The Midnight Man by Paul Doherty Read Free Book Online Page A

divest and returned to ensure all was cleared from the chantry chapel of St Joseph. Afterwards he followed his master, clothed in the brown and white of the Carmelites, as he strolled around St Michael’s, Candlewick. They had both slept well in the comfortable chambers provided by Sir William. They’d risen before dawn, washed and dressed, packed their panniers and moved across to the church, where a sleepy-eyed Stephen had helped Anselm prepare for the dawn Mass. As usual, Stephen had acted as Anselm’s altar server; now he was famished, eager to break his fast. Anselm, however, was keen to catch what he called ‘the essence of this place’, so Stephen leisurely followed him around the ancient church. In the grey light of the April dawn St Michael’s did not look so forbidding: it appeared clean, swept and tidy, with benches and stools neatly arranged. The sanctuary was laid out in strict accordance with canon law: pulpit, lectern, ambo and offertory table. The pyx hung on a thick brass chain, a fluttering red sanctuary lamp dangling beside it. The windows were filled with horn or oiled pig’s bladders; a few were glazed and some of these brilliantly decorated with the heads of angels or saints, the face of Christ with a nimbus of gold and, of course, depictions of St Michael the Archangel in various guises: as a nobleman, judge, even a knight in armour. In the corner of the chantry chapel dedicated to St Michael stood a life-size statue of the Archangel, cleverly carved and brilliantly painted with the royal colours of blue, scarlet and gold. Anselm stopped before this and pointed to where the painted stone had crumbled; the hilt of the Archangel’s sword was cracked, while the heraldic devices on St Michael’s great oval shield were clearly battered.
    â€˜Sir William told us the statue had been tipped over.’ He gestured at the candle stand of heavy iron. ‘That, too. What force, Stephen, could move them?’ He glanced around. ‘Ah, well, it’s so different now, I mean, from when we were here last night – look!’ He pointed at the light pouring through the windows, now turning gold in the glow of the rising sun. Stephen agreed. St Michael’s now seemed no different from any London parish church – St Mary Le Bow, St Nicholas or St Martin. Anselm walked round. He lit a taper in the Lady chapel, inspected the different inscriptions and went into the Galilee porch. He paused to examine the bell which hung just inside the door. Any man, fleeing from the law, who sought shelter would enter here, ring the bell then hasten up into the sanctuary and grasp the horn or side of the altar, as Joab had done in the Old Testament when fleeing from the killers dispatched by King David. Anselm studied both door and bell closely then walked across to the empty sanctuary recess where he crouched, tapping the palliasse; a fleeing man would use this during his forty-day stay in the church.
    â€˜Magister?’
    â€˜During the exorcism last night, Stephen, a male voice, different from the rest, spoke about being dragged from here. I wonder who it was?’
    â€˜Magister, last night during the exorcism you seemed distracted. What truly happened?’
    Anselm rose to his feet and peered down the church. ‘Something quite common, Stephen.’ Anselm rubbed his forehead. ‘During an exorcism I do suffer tricks of the mind,’ he confessed. ‘I do not know whether they are just phantasms born from what is happening or the ploy of an evil spirit. But, rest assured,’ he added grimly, ‘they’re certainly here. Indeed, I think of Ecclesiasticus, chapter twenty-nine, verse thirty-three: “There are spirits who thirst for vengeance and in all their fiery fury inflict grievous torment”. Do they, I ask myself, conjure up visions of sin from the past to dull my soul, chill my heart, darken my mind and so frustrate my soul? Grinning,