Song of the Damned

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘She would shiver then and her eyes would cloud over, and my cousin would nod to me to go to the pianoforte and play something that would chase Grandmamma’s devils away. I always did so, of course. I usually played Scarlatti, in which there are patterns like delicate lace, or something by one of the family of Bach. And the images of the Bonbec Tower with its dread torture room would gradually recede.

  ‘And now I am inside that tower myself. I am in the place of Grandmamma’s stories. It cannot be because of the music, in the way it was for my ancestors. Not after so many generations. Do I even believe those stories my grandmother used to tell?

  ‘But supposing it is all true – what will they do to me …?

  ‘There is a further anguish in having been separated from the others. I have no idea where they are – my last glimpse of them was of terrified, tear-streaked faces, and of their hands reaching out to me, trying to keep me with them … And of voices imploring the guards not to separate us.

  ‘Of Chimaera there was no sign at all.’

  Phin leaned back on the pillows, considering this last section. He was inclined to think a degree of embroidering might have gone on over the attitude of the French royal houses towards Cecilia’s family and towards the Lemurrer, but he thought it could be forgiven. While it would be shocking to know that your ancestors had practised such a brutal ritual, it must have been tempting to gloss over the facts by creating a culture of romantic danger – to let it be quietly believed that your family was regarded as a potential threat to the royal houses of France, or to the established religions.

  There were only a few pages left; Phin read on.

  Cecilia’s description of her imprisonment in The Conciergerie cell, and of how she had tried to play music in her mind to shut out the darkness of her prison moved him very much.

  And later was again the reference to the forbidden music; to how Cecilia and her cousin had played it in their grandparents’ house. The images were vivid; Phin could see a firelit room, a glossy piano, and the two young girls bent absorbedly over the music.

  But Cecilia had written, A tiny part of me is wondering whether on that day my cousin and I disturbed something that would have been better left alone.

  He thought the accusation that Cecilia had come to France to revive the Lemurrer and use it to rally French Catholics against the Republic was a bit extreme. Still, some fanatical high-ranking official of the Republic could have known about the Lemurrer and about Cecilia’s family, and made use of it for his own ends. It was not difficult to imagine an ambitious man – or woman – realizing who Cecilia was after she had been captured. And for that person to then present the whole concept of a subversive Catholic plot to someone like Robespierre or Danton, as a way to gain kudos.

  He turned to the final page, and the description of hearing the guillotine being built outside the cell window.

  ‘I thought I had four days in all. Have they brought my death forward? If so, how many hours of life do I have left?

  ‘This knowledge brings the memories of my life flooding back, and I am seeing, as vividly as if I am looking through a window into a brightly lit room, those dear cousins and my grandparents’ house.

  ‘My cousins are long since dead, may God grant their souls rest, but while I have those memories they will never die for me.

  ‘The man I loved better than life is dead as well. That is difficult to bear. It was a sin, but I never thought of you as a sin, my dear, lost love. I ache to see your face again – to see your eyes smile at me – to hear your voice … But I have the memory of those candlelit nights and those sunlit afternoons. Memories do not die.

  ‘But what of the music? Will that die when I die? I trust Dan to arrange those wood carvings for me, and I fervently hope doing that will in some way act as an exorcism of the music. And with the thought comes another. The Church teaches that in order to exorcize a demon, one must first name it. I’m not sure if I believe in the power of exorcism, just as I’m not sure if I believe in demons.

  ‘But supposing I were to follow that belief now, and name that ritual and that music by setting down the words here. Those words that in essence form a plainchant, but that are infused with menace and brutality. Would doing that disperse the darkness? Will the creation of those carvings in Cresacre do that?

  ‘I don’t think dying holds any fear for me now, although knowing the form that my death will take is difficult to bear. Beheading. Is the guillotine efficient? There are whispered tales of how it does not always slice through the neck at the first attempt … Even of how it is sometimes rigged to descend slowly if a particularly hated prisoner is to die.

  ‘But I shall not think that. Instead, I shall think that my dying act shall be to set down the old chant. It would be an act filled with passion and pathos, and it’s just such a grand gesture as the great dramatists would love. As I wrote that last sentence, I suddenly had the thought that it’s an act that would appeal to Chimaera. That has made me smile.’

  Phin almost did not dare to turn the page to read what Cecilia had set down. He thought he did not really need to do so, because he knew what he would see.

  And so it was.

  ‘Step by measured step the murderers came to me …

  Inch by measured inch, the light is being shut out from me …

  Breath by measured breath, my life is being cut off from me …

  Heartbeat by measured and precious heartbeat, my life is ending …’

  There it was, exactly as in Gustav Tulliver’s opera. But what Phin had not expected was a second verse.

  ‘Step by measured step with murderer’s tread …

  Inch by measured inch with murderer’s brain …

  Brick by careful brick with murderer’s hands …

  I make the layers of death …

  Quenching the light … stopping the heart …

  Murderer’s hands making the layers of death …’

  She didn’t – perhaps couldn’t – reproduce the actual music in her journal, thought Phin, staring at the page. Gustav Tulliver must have written his own. But this is the victim’s song. It’s the song of the poor damned creature being put to death. And not just that – it’s the song of the murderers, as well. Brick by careful brick with murderer’s hands … Making the layers of death …

  It’s verse and chorus, he thought, and it’s what was sung, hundreds of years ago, when some wretched captured sinner was bricked up alive. Gustav Tulliver found this account while he was headteacher here – he must have done – and he used it in his opera.

  Phin looked back at the page, and it was then that he saw that something was written in the margin at the very foot of the page, beneath the last line of the verses. It was very faint – age had dimmed the ink – but when Phin tilted the bedside light so that it fell directly onto the page, the words were readable.

  ‘A marvellous discovery! I know that one day I shall use this.’

  Gustav, thought Phin. Who else? He turned to the last page of Cecilia’s memoirs. It was very brief; she had simply written:

  ‘If only I had made that attempt to barter with the turnkey – to barter my body for freedom. Probably it wouldn’t have worked … And yet …

  ‘Is it too late to do it, even now?

  ‘I think it is. I shall commend my soul to God.’

  The memoirs ended there, and Phin was aware of a sense of loss. What happened to her? he thought, putting the book on the bedside table. Was it indeed the guillotine in the end? For her and for those other nuns?

  He feared it must have been, even though he would prefer to think it had not. He had rather liked the sound of all the nuns: the brisk, down-to-earth Sister Agnes; the timid, romantically inclined Anne-Marie; and Mother Superior, who had somehow got hold of a bottle of brandy to help counteract seasickness.

  Phin had the strongest feeling that there was more to be uncovered – what were the secrets they kept left hidden? – but he had no idea how he could uncover it. Out of all t
hose people in Sister Cecilia’s story, was there one who might have left some mark – something he could find and follow?

  Even before the question had finished forming, he realized the answer was there.

  Tracing Sister Cecilia or any of the other nuns was likely to be difficult, if not outright impossible. Quite apart from all other considerations, they might well have followed the religious practice of taking other names on entering the convent. Dan, remaining behind in Cresacre, and probably ending in marrying some nice local girl, would not have left any traces of his life, either.

  But what about that other one? What about the Italian music tutor in the Chandos household – the excitable gentleman who had hinted to the nuns that not only was he the toast of most European capitals and the darling of theatre audiences, he was also the scion of nobility?

  Chimaera. If only half the claims he had made to the nuns could be believed, it might be possible to pick up details about him, and his eventual fate. How successful had he been? What traces of his career might remain? He had stayed at the Black Boar – how far back did their records go?

  As Phin finally allowed sleep to overcome him, he was smiling. Whatever Chimaera had been or done – whether he had been lunatic, lover or poet, whether he had been hero or villain, saviour or murderer – trying to trace his life and discover what had happened to him could be very interesting.

  SIXTEEN

  Cresacre, 1794

  Chimaera had begun to doubt whether rescuing Gina and carrying her off to London, and then to Italy, was really such a good idea after all.

  But he went about his careful preparations, and he established that a post coach was expected at the Black Boar in two days’ time, and that there would most likely be a seat which he could book. Well, no, there was no guarantee that the seat would be actually inside the coach, but one would certainly be available on the outside. Chimaera, who had been made free of the conveyances of the nobility in his time, and whose adoring admirers had once unharnessed the horses of a carriage in which he was travelling so that they could pull their idol from La Scala to the Teatro alla Canobbiana, shuddered. Still, it was not a time to be worrying about dignity or prestige, and he would make the journey comfortable for his beloved Gina by swathing her in furs. He had not yet thought how to procure the furs or, indeed, how to pay for the coach, but he was still determined to prove himself a hero, so, that same night, he donned a velvet jerkin which he thought struck a suitably dashing note, and wrapped himself in his cloak. In his carpetbag was a sword, which had been part of a stage costume. It was not a real sword, but a stage prop, fashioned from thin wood, studded with paste jewels and pinchbeck. Chimaera had no intention of using it and it would not inflict much damage if he did, but he could make a few dramatic lunges and parries to impress Gina.

  The dark lanes should have provided him with atmosphere for the part of his opera where the hero steals up to the grim fortress to reach his love. The reality was that it was so dark Chimaera could scarcely see where he was going, and a thin mist obscured the moon, and clung to the trees. You could say what you liked about the delights of the countryside; Chimaera would not give you a thank-you for it, and he would take the properly laid pavements and sensibly built roads of a city any day. But he went doggedly on, because Gina would be delighted when he appeared, and the form of her gratitude was likely to be extremely gratifying. This last thought caused a stir of desire, which would have been extremely pleasurable if the sword had not developed the uncomfortable habit of twisting itself around and jabbing him between his legs when he least expected it.

  As he approached the stone pillars marking the entrance to the convent’s carriageway, the night was filling up with sinister sounds. Owls hooted and creatures scurried in and out of the undergrowth. Also, Chimaera was starting to suspect that someone was tiptoeing along behind him. Several times he stopped and wheeled sharply round, and the third time he did this one of the shadows detached itself from the darkness, and walked towards him.

  ‘Well now, Signor Chimaera,’ said a voice he recognized. ‘What the devil are you doing out here? Because it looks remarkably as if you’re prowling up to the doors of a convent. Are you after pilfering the Mass vessels or getting drunk on communion wine? Or is this the classic rescue of the damsel in distress?’

  It was Dan, the Chandos House gardener, and it was an awkward moment. Chimaera tried to think of an innocent – or even an acceptable – reason why he would be prowling towards the convent in the pitch dark, and could not.

  Dan said, ‘If it is a rescue, are you sure the lady will want to be rescued? You have taken into account that she might have decided to take the veil and renounce the world and all its pomps, have you?’

  ‘That is extremely unlikely,’ said Chimaera at once, and Dan smiled.

  ‘It is, isn’t it? Particularly since that remarkable incident that afternoon in her bedroom— I do hope you were able to get your torn shirt mended,’ he said, politely.

  ‘It was of no account,’ said Chimaera, annoyed at this reminder that Dan had seen that undignified scene.

  Dan looked towards the dark bulk of the convent. ‘There are no lights showing anywhere,’ he said. ‘They’ll all be tucked virtuously up in their cells. Listen, though, if you really are staging a midnight rescue, you’d be as well to go along the forest path, past Infanger Cottage. You’ll be less likely to be seen, and it will bring you to the retreat house. I dare say that’s where the lady will be.’

  ‘It is where she will be. I know that. I had not known about any forest path, though.’

  ‘It’s just here on the left. If you like I can show you, so that—’

  Dan broke off, and one hand came down painfully on Chimaera’s wrist. Chimaera gasped and started to say, ‘What—’

  ‘Be quiet.’

  ‘But what—’

  ‘Be quiet! There’s someone there.’ He pulled Chimaera into the shelter of a thick patch of bushes.

  When Chimaera had regained his breath, he said, ‘It might be someone with a perfect right to be walking along the path. Or a poacher, or a pair of lovers.’

  ‘No one walks out here at this hour,’ said Dan.

  ‘You’re here,’ pointed out Chimaera.

  ‘I followed you. I was in the Black Boar and I saw you. Frankly, signor, you looked suspicious.’

  ‘I am not suspicious,’ began Chimaera, hotly.

  ‘Do hush, will you? The footsteps are getting closer.’

  The footsteps were indeed coming closer, and there was a furtive, creeping sound to them. Chimaera was glad that the bushes screened himself and Dan, and, as the steps approached, he tried to think that after all it would only be someone after illicit game or resolved on illicit love-making. He was about to say this, when he realized that whoever was coming through the trees was singing. It was the strangest, most disturbing sound Chimaera had ever heard, and the harmony was the strangest he had ever heard as well. He glanced at his companion and saw that Dan was looking towards the path, and although he was very still and quiet, Chimaera felt a tension in him.

  As the singer came nearer, it was possible to discern snatches of the words.

  ‘Step by measured step with murderer’s tread …

  Inch by measured inch with murderer’s brain …

  Brick by careful brick with murderer’s hands …

  I make the layers of death …

  Quenching the light … stopping the heart …

  Murderer’s hands making the layers of death …’

  Then the figure appeared, and for a moment Chimaera thought it was a complete stranger. The shoulders were hunched in a curiously predatory fashion, putting him briefly in mind of a massive bird of prey, shuffling between the trees. The head was bent low, as if wanting to avoid any light, but as the figure went past, he saw with a jolt of surprise that it was the priest who acted partly as house chaplain to Sir John and Lady Chandos, and partly as the convent’s chaplain. Father Joachim.

&n
bsp; Chimaera had the sudden impression that the chilling music was not part of Father Joachim, but that it trailed after him, like a black snail’s trail that could not be shaken off. He shivered, then looked at his companion, expecting this gardener, who did not act like a gardener, to seize the opportunity to make good their escape.

  But Dan said, very softly, ‘I don’t like the look of that man, do you? Let’s follow him and see what he’s up to.’

  ‘He might be going up to the convent.’

  ‘At this hour?’

  ‘One of the nuns could be ill,’ said Chimaera. ‘Dying. In need of the Last Sacrament.’

  ‘If the nuns had sent for Joachim, someone would have had to fetch him, and that someone would be with him now.’

  ‘You are right. And,’ said Chimaera, ‘he would not be singing about murderer’s hands making layers of death.’

  His instinct was, in fact, to retreat and abandon Gina’s rescue until tomorrow. But he was damned if he was going to display cowardice in front of this upstart English gardener, and he reminded himself that a great many operatic heroes had servants, lesser characters who played useful roles in the plot. Comprimarios. Dan the gardener should be cast as a comprimario. He could be a Don Curzio or a Bartolo from Le Nozze di Figaro and appear in Chimaera’s opera in that guise.

  So he squared his shoulders, and said, firmly, ‘I am with you, my friend,’ and followed Dan through the dim trees, glancing over his shoulder several times to be sure no one was following them. This had a pleasing echo of the more comedic aspects of Harlequin, although it really required an exaggeratedly tiptoeing walk, which Chimaera was not prepared to try tonight, partly because his companion might think it was peculiar behaviour, but also because he might slip on the wet ground and receive another jab from the sword.

  ‘He’s vanished,’ he said, suddenly.