Spigurnel was injured and died shortly afterwards.’

  ‘Spigurnel resisted?’

  ‘Yes, yes, he did. He received a blow to the back of his head which staved his crown in. He never regained either his sense or wits but died in his sleep. I never saw my beloved again.’ The old woman wiped her tear-streaked face. ‘They took Richard to the Tower. They confined him close. Once they had finished – and I know they did not break him – they bound him in a wheelbarrow and paraded him through the city before hanging him on the gallows outside the main gate of the abbey. The King let his corpse dangle for a day then ordered Richard’s body to be flayed and the skin fixed to a door close to the abbey crypt.’ The old woman swallowed hard. ‘They hired a skinner from the Shambles to do it. He peeled Richard’s skin as you would an apple, hanging it like a c
ostume next to Richard’s blood-red corpse.’ She paused, crossing herself. ‘They later cut his corpse down and carted it like a hunk of meat to the Chapel of the Damned. I believe you saw us there.’

  ‘And so it ended.’ Eleanor spoke up. ‘My mother was pregnant with me. She searched the garden of her house but could find nothing.’

  ‘I had to be careful,’ the ancient one intervened. ‘The King’s surveyors were watching. I had no choice but to return to my family in Somerset. My father was kindly; he supported me. Eleanor was born. I eventually received my inheritance and moved back to London to work at what I am gifted – a seamstress. The old King was dead; his son then ruled. I lived comfortably enough.’ She paused. ‘I truly loved Puddlicot.’ Only then did her voice break. ‘I truly did. I visited our old haunts. Of course, all those involved in his great escapade were either dead or witless. I heard his skin had been left to rot on the abbey door.’

  Joanne caught her breath and greedily slurped from the goblet. ‘I also heard the stories. How both the monks’ cemetery as well as that at Saint Michael’s, Candlewick were haunted. By then my lover’s name had entered legend and folklore. According to the common tongue Puddlicot’s ghost could not, would not, rest.’ She paused, head down, her thin, bony shoulders shaking.

  ‘The harrowing of hell has begun,’ a voice lisped close to Stephen, ‘sharper than the eagle’s talon is the vengeance which ploughs the infernal meadows. The trumpet sounds, a clarion call. Stephen, the dead gather. The fires burn!’

  The novice glanced in the direction of the window and saw faces pressed there, eyes beseeching, lips curled in supplication.

  ‘I tried to make peace,’ Eleanor’s voice rasped, drawing Stephen from his reverie. ‘I wanted to live a normal life. I became betrothed but that was not to be. As I grew older I became more and more aware of my father, his spirit, the evil he had done. I visited the Franciscans at their house in Greyfriars and confessed all. The good brothers gave me wise counsel. I decided on a life of reparation. I sold all my possessions. I joined the Minoresses and entered their house at Aldgate on one condition: that my mother was given a corrody there, a pension. The good sisters agreed.’ She paused. Stephen ignored the tapping on the window, like that of a sharp-beaked bird or the fingers of someone desperate to get in.

  ‘We settled down. We loved the horarium of the house. Brother Anselm, we found peace until the present troubles began. We heard of Rishanger, his murder in the abbey, the two treasures found and the stories about the hauntings at Saint Michael’s.’

  Stephen tried to shake off the keen cold; he peered around the screen in the hope of catching a glimpse of Alice. Cutwolf stood there, deep in conversation with Master Robert. The henchman glanced up. Stephen withdrew behind the screen.

  ‘We watched you,’ Eleanor continued, ‘we heard of you, Brother Anselm. We needed to trust you.’

  ‘But not Sir Miles Beauchamp?’

  ‘Oh no, not the royal clerk. Drokensford was a royal clerk. He dragged Puddlicot from the sanctuary, loaded him with chains and sent him to the Tower. After he had been condemned, Drokensford put him in a wheelbarrow – an object of derision – and had him carted through the streets to a gruesome death.’ Eleanor sipped at her wine. ‘Drokensford never allowed my mother to visit her beloved. Afterwards, I understand, he harassed her constantly.’

  ‘Just for a while.’ Joanne spoke up. ‘He thought I had information.’ The ancient one grinned, pert as a sparrow. ‘I did,’ she sighed, ‘but what was the use?’ She blinked, staring up above their heads as if searching for something. ‘Richard organized that robbery. He brought the treasure to our house and then moved it to Saint Michael’s. I believe Parson Spigurnel was going to help by securing safe passage abroad for both of us, but then Drokensford struck. So yes, I don’t like royal clerks, particularly Beauchamp with his secretive, sly ways, hiding in that strange house which only his henchmen enter. Anyway, Richard had to flee to Saint Michael’s at the dead of night. I only visited him once. I drew as close as I could to the sanctuary chair. I know my daughter has told you this but it is worth repeating: Richard whispered how he had left me a package, wrapped in a leather casing buried in our garden, containing the Cross of Neath and Eleanor’s dagger, along with a message. I asked him about the rest of the treasure – that’s when he repeated the message that it was under the protection of God’s guardian. I suspect he hoped that I would find the treasure and perhaps use it to negotiate with Drokensford, but I could not – that clerk was too sharp. He had already ransacked our house and the garden. Remember, Anselm, I was only sixteen and bearing a child. I was truly terrified.’ She began to sob. Eleanor put a protective arm around her shoulder.

  ‘Tell me,’ Anselm leaned across the table, ‘did Puddlicot ever talk about the Merlin Stone? I will be even blunter, mistress: did Puddlicot ever dabble in the black arts?’ The ancient one glanced up, watery eyes creased in an impish smile. ‘God bless you, Brother Anselm, but I find that amusing. Puddlicot was a merry fellow. He could dance a jig and tell a tale. He was a jongleur, a bully boy, deeply in love with life. He did not pray. He lived recklessly for the moment so he had no time for magic, wizards, witches or warlocks. He dismissed them all as charlatans.’

  ‘The Merlin Stone,’ Anselm insisted, ‘was part of the treasure stolen from the crypt?’ The ancient one looked at Anselm then threw her head back, cackling with laughter. ‘I do remember that, small and round as a ball, smooth and polished.’ She wiped her tired eyes on the back of her hand. ‘Merlin Stone!’ she scoffed. ‘Richard tossed it into the carp pond as a useless piece of rock. He claimed it was man-made, the type of stone you carve from a falling star which has burned out and fallen to earth. He said the good monks of Glastonbury must have been hard at work to smooth that out! As far as I know,’ she chuckled, ‘Merlin’s Stone is still lying at the bottom of that carp pond!’

  Even Anselm grinned, lifting his goblet of water in salute. He then told them about the Midnight Man, the disappearance of young women and the grisly murders at St Michael’s. Both women sat in shocked silence. Eleanor raised her hand. ‘Brother Anselm, how will this end? You say my father’s ghost still hovers, that even our prayers have not helped. Will my father’s spirit ever find peace?’

  ‘How will it end, Eleanor,’ Anselm replied kindly, ‘is in the hands of the Lord. I shall tell you something I have not yet told others. I am beginning to understand what happened and that opens further doors. Rishanger was undoubtedly a member of the Midnight Man’s coven; that nest of vipers always had an interest in Puddlicot’s treasure, probably because of the Merlin Stone. Rishanger and his fellow demons searched that house but found nothing. However, they were also blood-drinkers, feasting and revelling on the bodies of young women whom they slaughtered and buried in that hellish garden. During one such foray, Rishanger stumbled on those two treasures as well as the information Puddlicot had buried with them. This provided further impetus; hence the satanic revels at Westminster and particularly at Saint Michael’s. They were intrigued by the written reference to Puddlicot’s plunder being guarded by God’s protector.’

  ‘The church of Saint Michael’s?’

  ‘Of course!’ Anselm agreed. ‘So, Mistress Eleanor, they performed their rites but these became entangled in some other wickedness and came to nothing.’

  ‘What wickedness?’

  ‘I shall tell you, mistress. I trust you. I will tell you something I have not yet told Sir Miles and the rest: somewhere in that church or cemetery lie other corpses.’

  ‘Why do you say this?’

  ‘Satanic covens need consecrated ground for their filthy blood sacrifices. More practically, I suspect, Rishanger’s garden could not hide any more corpses.’

  ‘So many were slaughtered?’

  ‘We are talking of a coven, all blood-drinkers. Perhaps a few of them are women but mostly men.’ The exorcist paused. ‘I do wonder why cemeteries fascinate the human soul. Is it all the ceremony which goe
s into them? I have been to the Innocents in Paris, a forest of ornate, carved stone. The rich even try to make their dead flesh sweet, paying butchers to scoop out their entrails and fill their insides with fragrant spices.’ Anselm laughed sharply. ‘It only makes them tastier for the worms. What does it matter? I was also in Paris when the Pestilence returned. I heard her swish her scythe as she combed the streets, gathering her victims. I saw corpses piled high, the flesh turning a purplish-black, bereft of all soul and spirit. If people like the Midnight Man reflected on such an end, they would give up their filthy ways.’

  ‘Brother Anselm,’ Eleanor intervened gently, ‘when will you put paid to these nightmares?’ The exorcist did not reply but rose to his feet, helping her and her mother, who had now grown sleepy-eyed. The exorcist simply blessed them. Stephen helped both women out from behind the screen. The taproom was now filling up. Tradesmen and tinkers jostled each other. A wandering scholar, his pet weasel in a cage, was offering to chant a poem but no one took any notice. Two relic sellers were inspecting the contents of their sacks. They caught Stephen’s eye and invited him over. He ignored them and escorted the two women to the door. The sunshine had gone and a thin drizzle peppered the cobblestones. A man strode through the gates, face hidden in a deep hood, dark cloak billowing out like the wings of a bat. Cutwolf! He did not stop but glanced, mice-eyed, at the two ladies, brushed past Stephen and into the tavern. The ancient one patted Stephen on the arm and leaned heavily against her daughter, who smiled at Stephen.

  ‘So young! I hope what we told your master is of use?’

  ‘I am sure it is,’ Stephen reassured her. ‘As he said, all these are pointers to the truth.’

  ‘Will we ever be free of it?’ Eleanor murmured. ‘Years ago I heard a story about a child who found an evil-looking toad in a field. The girl was so frightened, she killed it. That dead toad pursued her night and day, giving her no rest. The girl killed it time and again but the pursuit continued even after it was torched to ashes. The hapless, persecuted girl, to be eternally free of the torment, let her loathsome enemy bite her but escaped death by cutting away the venom-filled wound. Vengeance appeased, and the toad was seen no more.’