The Trip to Jerusalem

'Oh, I am,' said Nicholas, shaking off his fleeting anxieties. 'Gabriel is the sounder prospect for us and he will prove that on our travels. There is no man in the company I would sooner have beside me. I will visit him tomorrow and make sure that he understands that.'

'Why do you have such a high opinion of him?'

'That is the wonder of it. I do not know.'

Smorrall Lane was less than a hundred yards from Anne Hendrik's house but its dwellings were a world apart. The narrow, winding, fetid alley consisted of a series of dirty and decrepit buildings that leaned against each other for support with ramshackle companionship. Stews, taverns and ordinaries attracted a lower class of patron and those who tumbled along the lane at night were usually drunk or diseased from guzzling excess. Thieves lurked in dark corners and waited for easy pickings. Women offered their wares in doorways. Blood was often mixed with the urine and excrement that flowed over the cobbles. Smorrall Lane was easy to find. It could be located by its stench.

The tall, elegant young man who stalked along it that night was no typical visitor. Nose wrinkled in disgust, he moved along quickly and pushed away two revellers who brushed against him. When he came to the house that he sought, he looked up and saw a faint glimmer in the window of the front bedchamber. His quarry was at home.

He banged on the door but got no reply. Glancing down the lane to make sure that he was unobserved, he let himself into the house and coughed as its dust attacked his throat. He went swiftly to the staircase and crept silently up its crooked steps. Outside the bedchamber, he tapped on the door without response. All he could hear was stertorous breathing from within.

It suited his purpose. Opening the door softly, he slid into the room and crossed over to the prone figure under the ragged bedsheets. The smell of decay assailed his nostrils and his stomach hurried but he was not to be deflected from his purpose. Straddling the sleeper, he got a firm grip on the man's neck and squeezed with all his power. There was little resistance. Weakened already, his victim had barely enough strength to flail his arms and they soon hung limp and lifeless.

The visitor left with furtive speed and came out into the lane again. He used a piece of charcoal to write something on the battered door of the house.

LORD HAVE MERCY UPON US.

Then he looked up at the window once more. 'Goodbye, Gabriel. Sleep with the other angels now.'

(*)Chapter Two

Miles Melhuish believed totally in the power of prayer. As vicar of the parish church of St Stephen, he was in the ideal position to put his faith to the test and it had never been found wanting. Prayer had saved souls, cured diseases, softened tragedies, provided inspiration, secured guidance from above and generally eased the troubled mind of his congregation. If his ministry had taught him one thing, it was that ten minutes a day on his knees was far more effective than an hour on his feet in the pulpit. It was the first article in the Melhuish creed. By communing directly with God in true humility, he achieved infinitely more than he would have by haranguing the citizens of Nottingham with his sermons. He was a devout and pensive shepherd and his flock gained from it.

Ten years in the parish had confronted him with all sorts of problems and all manner of strange sights but none could compare with what lay in wait for him now. As he knelt at the altar rail in an attitude of blissful submission, the setting sun flooded in through the stained glass window to give his rubicund face a saintly glow and to encircle his bald head with a golden halo. When his prayers were done, he used the rail to lift himself up, then genuflected with portly solemnity.

The sound of running footsteps made him turn.

'Why, Humphrey! What means this haste?'

'I must speak with you, sir.'

'And so you shall but not by bursting in like a runaway bull. This is the Lord's house, Humphrey, and we must accord it all due respect. Hold there, man.'

'I obey you straight.'

And catch your breath, dear fellow.'

Humphrey Budden leaned on one of the pews as he gulped in air. A big, broad man of florid hue, he had run much further than his legs or lungs had desired and he was now bathed in perspiration. Miles Melhuish walked down the aisle towards the glistening parishioner and tried to guess at the crisis which had brought on this uncharacteristic lapse. Budden was a respected figure in the town, a conscientious lacemaker who helped to keep the name of Nottingham at the forefront of his trade. Since his marriage the previous year, he had been the happiest of men, honest, affable, upright, regular in his devotions and often given to charitable impulse. Yet here was this same Humphrey Budden, charging into church, panting like a dog and sweating like a roast pig.

The vicar put a consoling arm around him.

'Fear not, my son. God is with you.'

'I need him mightily, sir.'

'To what end, Humphrey?'

'I can hardly bring myself to tell you.'

'Succour awaits.'

'The sound still fills my ears.'

'What sound?'

'And the sight torments my mind.'

'You are trembling with the shock of it.'

'I came straight here, sir. God is my last resort.'

'How may he help you?'

Humphrey Budden bit his lip in embarrassment then cleared his throat. It had been far easier to carry his message to church than to deliver it. Words rebelled.

Miles Melhuish tried to prompt him gently.

'Are you in trouble, my son?'

'Not me, sir.'

'Your wife?

'Indeed.'

'What ails the good woman?'

'Oh, sir...'

Humphrey Budden began to weep helplessly. The calamity which had brought him so recklessly into the church had deprived him of speech. Easing him down into a pew, the vicar sat beside him and offered up a silent prayer. Budden slowly regained some control.

'Tell me about Eleanor,' said the priest.

'I love her so much!'

'Some accident perchance?'

'Worse, sir.'

'She has fallen sick?'

'Worse still.'

'Dear Lord! Has she passed away?'

'Worse even than that.'

Melhuish coaxed the story out of him. Even in its garbled form it was enough to make the man of the cloth forget both his paunch and his place. Gathering up his belly in both hands, he led the way towards the door at a steady trot with Budden in close pursuit. They ran out into the churchyard then through the gate that opened on to Angel Row. The house was a couple of hundred yards away and the effort of reaching it took them both near exhaustion but they did not pause. Above the sound of their breathing, they heard a noise that froze their blood and put a last spurt into their legs.

It was the scream of a woman. Not the sudden yell of someone in pain nor yet the anguished cry of someone in distress. It was a weird, continuous, high-pitched howl of a wild animal, a noise so intense and unnatural that it did not seem to come from a human throat at all. Budden opened the front door and ushered the priest into a room that already had some occupants. Four terrified children were clustered around the skirts of an old servant, gazing up in horror at the bedchamber above their heads.

Humphrey Budden gave them a comforting squeeze then took his visitor up the stairs. During that short ascent, Miles Melhuish prayed more strenuously than even he had done in a long while. The sound was heart-rending. He had to force himself to follow the stricken husband into the bedchamber. What hideous sight lay within?

When his eyes beheld it, he crossed himself at once.

'Dear God in heaven!'

'Eleanor,' called Budden. 'Peace, good wife.'

But she did not even hear him. The wail continued with unabated fury and her hands clutched at her hair. Melhuish was dumbstruck. There in front of him, kneeling stark naked on the floor, swaying to and fro, staring at a crucifix on the wall, was a buxom woman in her twenties with flaxen hair trailing down her back towards a pair of round, beautiful, shuddering buttocks. It was a scene at once so frightening and erotic that Melhuish had to avert his gaze for a few seconds and call his righteousness to his aid.