‘But the sexton claimed,’ Almaric taunted, ‘that he heard someone walking up the steps of the tower.’
‘The spirits!’ Higden jibed.
‘No, no,’ Anselm retorted, ‘that was just poor Simon’s imagination and the effects of your minions going up and down the steps; trapdoors being opened, dust stirred, doors unlatched.’ Anselm paused as the captain of the archers came hurrying through the darkness. He leaned down and whispered into Cutwolf’s ear. ‘Well?’
Higden rose and stretched, stamping his feet. Cutwolf also got up to meet him, gesturing that Higden sit down. The merchant knight did so reluctantly. Cutwolf went off to whisper to the archers and came back. ‘There is a pit,’ he announced, ‘cleverly concealed beneath one of the paving stones of the death house. They lifted that and went down.’
‘And?’ Gascelyn could hardly keep the excitement out of his voice.
‘Nothing!’ Cutwolf replied. ‘Nothing but a barrel and some boxes.’
Stephen’s heart sank; Anselm sighed noisily.
‘However!’ Cutwolf snapped his fingers. ‘In moving the bed, Master Gascelyn, we found this.’ An archer handed over a small casket. Cutwolf lifted the lid to reveal a heap of bangles, cheap rings and necklaces. Cutwolf sifted amongst these and handed over a bracelet. ‘Read the inscription.’ Anselm examined the tawdry item and mouthed the word Margotta.
‘You stupid fool!’ Almaric snarled, before Higden shouted a warning. Cutwolf screamed into the darkness and an arrow shaft whirled through the air, smashing into the wall behind them. ‘That proves nothing,’ Higden spluttered. ‘Gascelyn bought. .’
‘Silence!’ Cutwolf took his seat, gesturing at Anselm to continue.
‘Bardolph’s death was necessary for three important reasons.’ Anselm leaned forward, jabbing a finger at Higden who, like his two companions, was clearly agitated. Almaric sat, arms crossed, looking down at his feet; Gascelyn, hands on his knees, stared blindly before him.
‘Three important reasons,’ Anselm repeated. ‘The same applies to all the other mysterious murders here. First, to clear the board, to remove anybody who might get in your way. Secondly, to silence gossiping mouths. Finally, and most importantly, to depict this church and its cemetery as a haunt of demons,’ Anselm chuckled. ‘And that would not be difficult.’
‘Why?’ Cutwolf’s attitude had changed slightly, as if listening to something which would convince him about what he should do.
‘Oh, as I have said — to close this church and pull it down. Sir William would have free rein to explore, dig, pull up and push until he found Puddlicot’s treasure. Lord, the sheer wickedness of the logic! Publicly Sir William is the generous benefactor, promising the world a splendid church, a gorgeous new beginning. In truth, however, he is a Satanist, a blood-drinker, murderer and arsonist.’
‘Smollat burnt this. .’
‘No, no, Sir William, let me explain further. You murdered Bardolph for the reasons I have given. You then silenced Adele, leaving that flask of poisoned wine in her alehouse, a special mourning gift for her. Adele was a greedy woman — she drank the wine full of arsenic. She had to die just in case Bardolph had chattered. You visited her house in the guise of the local justice so one of your minions could search and remove anything suspicious.’ Anselm wiped his hands. ‘All neat and tidy.’ He gestured at Cutwolf. ‘Your water bottle, please.’ Anselm took a deep gulp and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He replaced the stopper and put the water bottle between his feet. ‘Simon the sexton died for the same three reasons. Was he, too, asking awkward questions? We found a scrap of parchment on his chancery desk written in English, Norman French and Latin. What did it say? “Now Lucifer was the friend of Saint Michael’s?” Lucifer, before he fell, was an archangel, too. Was Simon openly hinting about you, Sir William? A friend of Saint Michael’s Church and yet, at the same time, Lucifer, the fallen angel?’ Higden just glared back. ‘And of course, what a tale! A story to reinforce your intentions, Sir William. The poor sexton, driven to suicide, cutting his own throat in his own church — nonsense!’ Anselm sniffed. ‘Simon was lured into this nave. You cut his throat. You locked and bolted both the sacristy door and the main door. As far as the ancient corpse door is concerned — well, it sticks and groans when it opens. You removed the key and, after the murder, Almaric, a carpenter, coated the side of the door with a heavy glue; the type woodworkers use when they fashion a casket. Enough glue to keep that heavy door firmly shut. I found small glue droppings on the path outside. I wondered, why? Now I know.’ Anselm paused. ‘Once inside the church, when we’d discovered Simon’s corpse and became busy with your victim, one of you slipped shut the bolts on the corpse door and proclaimed the key was missing. Of course it wasn’t — you had the keys and so you created a real mystery. A church where all three doors were locked and bolted yet a man within, all alone, had his throat cut. The work of demons, of ghosts. In a way people were right about your work, Higden, you and your two minions here.’ Anselm paused to drink from the water bottle. He offered this to Stephen, who shook his head. The novice was tense, absorbed in the unfolding tale.
‘Parson Smollat and Isolda also had to die. Perhaps the good parson had seen or heard something he shouldn’t have. Perhaps Bardolph did confide in him, though I cannot prove that. Anyway, you and your kind paid the parson a visit late one evening. Smollat and Isolda must have been terrified. Gascelyn worked with the Inquisition before you turned him. He would know what to do. You forced Smollat to write that message, implicating himself in the destruction of his own church. You then forced him and his woman to drink cups of drugged wine. Once they had, you took them out to that yew tree and hanged them. You stained their hands with oil and saltpetre. Afterwards, you saturated the church with oil, cannon powder and saltpetre and turned it into a hellish inferno.’