‘Magister, what is this?’
‘Mandrake Place. The houses belong to the Fraternity of the Suspercol.’
‘Who?’
‘The Suspercol,’ Anselm repeated, ‘short for the Latin, Suspenditur per collem — hanged by the neck — and that, Stephen, is their Chapel of the Damned.’
As they crossed the square Stephen remarked how clean it was — no refuse or piled mounds of rubbish.
‘That’s because this place is sacred to the Brotherhood of the Twilight,’ Anselm explained. ‘Thieves, cozeners and counterfeits. The dung-carts come here at least four times a day and the guardians wash the cobbles with water from the well.’
They reached the foot of the ramp and walked up. The guard seated on the stool rose to greet them. Stephen was aware of others lurking deep in the shadows on either side of the church. The guard pushed back his cowl to reveal a white, gaunt, bony face like that of a skeleton, his long, scraggy neck scarred by a deep red ring like some ghastly necklace.
‘Half-hanged Malkin, greetings!’
‘Greetings to you and yours, Brother Anselm.’ The man bowed and opened the door, ushering them into the church.
‘Half-hanged?’ Stephen whispered.
‘At Tyburn Forks ten years ago,’ Anselm murmured, ‘he hung for an hour, and when they cut him down he revived. A miracle! He received the King’s pardon and is one of the guardians here.’ Stephen only half-listened, already startled by the church he had entered. A long nave stretched up to a vividly painted red rood screen where pride of place was given to the Good Thief. Eye-catching frescoes, crude but vigorous, decorated the walls, their scenes brought to life by the candle spigots placed along each aisle. The floor was of plain paving stones but in the centre were two broad trapdoors sealed with a clasp. Clearly seen through the rood screen stood the main altar, stark and unadorned beneath a silver pyx and glowing red sanctuary lamp. The Lady chapel to its left was equally sparse and bleak.
The atmosphere of that desolate chapel enveloped Stephen in a sombre embrace. It was a place of sadness and hidden fears. For a few heartbeats the rood screen seemed to disappear, replaced by a luxurious, sprouting oak tree from which many corpses hung in manacles. This faded. Stephen became aware of the charcoal crackling in pots and the pleasing wisps of heavy incense.
‘The Chapel of the Damned,’ Anselm explained. ‘Off the beaten track, not visited by many. Certainly not on the eve of the feast of Saint Mark.’
‘The same day Puddlicot broke into the crypt?’
‘Precisely, Stephen and, according to the records, the eve of his grisly execution two years later. All this, Mandrake Place, the church, the houses and the Fraternity of the Suspercol, were once the property of an English leper knight of the Order of Saint Lazarus. He bequeathed it to serve as a place where the corpses of those hanged in London and elsewhere might be brought.’ Anselm pointed to the trapdoor. ‘Beneath that stretch are extensive burial pits of soil and lime. The corpses of many executed are brought here on the death-cart which they roll up that ramp into the church. They wrap each corpse in a sheet and lower it down for burial. I went down there once — a seemingly endless sea of bones and skulls.’
‘And Puddlicot lies here?’
‘Yes, Stephen, he does; his corpse no more than a tangle of bones.’
‘Why have we come here tonight? To catch a sighting?’
‘No, I do not think anything will happen here. We will, however, tarry at this, his last resting place. We shall assure his soul that we are its benefactor, not tormentor, as well as vow to arrange requiem Masses to be sung.’ Anselm walked to the edge of the vault. He knelt and began to thread his rosary beads. As Stephen went to join him the main door opened and two women entered. The first was very old and grey-haired, with stooped shoulders, one hand grasping a walking cane, the other the arm of her companion. Both were dressed in the brown robes and white wimples of the Franciscan Minoresses who had their convent outside the old city wall near Aldgate. The two nuns stood watching them for a while before walking on up under the rood screen. Anselm hardly noticed them but continued reciting the Dirige psalms. Stephen crouched at the foot of a pillar. He tried to pray but his eyes grew heavy, aware of flashes of light around him and the dim murmur of voices. A commotion at the door roused him. He hurried back to find the guardian barring the way to a group of young, heavily-armed men. Former soldiers, Stephen concluded, judging by their close-cropped hair and hard, scarred faces. They were dressed in dark leather jerkins, tight hose pushed into their boots. Six in number, their leader had already drawn both sword and dagger.
‘What is this?’ Anselm came out on to the porch and stood on the top step.
‘Brother Anselm.’ The leader sheathed sword and dagger. ‘The hour is late but Sir Miles Beauchamp. .’
‘What about him?’
‘We are his henchmen. I am Cutwolf.’
‘He mentioned your name to me once.’
‘My companions, Oldtoast and Mutton-monger.’ Cutwolf waved a hand.
‘You have been following us?’
‘Of course, Brother Anselm. Your safety is close to the heart of Sir Miles and what he wants. .’
‘What does he want?’
‘Your presence at Bardolph’s alehouse, The Burning Bush.’ Cutwolf grinned. ‘The widow, the now dead widow, was suddenly taken ill and died over an hour ago.’ Cutwolf pointed to another of his companions. ‘Holyinnocent here brought the news. Sir Miles awaits.’
The Burning Bush was guarded by more of Beauchamp’s men as well as royal archers from the Tower. The taproom inside was cleared, and Adele’s corpse lay stretched out next to her husband. A linen cloth draped the body. Sir William and Sir Miles, together with Almaric, Simon and Gascelyn, were present. One of Adele’s servitors cowered in a shadowy corner. The Carmelites moved into the circle of light around the corpses, where a nervous, shabbily-dressed physician was drying his hands.
‘What happened?’ Anselm asked.
‘We were making ready for the burial of old Bardolph,’ the street physician declared. ‘Adele brought a flask of wine, broached it and drank. Suddenly her head and neck were thrown back, and her throat and stomach swelled up. Her face turned as red as the crest of a cock. Her eyes, horrible to see, started out of her head, her tongue all swollen, turning a purplish-black.’
‘Possessed by demons,’ Almaric whispered.
‘Nonsense!’ Stephen exclaimed. Everyone stared at him.
‘Nonsense?’ Beauchamp queried.
‘Poison,’ Stephen replied, ‘arsenic poisoning.’
‘Tell us, learned physician,’ Almaric taunted.
‘My father was a physician. He made me accompany him on all his visits,’ Stephen retorted. ‘I have seen Adele’s symptoms in at least three of my father’s patients.’
‘Mere prattling!’ Sir William replied.
‘Hush, now,’ Anselm demanded.
‘I have seen these symptoms.’ Stephen felt his confidence rise. ‘A very strong infusion of raw, red or white arsenic will cause such an effect. My father unmasked two poisoners. I watched them burn in the square before Winchester Cathederal.’ Stephen glared around. ‘My father always made me write up the symptoms he examined. Adele’s death was sudden and violent — the infusion must have been very strong. Arsenic,’ he continued heatedly, ‘can be bought commonly enough. Some people — fools — use it either as a cure for stomach cramps or even as an aphrodisiac.’
‘But why?’ Sir William scoffed. ‘Why her, and how did it happen?’
‘Sirs.’ The servitor shuffled out of the darkness carrying a small flask, its stopper pulled back. ‘Sirs, this was delivered at the door. I saw the mistress bring it in. She drank from it, put it down and a short while later she was racked in agony.’ Stephen took the flask; the stopper seal had been broken. The flask was almost empty but when he sniffed he detected something acrid mingling with the strong, fruity odour of claret. ‘If you still don’t believe me,’ Stephen fought off a wave of tiredness, ‘put this down for vermin to drink — they will not survive long.’ Stephen grasped a pewter goblet from the top of a barrel, poured the remaining wine into it and shook the grainy sediment out into the glow of candlelight. ‘There are your demons.’ Stephen pointed at the sediment. ‘The wine is heavily tainted; strong enough to snatch the soul from her body many times over.’