Ghostly Murders

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Then leave it all here. That ox must be well roasted by now. Come, my pretty, I’ll have a piece cut for you.’

  Philip led Priscilla by the hand, out across the cemetery. The day was drawing on. He stopped by the yew tree.

  ‘You say your mother was buried there?’

  ‘That’s right, Father. That’s what Romanel told me!’

  Philip led her back out along the high street. He found her a place beside old Walkin who was now much the worse for drink. Young Bartholomew was despatched to cut a slice for her whilst Philip went into the tavern and brought her back a jug of milk. He then went along the street. He passed Edmund who sat at a table, being teased by some of the young maidens. Of Stephen there was no sign. Philip’s face hardened: he had already decided, at the earliest possible moment, to confront his friend who, he believed, was more interested in hunting for the treasure than building a new church.

  ‘You look angry, Father.’

  The priest turned. Piers stood there, a blackjack in one hand, his other around a comely, fresh-faced, young woman.

  ‘Come on, Father. A few cups of wine and you can dance with the rest of us.’

  ‘Piers, I’d like to ask you a favour.’

  ‘No, find your own girl.’

  Philip didn’t smile. Piers’ hand fell away from the young woman’s shoulders.

  ‘What is it, Father?’

  The priest excused himself: the girl smiled, Philip led Piers out of earshot.

  ‘I want you to help me dig once more in the graveyard.’

  ‘Oh, Father, not now.’

  ‘Please. It won’t take long.’

  Piers swore under his breath.

  ‘What are you looking for, Father?’

  ‘A grave, the skeleton of a woman.’

  Piers shrugged. ‘Ah well, as they say, a labourer’s work is never done.’

  A short while later Philip, gown off, his sleeves rolled up, helped Piers to dig beneath the yew tree where Priscilla said her mother was buried. The earth was soft, easy to break. Piers’ spade struck something hard. He crouched down, brushed away the dirt and laughed.

  ‘You’ll find no bodies beneath here, Father.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Piers stood up, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

  ‘Father, you are tired and I am half-drunk. If I was sober I’d have told you. You can’t bury anyone beneath a tree. We have just hit the roots. No corpse is buried there: never has been, never will be.’

  Philip apologised. They both refilled the hole. He then apologised once again but Piers just waved his hand.

  ‘You are a good man, Father.’ He clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I saw what you did in Scawsby wood and I’ve told the rest. You’ve got a fire in your belly, you and your brother. I’m glad you are here.’

  Philip, slightly flattered, took the mattock and hoe back to the small enclosure behind the Priest’s house and rejoined the revelry. He drank a cup of wine more quickly than he should have done. He was tired but still fascinated by what the coffin woman had told him. He went back to the Priest’s house, climbed the stairs to his chamber and took down the missal which was kept there. He turned to the front and looked down the index of saints arranged in date order. He found it: Saint Priscilla’s feast day, February 9th. Philip closed the missal and lay down on his bed.

  ‘You were a wicked man, Romanel,’ he whispered. ‘That old woman in the graveyard, she was never your daughter. But, for some strange reason . . .’ Philip paused. Yes, he thought: when that coffin woman was a very young girl, she had been with those Templars. The soldier monks had been slaughtered to a man but some spark of decency must have saved the girl from having her throat slit. Romanel had brought her back to Scawsby, an easy task: she must have been very young and frightened out of her wits. So terrified, the shock unbalanced her: Romanel simply put it about that she was some by-blow of his.

  ‘That’ s why you called her Priscilla,’ Philip spoke into the gathering darkness. ‘You gave her the name from the day you found her in February 1308, the feast of St Priscilla.’

  Philip closed his eyes. He was certain that old woman could only vaguely remember that terrible night so many years ago. Being of tender years, the shocking event would have removed any memory from her mind, burying it deep in her soul: hence her dreams, her drawings and those terrible screams last night when she saw the armour of the Templars: men who had died around her, led to their deaths by the corpse candles on Scawsby marshes.

  When Philip woke up it was dark. He calculated that he must have been asleep for at least an hour. Darkness was falling and, even from where he lay, he could hear the sound of the revelry in the village. When he opened a window overlooking the cemetery, he caught the faint smell of cooking. Philip went downstairs to check all was well, ensuring the postern door at the back was locked, the fire in the kitchen dampened down. He drank some watered ale to clean his mouth and tasted the oatmeal Roheisia had prepared for the following morning. He went out and looked across the cemetery. His stomach curdled, for the mist had swept in.

  ‘Priscilla!’ he called. ‘Priscilla, have you returned?’

  Silence. Philip walked across to the church. The main door was locked and, standing on tiptoe, he peered through the window. He could see no lights. He was halfway back across the cemetery when he heard a crackle as if someone had stepped on a dry twig. The mist swirled about and his stomach clenched in fear as he saw a small glow of light, yellowish-red, as if someone was holding up a shuttered lantern: turning it now and again so he could glimpse the flame. Philip hurried back into the house, slamming the door behind him. It felt colder now, unwelcoming. Had he left his candle alight in his chamber? Philip was halfway up the stairs, when he heard the whisper.

  ‘Priest!’

  Philip whirled round. He breathed in and gagged at the terrible stench.

  ‘Priest!’

  The voice was now in front of him as if someone was in the gallery above.

  ‘Who are you?’ Philip called. ‘Stephen, is this some jest?’

  ‘Meddling, meddling priest!’ The voice was a whisper, yet hoarse with malice. ‘Aren’t you interested in the treasure? Why question the woman?’

  Philip went up the stairs. The voice was now behind him, chuckling like the giggling of some spiteful child. Philip decided to ignore it. He walked into his chamber; it was in darkness. He had extinguished the candle. He made his way carefully across the room, picked up a crucifix and a small stoup of holy water he kept there, and walked out into the gallery.

  ‘In the name of Christ Jesus!’ he called and threw some water onto the floor. ‘In the name of the Lord Jesus, I order you to return whence you came!’

  As if in answer, he heard the ghostly clapping of hands: slow, measured as if whoever was there was mocking him. Philip walked to the top of the stairs. He took a deep breath, then went down, casting the water before him, letting it spill out of the stoup. The crucifix was clenched so tightly between his fingers, the wood stuck to his flesh. His heart jumped: from the gallery above someone was dancing on the spot. Then a faint humming, slow footsteps behind him as if the person was coming down the stairs, but taking their time, singing under their breath. Philip reached the door and put his hand on the latch. He felt his shoulder gripped. He was spun round and held fast against the door. He screamed in terror at Romanel’s face, white, skull-like, cadaverous, the red lips parted in a rasp of stale air.

  ‘In Christ’s name!’

  Philip felt as if the hand round his neck was going to strangle him. Romanel brought his hand back, struck him across his mouth and Philip gratefully sank into unconsciousness.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Ite Missa est. Go, the Mass is finished.’

  Philip raised his hand and sketched a blessing in the air though not many of his parishioners were present to receive it. The revelry had gone on well after midnight and most of the villagers were still abed. Philip returned
to the sacristy. He quickly divested. Edmund was watching him curiously but Philip had said nothing about the previous night’s visitation. He had regained consciousness very soon. There was no mark on his face and anyone would think he had, perhaps, just tripped and fainted. Nevertheless, Philip had no doubts about what had happened. After regaining consciousness, he’d left the Priest’s house, losing himself in the rejoicings of his parishioners. He had later retired to bed, laughingly refusing any further attempts to make him stay. Stephen must have returned, slipping into the village, because Philip had glimpsed him sitting at one of the tables. Now Philip was bent on a confrontation. He found his friend at the table breaking his fast, sipping hungrily at a bowl of sweetened oatmeal.

  ‘Roheisia!’ Philip exclaimed. ‘I’d be grateful if you would leave us for a while.’

  Edmund, who had slipped into the room, sat down. He was fearful for his friend who had changed since they had arrived in this parish. Yet, because he was so close to his elder brother whom he adored, he also realised that Philip was not happy with Stephen and that a friendship, built over the years, was beginning to crumble.

  ‘I missed you at Mass, Stephen!’

  ‘Ah, good morning, Philip.’ Stephen put his horn spoon down and stared defiantly back.

  ‘I missed you at Mass,’ Philip repeated. ‘And I missed you yesterday at the festivities. You were out at High Mount, weren’t you?’

  ‘I am Stephen Merkle,’ his friend replied sarcastically. ‘A master mason. I am here at Scawsby to build you a church. High Mount is the new site. I went down yesterday to draw up plans. I have my notes upstairs.’

  ‘Oh, I know who you are and why you are here!’ Philip snapped. ‘But do not lie to me. The Stephen Merkle I know can’t resist any gaiety or revelry. True, you are here to build a church but you are also searching for the treasure, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes.’

  Stephen’s gaze fell away. Philip leaned across and gripped his shoulder.

  ‘Stephen, believe me when I tell you this: that treasure is cursed. Whatever it is, it’s drenched in innocent men’s blood! Everyone and anyone who has tried to find it comes to grief.’

  Stephen opened his mouth.

  ‘Don’t lie!’ Philip shouted, drawing away, jabbing a finger at his friend. ‘Don’t sit there . . . !’

  ‘Philip, what is the matter?’ Stephen half rose. ‘You accuse me of hunting for the treasure. Yet, since you’ve arrived at St Oswald’s, you, too, have changed: sour-faced, secretive.’

  ‘Oh, for the love of God!’ Edmund intervened. ‘Stephen, you saw what happened the other evening, the blood in the chest.’

  ‘I can send you away.’ Philip drew back on his stool. ‘I am parish priest here. Sir Richard Montalt is my patron. We can always hire another mason.’

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth Philip regretted them, and knew he always would. He caught a look, a mere glance from Stephen: he saw the fury seething there just before the master mason forced a smile and held his hands up.

  ‘Confiteor. Confiteor,’ he declared. ‘I confess. I confess. The legends of the treasure do fascinate me.’ He leaned across the table. ‘Philip, you know I was born near here. The stories about the Scawsby treasure are famous. So, yes, it’s tempting to know that somewhere out at High Mount might lie a king’s fortune.’

  ‘In my view,’ Philip replied, getting to his feet, ‘the only thing that lies out at High Mount are the remains of murdered Templars. We are going out there this morning. I have sent Crispin to Sir Richard to ask for Piers, a good cart and some canvas cloths. I am going to transport the remains of both the monks and those Templars to hallowed grounds. You are going to help me.’

  ‘Of course! Of course!’ Stephen got to his feet and came round, his face genial. He clasped Philip’s hand. ‘I am sorry,’ he apologised. ‘Philip, I will do whatever you ask. Whatever you say.’

  Edmund visibly relaxed. Philip drew Stephen to him and clasped him firmly. You are lying, he thought: I saw the look on your face, the fury in your eyes. You are lying. You are only coming to High Mount because we might discover something. Nevertheless, he stood back and smiled his appreciation at Stephen’s words. He recalled Roheisia back in the kitchen. Despite the agitation in his stomach, Philip sat down, put a bright face on matters and ate a hearty breakfast. He finished and was about to go to his chamber when Crispin returned with a rather sorry-looking Piers. The verderer’s sallow face was now white, his eyes red-rimmed. He clutched his stomach and groaned.

  ‘Father, I confess I ate and drank too much yesterday. Now I’m paying for it. However, a jug of watered ale and some of that oatmeal . . .’

  In a twinkling of an eye, Roheisia, who had become all shy and coy when Piers came into the kitchen, ushered the verderer to the table. A bowl of oatmeal, laced with nutmeg and honey, and a large blackjack of ale were set before him. Despite his inebriation of the night before, Piers had the good sense to keep his mouth shut until Roheisia and her son had left the kitchen.

  ‘Sir Richard read your letter,’ he began, putting his spoon down. ‘He agrees: the remains of the Templars, as well as those of the monks we fished from the well, are to be decently shrouded and buried in the crypt beneath the manor chapel. Sir Richard believes it should be done immediately. I am to give you every assistance. He would have sent more men but he thinks this matter should be kept as secret as possible.’ He stirred his oatmeal. ‘Already tongues are clacking and people are beginning to wonder. Sir Richard also says you are to bring the armour you found the previous night: that, too, is to be buried with them.’

  They finished the meal. Philip collected his cloak. Edmund would have preferred to stay but Philip said they would need every available pair of hands. So, with Piers driving the cart and Philip and his companions riding behind, they left the Priest’s house and went out of the village, through the woods towards High Mount. The day was a fine one, the sun growing strong in a cloudless sky. Scawsby wood seemed to have lost its menace: birds sang and swooped overhead. The bracken on either side was noisy, as small animals scurried about. Squirrels, high in the branches, chattered in protest at being driven away by the clop of hooves and the crashing of the steel-rimmed wheels of the cart. Piers soon recovered his good spirits, describing how the French had been taken away as well as the different mishaps during the previous night’s revelry. Philip, riding beside him, half listened, Romanel’s ghastly visitation still haunting him.

  ‘Do you think this will end it, Father?’ Piers looked at him narrow-eyed. ‘I mean, Sir Richard is pleased. You’ve done more than any of the other priests have: you’ve proved the Templars were murdered out on the marshes. Perhaps, if they are now given hallowed burial?’

  Philip smiled at the verderer’s weather-beaten face.

  ‘You are a good man, Piers,’ he replied. ‘I would love to say, yes, all is ended. But,’ he urged his horse forward as they reached the bottom of High Mount, ‘I have a feeling that it is only about to begin.’

  It took some time for the cart to reach the top of the hill. Once they had assembled, Philip insisted on kneeling before where the high altar had stood and recited a psalm. He then called on the Virgin Mary, all the Saints and Angels as witnesses, loudly declaring that what he was about to do was not out of desecration, greed or any other base motive but to give innocent men hallowed burial. He had scarcely finished when a cold breeze, which seemed to come from nowhere, whipped their faces. Philip stared round. The sun still shone. The ruins were desolate, peaceful, yet he was sure he caught the whisper: those words inscribed so many times around the church: ‘Spectamus te, semper spectamus te.’ ‘We are watching you, we are always watching you.’

  They spent the first hour taking the bones and remains of the monks who had been thrown down the well and carefully laid them in the canvas cloths Piers had brought. Philip also took from a leather bag, placed in the back of the cart, a large stoppered flask of holy water. Before each canvas was bound up, he bl
essed the pathetic bones, sprinkling them with water and intoning the ‘Dona Eis Requiem’. All the time he watched Stephen. The master mason was very attentive and helpful. Nevertheless, Philip could sense his excitement as if Stephen could hardly wait to remove the grey slabs from the priory floor and see what lay beneath. After they had eaten some bread and dried bacon as well as generous cups of claret from the wineskin Roheisia had also provided, they began to move the gravestones. Piers had brought poles but, in the end, this did not prove difficult. In each grave they found a skeleton, very similar to the one found in the sanctuary. Not a shred of cloth or any insignia betrayed their origins, though it was apparent that all had died violent deaths. Blows to the skull, broken ribs, a shattered arm or leg. Philip realised what a desperate, bloody fight must have occurred out on the marshes.

  ‘A terrible act,’ Piers whispered. ‘They were killed in cold blood!’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Edmund overheard Piers. He came up and stared down at the skeleton they had just removed, the bones of the arm shattered and splintered.

  ‘Well,’ the verderer replied. ‘This must have been a dreadful fight. However, I doubt if these men were killed in the cut and thrust of battle.’ He crouched down and pointed to the skeleton’s arm. ‘What I suspect has happened is this. These men were knights, yes? Close up, fighting back to back, let’s say at a place like High Mount, they would have taken all corners. But, what I suspect happened . . .’ He held his hands up. ‘Can you imagine out in the marshes at the dead of night? Arrows whirling out of the darkness! Horses going down! Men slipping in the mud! The arrows would wreak terrible damage but then the attackers would close in, as you saw in the fight against! French, battering the wounded to death.’

  Philip shivered. He stared at the sagging jaw of a skeleton. Piers pointed to a hole in the side of the skull.

  ‘That’s how this man died. Probably his horse was killed under him. His helmet comes off, an arrow takes him in the body. He was then finished off, battered with a club.’