‘No.’ Hobden’s eyes rolled like a frightened animal’s. ‘Sir John, I swear that’s my dead wife’s voice.’

Athelstan concealed the trembling which had begun in his legs.

‘We’d best go up,’ he said firmly. ‘Master Hobden, if you will show me the way?’

Like a condemned man treading the gallows steps, Hobden led them up the darkened, winding staircase to the second floor and along a passageway to a half-open door. He pushed this slowly open and stood, one hand on the lintel, staring into the candle-lit room. Athelstan, Cranston and Benedicta, close behind him, gazed at the young woman lying in the centre of the great four-poster bed, her dark hair bound behind her, the skin of her white face drawn so tight it emphasized her high cheek bones. She stared glassily at her father and the others.

‘So, you have brought visitors, Walter? Witnesses to your crime.’

Athelstan watched, curious, as the lips moved but the voice seemed hollow, disembodied.

‘Elizabeth!’ Hobden moaned. ‘Stop this!’

‘Stop what, Walter? You murdered me, killed me with red arsenic, poisoning me so you could marry another woman!’

‘That is not true!’

Walter was about to continue when the knocking began. At first slow, indistinct, but then it spread up from the bottom floor of the house as if some dark creature from Hell was scrabbling up behind the wainscoting.

Benedicta stood back. ‘Father,’ she whispered. ‘Be careful!’

Athelstan walked into the room and headed towards the foot of the bed. He was fascinated by the girl’s dark, glassy eyes and those lips spouting out their litany of accusation. The knocking continued like a drum beat and Athelstan gagged at the awful stench pervading the room. He gathered his courage.

‘Elizabeth Hobden, in Christ’s holy name, I beg you to stop! I command you to stop!’

Athelstan undid the neck of the bag and, hands shaking, took out the stoup of water and the asperges rod. He sprinkled holy water in front of him and made the sign of the cross but Elizabeth kept talking, her voice strident as she repeated over and over again the accusations against her father. Athelstan tried to hide his fear as he began the exorcism ceremony proper with the solemn litany of invocation, calling on Christ, His Blessed Mother and all the angels and saints. His words were drowned by the girl’s shouts and that awful pounding on the walls whilst the smell became even more offensive.

Athelstan tried to continue even as a small inward voice began to question his own faith. He glanced over his shoulder and glimpsed Benedicta’s white face and Hobden standing terrified at the doorway. Of Cranston there was no sign. Oh, Sir John, Athelstan thought, now in my hour of need!

He looked back at the girl — those hate-filled eyes, shoulders and head rigid against the white bolsters. She seemed oblivious to his presence, staring past him at her father. Then suddenly, in the room below, as Athelstan began his prayers again, he heard a scream, a shout and the noise of running footsteps on the stairs. Cranston, breathing heavily, burst into the room, almost knocking Athelstan aside.

‘You bloody little bitch!’ he roared at the girl.

Athelstan stared at him in astonishment. He was aware that the pounding on the walls had stopped. The girl, however, continued to screech accusations until Cranston strode across to the bed and slapped her firmly across both cheeks. He then grasped her by the shoulders and shook her.

‘Stop it!’ he roared. ‘Stop it, you lying little hussy!’ He gazed angrily at Athelstan. ‘You have been tricked, Brother!’ He shook the girl again. ‘A subtle little conspiracy between this wench and her maid.’

His words had the desired effect. The girl became silent. The glare of hatred in her eyes faded as she glanced fearfully at Athelstan and then Sir John. Cranston sat on the edge of the bed and wiped the sweat from his brow.

‘This little minx,’ he breathed heavily, ‘and her nurse concocted this medley of lies and deceits. Come on, man!’ He waved Walter Hobden forward. The girl’s father stepped gingerly into the room whilst she hid her face in her hands and sobbed quietly. ‘Didn’t it ever occur to you,’ Cranston taunted Hobden, ‘that this was all mummery?’

‘But she drove Anna away,’ he wailed.

‘Listen, tickle brain,’ Cranston replied, getting to his feet, ‘that was part of the masque. The two only appeared estranged! Whilst Elizabeth held court up here, her good nurse, banished to the scullery, used chimney holes and gaps between the wainscoting to create the knocking sounds.’ He walked over to the small hearth. ‘This is an old house,’ he explained. ‘There are funnels and smoke flues, chimneys and other old gaps. If you go down to the scullery where the main cooking hearth is, you can, by rattling rods carefully placed up the chimney stack, create a disturbance all through the house. I have seen it done before. A children’s game, played on the eve of All Hallows.’ Cranston tapped the wainscoting. ‘And this probably helps. It makes the echoes even louder. I went down to the scullery and there was old Anna seated like a night hag beside the hearth, busy with her metal rods.’

‘But the voice?’ Eleanor Hobden came into the room.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, woman!’ Cranston scoffed. ‘Haven’t you ever heard anyone imitating a voice?’ He stared up at an astonished Athelstan. ‘I believe Crim, your altar boy, small as he is, can give a very good imitation of me?’

Athelstan smiled faintly. He felt relieved at Cranston’s abrupt revelation and curt dismissal of all this mummery and trickery yet still he felt a deep unease.

‘But the smell?’ Athelstan sniffed.

‘Oh, I am sure there’s an answer for that.’

Cranston knelt down, put his hand under the bedstead and drew out two small unstoppered pots. He then went to the other side of the bed and found the same. Cranston picked one up, sniffed at it gingerly and recoiled in distaste as he handed it to Athelstan.

‘God knows what it is! I suspect goat’s cheese.’

Athelstan sniffed and turned away in disgust. ‘Goat’s cheese,’ he coughed, ‘and something else.’

‘A well-known trick,’ Cranston observed. ‘Take off the stoppers and a pig sty would be sweet compared to it.’ He grinned. ‘Put the jars open under the bed, move the blankets, and a stench is wafted from Hell.’

Athelstan gazed down at the sobbing girl whilst the sound of a commotion outside indicated that the fearsome Eleanor Hobden was now dragging the old nurse upstairs. Eleanor entered, cast a look of disdain at her husband and threw the struggling Anna, who looked on the point of fainting with fear, down on to the rushes. She went across and grasped Elizabeth’s hair, pulling back her head. Despite her evil game, Athelstan felt a pang of compassion for the girl. Her face looked ghastly: red-rimmed eyes and pallid, tear-soaked cheeks. Elizabeth had bitten her lips and a trickle of blood ran down her chin.

‘Leave her alone!’ he ordered.

Eleanor gave another vicious tug to the girl’s hair. Athelstan grasped her by the wrist.

‘For God’s sake, woman, leave her!’

Eleanor reluctantly obeyed but glared at Cranston.

‘She is guilty of a crime, isn’t she? The pretended raising of demons and the use of such trickery is almost as grave a charge as dabbling in the Black Arts themselves.’

Cranston, who had taken a deep dislike to the woman, nodded.

‘Are you saying I should arrest her?’

‘If you don’t, I’ll throw her and that bitch of a nurse out into the street!’

‘Eleanor!’ Walter moaned. ‘Don’t!’

‘Oh, shut up!’ she spat back. ‘I told you this little minx was a liar and a cheat.’ She went across and shoved her face only inches from her husband’s. ‘Either they go or I do.’

Cranston stole a glance at Athelstan. The friar looked helplessly down at the sobbing girl whilst Anna still crouched like a dog amongst the rushes. Eleanor walked back and dug the girl in the shoulder.