Ghostly Murders

by Paul Doherty

  Philip caught her veiled allusion. He was sure this old woman knew more about the history of Scawsby than she had revealed. Stephen came and stood in the doorway. Philip recalled his friend’s anger when he had hinted at the possibility of the church being built elsewhere. Did Stephen also know more than he showed? Was that why he was here?

  ‘I have the power of coroner,’ Lord Richard broke in. ‘I am supposed to view the corpse and deliver a judgement.’ He went across and put his hand on a crucifix which hung on the wall. ‘My judgement is that Adam Waldis died a death accidental by nature.’ He let his hand fall. ‘Though God knows what he was doing there and why he was running?’ Lord Richard pointed to the parish clerk’s spindly legs. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘The cuts, bramble and gorse did that. Now, why should Waldis be running for his life, so terrified that he ran into a marsh and drowned?’

  Supper in the Priest’s house was a sombre affair. Roheisia heaped their trenchers with vegetables and a rich rabbit stew, put a jug of wine on the table, a pie on a platter and said she would be leaving. Philip, who had eaten desultorily, locked the door behind her and came back.

  ‘I am concerned,’ he began, ‘by Waldis’ death. Quite extraordinary events have happened, and are happening in Scawsby.’

  He then told them everything which had occurred since his arrival. Stephen kept pulling faces. Edmund sat fascinated.

  ‘I am a mathematician,’ Stephen declared abruptly when Philip finished. ‘I deal with shapes and measurements. I cut stone and fashion buildings which will be of use as well as a glory to their builder. Oh yes, I believe in God and his angels. However, Philip, if what you describe is true,’ he added, ‘then this is not a matter for us. You should dispatch a messenger to Rochester for an exorcist. This is the bishop’s problem, not ours.’

  ‘Didn’t you believe in anything I’ve said?’ Philip asked. ‘Haven’t you experienced anything yourself?’

  Stephen put his wine cup down. ‘I admit Scawsby is a pleasant enough village,’ he replied, ‘but I agree, this house, the church and its graveyard are eerie. What is more, I don’t like that old woman. She’s a nuisance and impertinent.’

  Philip looked up in surprise. Stephen sounded petulant yet his friend was usually charming and easy-going.

  ‘There is a presence here,’ Edmund declared. ‘Like a nagging pain you try and tell yourself doesn’t exist but it comes back, forces its way in. I haven’t seen anything,’ he continued, ‘or I don’t think I have, except last night after I went to bed: I heard you go out into the cemetery so I opened a shutter and looked out. You went across to the church, yes?’

  Philip nodded.

  ‘Well, it was dark. I could only make out your shadow but I am certain someone was following you.’

  Philip swallowed hard.

  ‘I believe terrible murders were committed here,’ Edmund continued. ‘Those poor Templars were ambushed out on the marshes, slaughtered and their treasure taken. Perhaps it was their remains we found at the bottom of that well? Perhaps their souls do hang between heaven and earth seeking retribution? It would be tragic,’ he added wistfully, ‘if something should happen to Isolda.’

  ‘After we bury Waldis,’ Philip replied, ‘tomorrow morning, I am going to go out to High Mount: that well is to be rigorously searched.’

  ‘Why?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘Why not?’ Philip replied. ‘It’s the best place to begin. Edmund might be right. If the Templars’ remains are tossed down some well or pit, they deserve honourable burial. Perhaps that’s what the word ‘Reparation’ means? Though who Veronica is, or what the numbers six and fourteen signify is beyond me.’

  ‘I’ve found something,’ Edmund offered. ‘Tonight, before we came down to sup I thought I would search this house. The cellars hold nothing but have you been in the garrets?’

  ‘Nothing but bits and pieces lie there,’ Stephen replied. ‘They’re draughty and bleak.’

  ‘Bring the candles,’ Edmund ordered. ‘I want to show you something.’

  They followed Edmund up the stairs on to the top gallery. The small garret lay just under the roof. It was bitterly cold, almost like jumping into icy water and the candle flames danced in the draught seeping in between the roof and the walls. The ceiling was low and they had to be careful of the beams. More candles were brought and lit. Philip glanced round. Broken stools, cracked pots and bowls, a flesher’s knife, waiting to be sharpened; a large, battered chest with its clasps broken. Against the wall stood a squat aumbry or cupboard. Its doors hung loose, the top was cracked and dented.

  ‘Drag the chest out,’ Edmund said.

  They did so.

  ‘I came here,’ Edmund replied, removing the dust from his hands, ‘because I needed something to put my own clothes in. I examined the chest and the cupboard.’

  ‘What’s so special about this?’ Stephen asked.

  Philip now joined Edmund in removing the dust. As he did so, he realised that, in certain places, the leather had been scraped off and that in its pristine state the chest must have been a place where valuables were stored. It was fortified with four locks and bound by iron bands and metal studs. Beneath the lid were two wooden slats, once held together by three clasps, each of which would have carried a padlock. These now hung loose. Philip pulled them back and felt inside: the lining was smooth but beginning to crumble. Curious, he moved the candle along the bottom of the chest.

  ‘This was silk,’ he declared. ‘Silk with fleur de lys stamped on it. It must have been used to carry something very, very precious.’ He replaced the wooden slats. ‘Three locks inside, four locks outside and reinforced with a steel band and metal studs.’ He tapped the side. ‘This is the finest wood and leather.’

  Stephen also crouched down, peering round the chest, studying where the leather had been deliberately scraped away with a knife.

  ‘I know what this was,’ Philip declared. ‘It’s not the property of some priest, more like a royal chest used by the Exchequer to transport precious objects.’

  Philip opened the lid again and glanced in. He noticed a dark stain had appeared at the bottom where he placed the candle.

  ‘I thought it was interesting,’ Edmund said. ‘And there’s something else, Brother: something to do with the Veronica you mentioned.’ He led them back to the garret. ‘I thought the chest could be repaired and this cupboard too.’

  Philip smiled at his brother’s well-known love of carpentry. Edmund had already offered to carve statues in the church and had been pressing his brother to buy the best wood. Edmund put the candles along the top of the cupboard.

  ‘You said Romanel was a warlock?’

  Philip nodded.

  ‘Perhaps he was,’ Edmund replied. ‘He definitely had an interest in the stars. Look at the ceiling.’

  Philip did so: he noticed that part of the plaster between the beams had been removed.

  ‘A trap door was once there,’ Edmund declared. ‘Perhaps Romanel used it to study the stars? He may have had a warlock’s dedication to astrology.’

  Stephen began to laugh. ‘This is all conjecture.’

  ‘But this isn’t.’

  Edmund removed the candles and pulled the cupboard away from the wall. The painting behind was faded but, by holding the candles up, Philip began to see why this had attracted Edmund’s attention. At first sight, it appeared as a tawdry attempt to depict a scene from Christ’s Passion. The artist had not been good: the figures were clumsily drawn, the colours crude but that was why the plaster had retained it, a finer painting would have been more easily brushed off by the cupboard or crumbled in the passing of time.

  ‘Look!’ Philip explained, tracing it with his finger. ‘There’s Christ carrying his cross. Here are the women of Jerusalem.’ He pointed to another woman holding a piece of linen in her hands. ‘This is Veronica wiping Jesus’ face.’ He moved the candle further up. ‘However, this scene is not mentioned by any spiritual writer: the second painting was more stark.’r />
  Philip could make out horsemen riding, what appeared to be Our Lady carrying the Infant Jesus on a donkey and, around them, people with swords, clubs, spears and axes. He noticed that one of the riders had dismounted, or fallen into what looked like a river or a pit, only his head and arms were above the surface. More importantly, following the Virgin and Child, was a sumpter pony carrying a chest.

  ‘Lord and His saints save us!’ Edmund breathed. He almost pressed his face against the wall, so close the candle nearly singed his hair. ‘When I first pulled the cupboard away, I only saw Veronica and Jesus but what’s that?’

  Stephen went out into the gallery as if listening for something. Edmund looked worried as if he, too, had a premonition of danger.

  ‘I believe this garret was used by Romanel,’ Philip spoke. He wanted to break the oppressive silence he felt gathering round them. ‘This was a special chamber, well away from snooping eyes, where he could do what he wanted. He was a priest with certain gifts. You, Edmund, like working with wood. Romanel liked painting. You can see his work in the Lady Chapel where he had the impudence to portray himself praying to the Virgin Mary.’ He gestured round the garret. ‘But this is different. I believe Romanel did this painting just before he died. For; some strange reason the story of Veronica meeting Jesus and wiping his bleeding face has something to do with this mystery.’ Philip pointed to the other crudely painted figures. ‘Gentlemen, I think this is Romanel’s confession. It depicts his attack upon the Templars as they crossed the marshes. He drew it here, an attempt to exorcise his soul. If we had been the priests who immediately followed him, we would have found many such drawings about the house: on scraps of parchment or the blank pages of some folio.’

  ‘Listen!’ Stephen came out into the garret, hand on his dagger-hilt. ‘There is someone downstairs.’

  Philip tried to calm the blood beating in his head. Stephen was right: someone was moving on the gallery below. He handed the candle to Edmund and hurried down: the moon-washed gallery was empty. He went into his own room, opened the window and looked out towards the church. An owl, hunting in the gardens, rose in a light flurry of wings and made him start. He wetted dry lips, staring through the church. He saw it again, the same glow of light as the previous evening.

  ‘In God’s name!’ he whispered hoarsely into the darkness. ‘Who are you? What do you want? Tell me and reparation will be made!’

  Nothing but an owl hoot answered his question. Philip was about to close the shutters when he heard another sound: the clink of harness, the whisper of voices and those words again. ‘Spectamus te, semper spectamus te: We are watching you. We are always watching you.’

  Philip hurried down the stairs and fumbled with the key in the lock. He threw open the front door and ran out but there was nothing there. Only the rustle of the leaves though the light from the church had grown brighter. He had the keys in his wallet so he strode across, this time going in through the main door. The light glowed in the sanctuary behind the rood screen. Philip, summoning up all his courage, walked down.

  ‘In God’s name!’

  Philip stopped. Waldis’ corpse lay in the parish coffin before the high altar. Funeral candles glowed all around whilst the figure kneeling beside it was clearly Priscilla. She didn’t even turn round but, resting back on her heels, she seemed absorbed by the red sanctuary lamp.

  ‘Priscilla!’

  She opened her eyes and glanced up at him.

  ‘Father, what is it?’

  ‘Nothing, I saw the light in the church. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Father, I always do the corpse vigil if there’s no one else. Somebody has to pray for the soul, as the angels and devils fight over it between heaven and hell. The more you pray, the stronger the angels become.’

  Philip smiled at the old legend.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Why, Romanel did!’

  ‘No, I mean who told you to pray beside the corpses? You wash them and prepare them, that’s sufficient.’

  The old woman’s eyes gleamed. ‘Romanel told me to, as an act of reparation.’

  ‘Did he ever say for what?’

  The old woman’s fingers went to her lips. ‘Only once, Father, I asked him why. He said I should pray for being alive.’

  Philip crossed himself and stared at the pyx which held the Blessed Sacrament above the high altar. Despite these sacred surroundings, he felt the power, the ugliness of that long-dead priest who had blighted this woman’s life.

  ‘I am sorry I disturbed you. Is there anything you wish to eat or drink?’

  ‘Tomorrow a fresh pitcher of milk, thick and creamy, not watered down.’

  Philip sketched a blessing over the old woman’s head, then he bent down and kissed her gently on the brow. He was about to leave the sanctuary when she called his name. He turned.

  ‘What is it, Priscilla?’

  She was now kneeling, staring straight at him.

  ‘You are a good man, Father. You shouldn’t stay here. You should go like the rest. Some of the men were good but you are kind. One day, one day I’ll take you into my hut. I want to tell you about my nightmares, Father. Don’t worry about Romanel.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Philip came back.

  ‘He haunts this place,’ the old woman replied. ‘But he is not truly dangerous.’

  ‘What is dangerous?’

  ‘To hunt for the treasure. Leave it be! And, if you do hunt for it, Father, never, ever go out in the marshlands where the corpse candles can be seen. Pinpricks, the devil’s lights in the mist. I dream about them a lot.’

  ‘You should sleep,’ Philip replied.

  He genuflected towards the sacrament and, walking down, locked the main door behind him. He realised that Priscilla must hold a key to the corpse door which led in directly from the cemetery. Philip went round to check this. Sure enough it was open.

  ‘Some former priest must have given her a key,’ he murmured.

  Philip closed the door, turned round and recoiled in terror at the figure standing before him. The same white face shrouded in its black cowl, the evil eyes and sneering lips. Philip closed his eyes even as the most piercing shriek came from the house on the other side of the graveyard.

  Philip fled through the graveyard. He didn’t bother to turn to see if that awful apparition was pursuing him. He reached the house and sped like an arrow upstairs. Stephen and Edmund were standing over the trunk, their faces white, staring at Edmund’s left hand which was dripping with blood.

  ‘In God’s name!’ Philip hissed, gasping his breath.

  Edmund just shook his head and pointed to the trunk. Philip knelt down and felt inside but, when he brought his hand out, there was no mark, only grains of dust.

  ‘It’s gone!’ Edmund whispered. He showed his hand, any trace of blood had vanished.

  ‘What happened?’ Philip asked.

  ‘We were here examining the chest,’ Stephen explained. ‘Edmund was searching for a secret compartment: he felt something damp and pulled his hand out. It was soaked, absolutely soaked in blood, as if he had been slashed by a sword.’

  Philip closed the chest and pushed it back into the room.

  ‘Enough is enough!’ he declared, coming back out of the gallery. ‘I will not flee from here!’ He raised his voice, shouting at the presence he had glimpsed in the graveyard. ‘I will not be pushed or hounded out! Let’s go to bed,’ he said. ‘But, first, I am writing a letter to His Grace the Bishop of Rochester. He must send an exorcist to help us!’

  Chapter 3

  Adam Waldis’ funeral took place at noon the following day. Philip and his two companions slept late and busied themselves preparing the church. It being a Saturday morning, most of the villagers attended and Lord Richard Montalt whispered to Philip that perhaps now was the best occasion to hold a meeting, introduce himself as well as talk to the villagers about the new church. Philip agreed and, once Waldis’ body had been interred in the graveyard, he
divested and went up into the pulpit. He stood there for a while until Montalt and the others, returning more slowly from the graveyard, packed into the nave. Lord Richard sat in the sanctuary chair next to him facing the villagers. Beside him on a bench, young Henry and Isolda sat whispering, heads together.

  ‘In nomine Patris.’ Philip made the sign of the cross.

  Silence ensued as the parishioners copied him, then made themselves comfortable along the nave. Philip stared down the church. It didn’t seem so forbidding now. Children chattered in the transept: one even wandered up and patted Lord Richard on the knee whilst two more climbed on to the great sarcophagus which housed the remains of Montalt’s ancestors. Philip studied his parishioners who gazed expectantly up at him: brown, weather-beaten faces. They were all dressed in their best attire though some still had muddy hands and their boots were caked with dirt. A number of women had babies suckling at their breasts.

  ‘Brothers and sisters in Christ,’ Philip began. ‘By now you know that his Lordship the Bishop has agreed to provide not one priest but two to the Parish of Scawsby. You are, therefore,’ he added wryly, ‘twice blessed.’

  ‘Aye and twice taxed!’ someone murmured.

  Philip joined in the laughter. ‘I promise you.’ He held his hand up. ‘I have already given my word to his Lordship that my brother and I will not increase the tithes. We are here to care for Christ’s sheep not to shear them!’

  This time the laughter was even louder.

  ‘Lord Richard Montalt,’ Philip continued, ‘has kindly agreed to pay the stipend my brother Edmund will need, for, as it is written in scripture: “the labourer is worthy of his hire”.’

  He now had his congregation’s attention and he remembered the words of an old vicar. ‘A priest should be able to preach, Philip. If he can’t hold his people’s attention then how on earth can he attract God’s?’

  ‘Are you going to build a new church, Father?’ a voice shouted out.