‘I know nothing of Glastonbury. As I said, I have never been there.’
‘Correct — you have never visited the abbey. I checked. I am sure you would love to do so. However, Higden, you like to keep your hand hidden — you cleverly cover your tracks. You,’ Anselm pointed at Almaric, ‘are different. You were born close to Glastonbury, weren’t you? You were at school there. You served as a novice and became a skilled carpenter. You were taught by the abbey artisans before you left. You took to wandering. You were later ordained as a priest, becoming a chaplain under the royal banners and serving in France, where you met your true master here.’
‘What nonsense!’ the curate scoffed.
‘Facts,’ Anselm countered. ‘You knew all about the discoveries at Glastonbury and told your master here. Rich and powerful, he became absorbed with finding such items, along with the rest of the treasure Puddlicot had stolen.’ Anselm paused, head down.
Stephen stared around. No voices, no visions. Nevertheless, he sensed a whole host of invisible witnesses were gathering, pressing in on every side to listen. This ruined, charred nave had become a fearsome judgement hall. Cutwolf and his companions, grim and silent, were the executioners. One way or another, this would end in blood.
‘You, Higden,’ Anselm continued, ‘searched, as secretly as you could, everything about Puddlicot, even though you openly pretended ignorance about him. You secured the advowson to this church. You moved house to be closer. I suspect Rishanger bought Puddlicot’s dwelling at your insistence.’ Anselm took a deep breath. ‘With me and mine, whatever we did you pretended, like mummers in a play, though I noticed you always avoided my attempts to exorcise. Yet you made one mistake very early on. How did you know Rishanger’s particular house in Hagbut Lane once belonged to Puddlicot? Who told you that?’ Higden refused to answer. Anselm shrugged and continued. ‘Time passed. You appointed Parson Smollat to the benefice — a good but very weak priest with more than a fondness for the ladies, someone you could control.’
Higden simply smirked.
‘The cemetery was searched. You used Bardolph for that, digging the earth, preparing graves, but you discovered nothing. Your blood-drinking at Rishanger’s house continued. Eventually you decided that enough corpses were buried there, although I suspect you hated being dependent on Rishanger. By now you had your new death house in Saint Michael’s cemetery. A well-fortified, stout and lonely building with, I suspect, a prison pit beneath. You enticed your victims into it.’
‘How?’ Higden gibed. ‘And if I did, where are they buried?’
‘I sat by the lychgate,’ Anselm retorted. ‘I spent an entire afternoon there. I was surprised at how many young women of various means and livings go by. Before the trouble started, I am quite sure a few would use the cemetery as a place to rest. Margotta Sumerhull, the maid from The Unicorn, went there and disappeared — so did Edith Swan-neck. Who enticed them in? You, Almaric, a priest who could be trusted, or Gascelyn, the handsome squire? An invitation to talk, to sup? Would they like to walk through, perhaps see the new building? Others were easier — whores and prostitutes hired under the cloak of dark. That death house is well-named; once there, they would be imprisoned.’ The exorcist paused. ‘A poor dancer died there, didn’t she, Gascelyn? Eleanora? She came back to haunt you with her perfume and stamping feet. Little wonder you became so wary but Higden made you stay there?’ Anselm leaned forward. ‘The death house will be searched. I am sure a pit lies beneath where those poor girls were pinioned before they were brutally enjoyed and murdered.’
‘There is a pit,’ Gascelyn, face all flushed, protested. ‘But for storing.’
‘Silence!’ Cutwolf held up a hand, snapping his fingers. The captain of archers hurried over, pushing back his cowl to reveal a sharp, nut-brown face. Cutwolf whispered, the man murmured his agreement and left the nave with two of his companions.
‘And the corpses?’ Higden’s steely poise had slipped.
‘Oh, very easy. Saint Michael’s is the parish cemetery of the ward. Many beggars die in Dowgate. They are brought here, wrapped tightly in canvas sheets, bound with cord and placed in the laystall close to the old burial pit. I have seen them. It’s an ideal place. The soil there is always loose and soft from the lime and other elements caked in the ground. Who would dream of untying and unrolling the dirty shrouds to inspect the naked cadaver of some hapless beggar? However, in some cases, those shrouds contained the corpses of murdered young women such as Margotta and Edith. Buried quietly, swiftly, their bodies soon rotted.
‘The pit could be opened?’ Bolingbrok declared.
‘Yes, it could be,’ Anselm agreed. ‘That burial pit was also your unholy sanctuary, Higden, a place you could practice your midnight rites. However, let us return to Rishanger’s gruesome garden. Sometime last year, while burying your victims at Rishanger’s house, the Cross of Neath and Queen Eleanor’s dagger were found, along with a parchment script saying how the remaining treasure was under the guardianship of God’s protector. This confirmed your belief that Puddlicot had buried most of the treasure somewhere in or around Saint Michael’s Church, Candlewick. You made secret searches using the likes of Bardolph. He was unsuccessful so you decided to consult the dead. You organized, I am sure, the most malignant of all such ceremonies: a black mass celebrated over that burial pit during the deep heart of the night.
‘I am not a priest!’
‘No, but Almaric is and, as is common with such rites, something truly hideous occurred. You called into the darkness, Sir William, and a demonic chorus sang back. You raised a fiery nest: not only the hapless ghost of Puddlicot and the souls and spirits of those you had murdered both there and, I believe, elsewhere, but the prowling demons — those powerful, malevolent spirits who hunt the arid lands of the spiritual life. So fearsome were they that you and your coven had to flee.’
‘Very interesting!’ Higden snapped. ‘Brother Anselm, I am prepared to surrender myself to the King’s clerks. I will, in a different place and at a different time, demand evidence — proof positive for your outrageous allegations.’
Stephen glanced quickly at Cutwolf and Bolingbrok and a chill seized his heart. Cutwolf, just for a brief moment, betrayed his own uncertainty.
‘Rishanger,’ Anselm continued, ignoring the interruption, ‘became agitated. His relationship with you was not as strong as that of your two henchmen here. Perhaps he resented sharing the treasure found in his garden. More importantly, he had seen your vaunted powers brought to nothing. How the disturbances at St Michael’s were now attracting the attention of both Crown and Church. Rishanger decided to flee. He may have killed his mistress Beatrice, or that might have been the work of your black-garbed assassins who then pursued and murdered Rishanger in Westminster Abbey.’ Anselm chewed the corner of his lips. ‘You also tried to raise the dead there, didn’t you, and failed? No wonder members of your coven became nervous and uncertain. You must have been truly furious at Rishanger’s treachery, his attempt to flee and the bungled work of your assassins. Now the Crown knew what was at stake: they had the Cross of Neath and Queen Eleanor’s dagger. Sir Miles Beauchamp and the Secret Chancery were alerted.’
Anselm paused, fingering the wooden cross around his neck. Stephen glanced up and flinched at the evil, gaunt face glaring down at him from the pitch dark. He shifted his gaze.
‘Hate-made holes slick with blood. Soul weary, the spirits gather to sing sorrowful songs,’ a voice taunted. Stephen glanced up at the moving, dancing shapes which floated and darted like shards of ash. A billow of dust swept by, only to dissipate in a pool of light.
‘Shrouded in sadness,’ the voice whispered. ‘Release must come!’
‘You.’ Anselm’s voice cracked under the strain. ‘You, Higden, became convinced that Puddlicot’s treasure hoard was here. You regarded my interference and that of Sir Miles as vexatious but not serious. More importantly, you needed to close this church so that you could search it thoroughly as well as control your own followers. Bardolph was not obeying. Recalcitrant, stubborn, absorbed with Edith Swan-neck, the gravedigger was not a member of your inner cell. However, I think he began to suspect your true identity, Sir William. The night we first attempted to exorcise this haunted place, Bardolph openly grumbled at the lack of burial fees. He was secretly making a barbed sally against you. How he was burying corpses, those of your victims, which brought him no income. He probably resented Gascelyn occupying the death house, assuming duties Bardolph considered his own. Above all, unbeknown to you, Bardolph had become obsessed with the whore Edith Swan-neck from a local brothel. Edith was, I believe, invited to Saint Michael’s by one of your coven who had noticed her beauty when either Gascelyn or Almaric visited the The Oil of Gladness. Was she told how she had caught the eye of no less a person than Sir William Higden? Full of herself, Edith hurried away. She was inveigled into the meadows of murder. She was abducted, killed, her corpse like the rest wrapped tightly in shroud sacking and buried by Gascelyn. Bardolph searched for her. He discovered his beloved definitely left for Saint Michael’s but then disappeared. He later found her necklace in the cemetery. Bardolph became furious, fearing full well what might have happened and holding you, Sir William, responsible. Full of anger and resentment, Bardolph’s twisted heart turned to the prospect of blackmail. He openly boasted about his rich prospects. He may have even mentioned something to Parson Smollat. He had to be silenced. Adele or someone else in the coven alerted the master to the danger. Bardolph was killed in this church by your minions here. His corpse, wrapped in a sheet, was carried to the top of the tower, unwrapped and pushed between the crenellations. It is,’ Anselm smiled grimly, ‘difficult to glimpse anything at the top of that soaring tower, especially when the sun moves into the west and the light begins to fade. More importantly, I stood there when the bells mysteriously tolled; that tower top shook like a tree in a furious gale. Bardolph’s corpse, resting between the turrets, simply toppled over when Simon the sexton began to peal the bells.’ Anselm spread his hands. ‘Just another mysterious death in this haunted church.’