by Sarah Rayne
‘No, he’s just stepped off the main carriageway,’ said Dan. ‘He’s taking the forest path – the one I told you about. There he is now – can you see? It looks as if he’s going to Infanger Cottage.’
‘Do we follow him there?’
‘Yes. That cottage is on land that’s half owned by the convent and half by Sir John Chandos,’ said Dan. ‘They’ve argued over its ownership for years, and they more or less share the responsibility for it. I don’t think either the mother superior or John Chandos would like to have a wild-eyed priest wandering around, muttering about murderer’s tread and murderer’s brain, do you?’
‘Put in such a way as that—’
‘Good,’ said Dan, and set off again in pursuit.
Gina was exhausted from screaming for help, and her wrists were raw and bleeding from trying to pull them free of the cloth that Joachim had used to tie her to the wall. Her father’s head was still heavy against her shoulder. His hair had flopped forward and it was brushing her upper arm. There was a faint scent of the pomade he used on it – it brought memories of him sharply and poignantly to her.
At first his head felt warm, but as time slid by she began to realize it was cooling. This was dreadful. Gina was aware that she was sobbing – it was a terrible sound in this enclosed space; she forced herself to stop and instead tried to think of all the things waiting for her when she got out of this cellar. Her home – her own bedroom. She would not let herself think she was going to die in this dreadful place, with her father’s body cooling at her side, with the dark stifling silence pressing down …
But the darkness was like a thick curtain, and the silence was the silence of the grave – no, she would not think that. With this last thought came an awareness that the darkness was no longer completely silent. Gina’s heart bounded with hope. Was someone out there? She began to shout.
‘Help! Help me! I’m here – in the cellar – please help me!’
Please let the next sounds be made by someone tapping on the wall, and then by hammers smashing into the bricks, and people calling that she was being rescued.
The sounds had stopped, but Gina shouted again, and after a few moments she heard the door of the cellar opening, then heavy footsteps coming down the stone steps. She renewed her shouts, but she was suddenly and sickeningly aware of a single voice reaching her. She pressed her face against the bricks, trying to hear more clearly, but a cold dread was forming in her, because she had already recognized the words. They came to her in broken fragments, like shards of splintered glass.
‘Step by measured step with murderer’s tread’
Joachim. He must be only a few inches away from her. And he was singing the dreadful chant her father had said was called the Lemurrer. The murderer’s chant.
But why was he singing it again?
SEVENTEEN
Second role players – comprimario – were not supposed to take over and rush the hero forward into the waiting danger.
But before Chimaera knew it, Dan had swept him along a muddy, tree-lined path, and they were standing in front of a remarkably ugly cottage. It looked as if it had been put together out of random fragments of stones and bricks. Old, wizened ivy covered several of the windows, and trees pressed in on the cottage. The mist that had clung to the ground earlier seemed to have dispersed, but in its place were thick shadows like crouching figures.
‘Infanger Cottage,’ said Dan, softly. ‘And look there.’ He pointed to the muddy ground. ‘Footsteps – freshly made.’
‘They go up to the door,’ said Chimaera, staring at the prints. ‘And then they go inside.’
‘You’re right. And look there – that’s a handcart. Probably one of Alberic Firkin’s for transporting building materials. That’s a very strange thing to find out here at this hour, wouldn’t you agree?’
Chimaera said, ‘Master Firkin was in the Black Boar, saying – complaining – that some of his things had been stolen.’
‘Then it’s probably his. But what in the wide world is it doing out here?’
As Dan said this, the cottage door opened and Father Joachim came out. He looked about him, almost as if he might be making sure no one was watching, then he took the handles of the cart and pushed it around the side of the cottage, into the concealment of some bushes. He seemed to take considerable care to hide the handcart, then he went back inside. There was the sound of the latch being dropped.
‘That’s a strange thing for a man to do,’ said Dan, and went forward again. Chimaera, mindful of his own role as main hero, followed. The door of Infanger Cottage, which was set back between two jutting windows, was uncompromisingly shut, and when Dan cautiously tried it, the latch held firm.
‘He’s locked himself in,’ he said, very softly.
‘It surprises me that there is such a thing as a lock in this tumbledown house.’ Chimaera stepped back, looking up at all the windows. ‘Do we go in?’ he said.
‘I think so. But we’ll need to be soft and wary. Polite, even. We can’t very well batter the door down. He might even have a lawful reason for being in there.’
‘We could find a window and look in.’
‘That’s a very good idea. Let’s go around to the back. In fact, I think there’s a cellar window there – low down, right at ground level. We might be able to lever it open and squeeze through.’
The basement window, when found, was barely two feet deep, and Chimaera thought it would take a very agile person indeed to squeeze through it. He was about to say this, when he realized that a smeary light was glowing from beyond the window.
‘And,’ said Dan, who had also seen the light, ‘can you hear him still singing that hellish song?’
‘Step by measured step with murderer’s tread …
Inch by measured inch with murderer’s brain …’
‘Yes, I do hear it,’ said Chimaera, repressing a shudder.
Dan dropped flat to the ground and began to work his way towards the window. He did not seem to mind the mud and he seemed to expect Chimaera to join him, so Chimaera, remembering to be careful of the sword, followed. He was trying not to wish he had stayed in the safety of the Black Boar, and he was reminding himself that this was a splendid adventure which would make a marvellous scene for his opera.
The uncertain light from the window had seeped across the ground like watery blood oozing from a wound. Once, a shadow moved across the light, as if someone had walked across the underground room. It might only be the flickering of a candle flame or an oil light, of course … But who would have lit candles or a lamp down there at this hour of the night?
Dan reached the window first, and there was a moment when his head and shoulders were outlined against the sullen glow from within. Then he recoiled and flattened himself on the ground again.
‘What have you seen?’ demanded Chimaera, when Dan returned.
‘I’m not sure. But I think we need to go in there. I don’t know what he’s doing, but I think he’s mad. We’ll have to break down the door after all.’
He led the way to the cottage’s front, and kicked at the door. The sound was like an explosion in the quiet forest and Chimaera glanced worriedly about him, but nothing stirred. There was no movement from inside the cottage.
Dan redoubled his efforts and Chimaera joined in. At the fourth, joint kick, the latch snapped. They pushed wide the door and went in.
The inside of Infanger Cottage was a terrible place. The walls were crusted with mould and moss, and there was a thick, smothering stench of damp and dirt.
And at the heart of this bad-smelling dereliction, the singing was still going on.
Dan paused, looking about him, then advanced several cautious steps along the hall until he reached a flight of wooden stairs going up to the bedrooms. Set back, close to the stairs, was a low door. ‘Cellar door,’ said Dan, very softly.
‘Yes.’
Dan reached for the door’s handle and pulled it back. It came open easily, revealing a flight of
stone steps, leading down. The dull lamplight lay across the steps.
With the opening of the door, the singing stopped abruptly, as if something had slammed down on it, and a voice – Father Joachim’s voice – said, ‘Is someone there?’ Chimaera thought that this voice coming up from the lamplit depths of the cellar was the eeriest thing yet.
‘It’s Dan from Chandos House,’ said Dan. ‘Signor Chimaera is with me.’
For a moment there was no response, then Joachim’s voice said, ‘Chimaera. Indeed? Won’t you come down here, Signor Chimaera?’
This soft invitation added another layer of eeriness, but Dan had already started down the stairs, so there was nothing for Chimaera to do but follow.
The cellar was larger than he had been expecting, and it looked very old indeed. It was all far too elaborate for a small woodland cottage, but Chimaera remembered that the convent was said to have been built on the site of an old monastery. There were arched alcoves within the walls – three, no, four of them – but they were little more than ghost outlines. Heaped in a corner was what looked like a tumble of bricks and a tub of a paste-like substance.
Two oil lamps stood at the centre of the cellar, and in the glow from them, Father Joachim was holding up a crucifix. It was impossible to know if his stance was defiance or defence, and although the crucifix was probably silver or wood, the lamplight turned it to fiery copper.
Chimaera had not known he was going to speak, but he heard himself say, ‘Father Joachim – we heard your singing earlier, and we were curious about it – I was especially interested.’ Dan sent him an appreciative look and, encouraged, he said, ‘I would like to hear more about it.’
‘It’s very old, that chant,’ said Joachim. ‘It’s called the murderers’ chant.’ His voice was low and furtive, like a child confiding a secret. ‘It used to be sung centuries ago,’ he said. ‘Part of a ritual – the Lemurrer, it was called. It was used in sacred murder.’
Dan said, ‘Sacred murder. I’ve never heard of that.’ His voice was soft and Chimaera knew he was trying to calm down the priest. So that they could pounce on him? But then what would they do?
‘The music’s been hidden away,’ said Joachim, ‘but I found it. And once I had found it, it took hold of my mind – it wouldn’t let go. And then, that day, when I saw you in her bedroom—’ He turned to Chimaera. ‘I saw the arousal of your body and it was an abomination. But it was not altogether your fault. She had the taint, you see. Despite everything I had done, it was part of her.’ He stepped nearer, and the dreadful confiding note came back into his voice. ‘Until then she had been my dear, perfect girl,’ he said. ‘The soul I snatched from death at her birth. But since that afternoon … She’s come to me in dreams,’ he said, his eyes dark and staring. ‘Shameful dreams – I wake from them wet with my own lust, there in the bed.’ He broke off, with a shuddering sob. ‘That’s when I began to know she must be punished,’ he said. ‘And then the music came to me, and I understood what the punishment must be.’
With the words, there was the faintest movement from the shadows, and Chimaera felt something clutch at his heart. He turned his head, and now, because his eyes had adjusted to the light down here, he saw that although the first two alcoves were empty, a figure stood in the farthest one; a figure that must be tied up – tethered – to the bricks in some way, because it was upright, as a statue might stand. But statues did not huddle helplessly against the wall like this. They did not have a pale coif framing a face with high cheekbones, and nor did they have a thick cloth tied over the lower part of their faces to prevent them from crying for help …
It’s one of the nuns imprisoned there, thought Chimaera in horror. This madman has tied her up. He started forward and, as he did so, he was aware of Dan going towards Joachim. As Dan grabbed Joachim’s arm, Joachim lashed out with the crucifix, landing a blow on Dan’s shoulder. Madness was blazing from his eyes, and Dan instinctively recoiled, throwing up his hand. Joachim lifted the crucifix again, and this time it fell on the side of Dan’s head. Dan stumbled back, clearly rendered dizzy from the blow, and Joachim gave a cry of triumph, threw the crucifix aside, and fell on him. His hands closed around Dan’s neck, the fingers tightening, and Chimaera darted forward and seized Joachim’s shoulders, trying to pull him away. The strength and the resistance of the man shocked him, but he persisted because, if he did not, Dan would be throttled there on the ground.
Joachim was screaming. ‘You don’t understand,’ he shouted. ‘She must die. They both must die. They must see the light cut off, inch by inch. I want them to die.’ The sob came again, and Chimaera darted forward and grabbed him again. This time he managed to drag him clear of Dan, and push him onto the floor. Joachim crouched there, sobbing and thrusting a clenched fist into his mouth, as if to force back the sounds. It was terrible but it was also pitiable.
Dan, although he was gasping and coughing, seemed to be recovering. He nodded to Chimaera, as if to say he could deal with Joachim now, and Chimaera judged it safe to get to the figure trapped in the alcove. But as soon as he moved, Joachim sprang to his feet, and ran at Chimaera with an eldritch shriek of fury.
‘You shan’t stop me,’ he cried, and as he reached for Chimaera’s throat, Chimaera hit out instinctively, his fist landing hard in the centre of the priest’s chest, catching Joachim unawares. He staggered back, tried to regain his balance, but fell against the wall, his head smashing against the bricks with a sickening crunch. He fell to the ground and his eyes rolled up so that only the whites showed.
As Chimaera stared in utter horror, Dan said, in a raw, painful-sounding voice, ‘My God, is he dead?’
‘I don’t know.’ Chimaera was shaking violently, but he forced himself to bend over Joachim’s still form, to feel for a heartbeat, to see if breath came from the lips. After a moment, he said, ‘There is … no heart beating. No breath coming from his lips. I think he is dead.’ He straightened up, staring at Dan. ‘What do I do? Dio mio, I have killed a man – I was only defending myself, but I have committed—’
He could not bring himself to utter the word, but it was exploding inside his mind. Murder.
Murder … And, as if seizing on the word, something seemed to whisper through the old cellar. Yes, yes, it has been murder tonight, and it will be murder again in a time to come …
Chimaera looked round, startled, momentarily distracted, because the whisper had seemed so real he thought someone must have crept unseen into the cellar, then realized it was only the faint hissing from the old lamp he had heard.
But there was still the shadowy figure in the alcove, and as Dan went towards it, Chimaera reached for the oil lamp and followed, setting the lamp where its light fell across the alcove.
Dan was tearing aside the scarf tied over the prisoner’s face. ‘Everything is all right now, Sister,’ he said. ‘You’re quite safe, and we’ll get you back to the convent. It’s—’ A pause, then he said, ‘It’s Sister Cecilia, isn’t it?’
She was gasping and shuddering, and trembling violently, but after a moment she managed to say, ‘Yes. Thank you … God sent you, I think—’
‘Let’s hope God helps us untie these ropes,’ said Dan. ‘Chimaera, see if you can find something in the house to cut them. Take that other lamp with you to see the way. It’s as dark as the pit of hell up there. Sorry, Sister.’
‘No need – you’re quite right, anyway.’
Chimaera reached for the lamp, and went quickly up the stairs. Opening cupboards with half-rotting doors, and pulling out drawers festooned with dust and cobwebs helped to keep his mind away from what had happened to Father Joachim. The man had been in the grip of a madness, of course, but that did not justify …
It did not justify murder. Murder. It was a word that gibbered at you in huge, distorted letters, scarlet and crimson, the edges dripping gorily. But there was no getting away from it. He had committed murder. He thrust these thoughts from him, and found a large, wooden-handled knife, and a pair of wha
t he thought were called pliers. He ran back down to the cellar, where Dan was still trying to loosen the ropes that held Sister Cecilia prisoner.
‘Father Joachim was going to kill you, wasn’t he?’ said Dan, taking the knife that Chimaera held out, and sawing at the ropes that bound Cecilia’s wrists. Chimaera saw now that they were looped around to two thick nails jutting out of the brickwork behind.
Sister Cecilia’s face was white and her eyes were huge in the coif-framed face. Chimaera caught himself thinking that – even like this – she was a very striking-looking lady. Once, she must have been a real beauty. She was no longer so very young, of course, but she was not all that old.
Cecilia said, ‘Yes, Joachim – for I cannot call him “Father” any longer – was going to kill me. He was going to wall me up. That’s what the music is about, the music he was chanting. It’s called the Lemurrer, and it’s an old ritual – the walling-up, the immuring, of … of those found committing the sin of—’ A glint of humour showed. ‘Of fornication,’ said Cecilia, and, as they both looked startled, she said, ‘I’ve shocked you.’
‘Nothing shocks me,’ said Dan. ‘I’ve never heard of the Lemurrer, though.’
‘Nor I,’ said Chimaera. ‘But Joachim said something about it taking hold of his mind.’
‘To the pure of heart it is harmless. At least,’ said Cecilia, with a slightly crooked smile, ‘that was always the belief in my family who had the music for generations—’ She suddenly turned her heard, staring across the dim cellar.
‘What’s wrong?’ Chimaera sent an anxious glance to where Joachim lay, half expecting to see him crawling across the floor towards them.
Cecilia held up the one hand that Dan had freed. ‘Listen.’
With the word, the two men heard, faintly but unmistakably, a cry close by.
‘Help … me … Please …’
The voice was cracked and faint, but it was recognizable. Gina Chandos.
EIGHTEEN
Dan hurled himself at the wall before Chimaera could move, clawing at the bricks, then cursing with a fluency Chimaera had not heard in this country, and using a good many words he had not previously encountered.
