She took a step closer, touching the small section of exposed glass with her index finger.
‘What is that thing?’ Channing wanted to know, indicating the features of the creature on the window.
Cath could only shake her head. She peered closer, gazing at the glass itself rather than the shape that had been exposed.
‘I won’t be able to tell which method was used to make the window until we’ve uncovered it fully,’ she said, still gazing at it.
‘What do you mean?’ Channing was rubbing his hands together, feeling cold.
‘Once I’ve determined the method, I’ll be able to give you a more accurate dating. Some of this seems to have been constructed using the cloisonné technique.’ She tapped the glass. ‘Coloured glass would actually be poured into compartments that were shaped to form images. But the rest of it ...’ She allowed the sentence to trail off.
‘I’m still not with you,’ Channing said somewhat irritably, annoyed that Cath had not taken her eyes off the window since first meeting it.
‘If some of the glass was prepared using the cloisonné method and some was done by painting onto glass then it means the window was put together by more than one man. And possibly over a period of years.’
‘Is that so unusual?’ he wanted to know.
She frowned and nodded.
‘A window was as individual to its maker as, say, a novel is to its writer. It was unusual to find glass-makers working together on one window,’ she told him, her eyes still fixed on the glass.
‘What about that image?’ he persisted, pointing at the grotesque creature depicted on the piece of window visible. ‘I don’t recognize it. I realized that the windows were used as teaching aids but that figure isn’t biblical or mythological.’ Channing found himself looking at the dull red, glass eyes. His mind flickered briefly back to his nightmare of the night before.
The mouth opening.
His hand disappearing into that yawning, fanged chasm.
He shuddered.
The dream had come to him almost every time he closed his eyes for any length of time. He knew it was a dream but the ferocity of the nightmare had not abated. If anything, each successive experience burned it more vividly into his mind. He turned away for a moment.
Catherine, on the other hand, remained crouched before the glass.
‘We have to uncover the rest of it,’ she said.
‘I agree with you.-If we come back in the morning ...’
‘No, Mark, I want to start now,’ she said sharply, still not looking at him.
‘You mean drive back into the village for your tools?’
She cut him short once again.
‘You called me out here to work on the bloody thing,’ she rasped, finally turning on him angrily. ‘So let me work on it.’
They faced each other in silence for a moment, the cloying solitude of the church wrapping itself around them like a blanket. ‘You go back, fetch my tools. Now,’ she said. Then her tone softened a little. ‘Please, Mark. It is important. You were right when you called me. I have to see it all. The sooner I can start, the sooner I can uncover it, decipher it.’ She even managed to smile. ‘Maybe even tell you what the significance of this little darling is.’ She pointed to the image of the creature etched in glass.
Channing stood looking at her, then nodded and left the chancel.
Cath heard his footsteps echoing away. She turned back to look at the piece of glass he had uncovered.
At the monstrous face.
The red eyes seemed to fix her in a blank stare.
She reached out to touch one with her finger.
As she did, she smiled.
Twenty-Five
Channing yawned and looked at his watch.
10.34 p.m.
They’d been at the church for more than four hours now. Outside, the pleasant sunshine had long since been forced away by the onset of evening then the thick blackness of night, and with that blackness had come a cold wind that seemed to permeate even the stone of the church. He could hear it whistling around the old building as he stood in the chancel. It rattled the boarded-up windows too, poking cold fingers through into the church interior. Yet despite the cold Channing’s shirt was damp with perspiration.
The effort of moving so much stone, so carefully, had drained him.
Upon returning from the village with some of Cath’s tools they had set to work on the window, on the most important task first.
It had to be freed from the stonework which held it in place. They had no way of knowing if the window wasn’t, like the others in the church, already smashed. Or perhaps they were only dealing with a fragment of a much larger window, the rest perhaps destroyed. Only by removing the encasing stone would they know the first of many answers posed by the discovery.
The work had not been strenuous so much as nerve-wracking. Encased in stone as it was, the window was still highly vulnerable to any over-zealous attempt to free it. It was like, Channing thought, trying to free a human body from ice with a pneumatic drill.
This task was ten times more delicate.
The glass was old, fourteenth or fifteenth century, Catherine was sure of that now. One slipped chisel or misplaced mallet blow and the entire thing could be smashed into a million pieces.
They had worked diligently, almost nervously, to chip away the stone from around the prized discovery, laying pieces of masonry on the floor of the church, occasionally stepping back to see how far their work had progressed.
After an hour they had uncovered the top three panels of the window.
The section now exposed to the dull light of the hurricane lamps was virtually impossible to see, how ever. The covering of masonry, the ravages of time and some defects in the glass itself served to ensure that they could not see through the patina of muck which coated the glass. The iron and lead strips used to separate the coloured panels were rusted and discoloured, too.
But they worked on, satisfied that the window was standing up to their attentions adequately, although Channing couldn’t banish from his mind the thought that when they removed the final piece of stone the entire structure would topple forward and shatter on the church floor. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind.
As they worked, certain puzzling anomalies began to emerge.
Not only was the glass apparently the work of more than one glazier, but the stone which held it so firmly was of a different period to that from which the building itself had been constructed.
‘It was added at a later date,’ Channing had said.
‘But why hide it?’ Catherine had wanted to know, her attention riveted to the window and growing as more of it was revealed.
Channing had no answer to that particular question. Perhaps once it was uncovered and deciphered that riddle would be solved.
As more panels were revealed it became obvious that the glass so far discovered was not merely part of a larger window.
What Channing had found was complete.
The window was about forty-eight inches wide, per haps anything up to six feet in height. Catherine had paused for a moment, wiping perspiration from her face with the back of her hand, then, with infinite care, she had scraped away some dirt from one of the panels, examining the glass beneath with the aid of a jeweller’s eye-piece and a spot-light.
‘It’s crown glass,’ she had told him. ‘At least, this part is.’ Without waiting for his question she had continued. ‘A bubble of glass was blown onto an iron tube and then spun until it formed a disc. Then they’d use a grosing iron to chip away the edges until they’d formed the glass into the right shape.’ She prodded the glass with a tracer, indicating the tiny bubbles still visible in the glass. ‘The bubbles in crown glass always run in concentric circles.’
‘Does that tell you anything about the man who made it?’ Channing had wanted to know.
‘That’s one of the oldest methods of making stained glass. Other parts of it seem to have been made by oth
er means. That’s what makes me think it was constructed by more than one glazier.’ She had uncovered another part of the design beneath the film of dirt.
A clawed hand had been revealed.
The huge claw was holding a child.
Channing had frowned, but somehow it made sense.
If this window had indeed been commissioned for Gilles de Rais then the inclusion of a child in its design was almost predictable.
What else could be expected of a man responsible for the deaths of over 200 children?
‘The colouring methods are different, too,’ Catherine had said, looking first at the clawed hand then up at the red eyes which still seemed to glow so luminously from the face of the first creature. That,’ she pointed at the creature’s face, ‘looks as if it was fixed. The glass was coloured before it was put into the panel. This,’ she tapped the claw very gently, ‘looks as if it was painted onto the glass once it had cooled.’
‘How did they colour the glass?’ Channing had enquired.
‘They added different metal oxides to the pot metal, that’s what they called the molten glass.’ She wiped her face once more. ‘If they wanted red glass they added copper oxide. For green they’d add iron oxide. Cobalt oxide, blue. Manganese oxide, purple. If they wanted yellow they added sulphur.’
He had listened intently, his eyes flicking alternately between the window and Catherine.
Now, as the hands of his watch crawled round to 11.00, he leant back against the altar and looked at the window.
The glass might as well have been opaque for all they could see.
Just the claw and the face of the other creature; the rest was still encrusted by a thick layer of dirt.
Channing, was tired, more tired than he could remember. He felt as if the strength had been sucked from him, as if, instead of blowing wind into the church, the elements outside were drawing it away, creating a vacuum inside the chancel which made it difficult to breathe. He attributed it to the clouds of dust which hung in the air.
It was getting colder.
He rubbed his arms and shivered, looking again at his watch.
‘We ought to get back to the inn,’ he suggested.
Cath continued staring at the outline of the window, amazed that it was intact.
‘Cath,’ he said quietly, ‘I said ...’
‘I heard you,’ she snapped, not looking at him, not taking her eyes from the casement.
‘We can carry on working tomorrow morning,’ Channing persisted.
Still she didn’t answer him, her eyes fixed on the face of the creature in the top left-hand panel. Every now and then she would glance at the clawed hand which clutched the child but it was the red eyes that held her gaze. Finally she managed to tear her attention from it. She massaged the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger and nodded.
‘Maybe you’re right. A good night’s sleep wouldn’t hurt,’ she said, even managing a thin smile.
A good night’s sleep. Channing couldn’t remember when he’d last enjoyed that luxury.
They began to gather up their tools.
‘Something’s been puzzling me, Mark,’ she said. ‘About the church itself. How did you manage to get permission from the local authorities to work here?’
He shrugged.
‘They class it as a derelict building,’ he told her. ‘They don’t care who comes here or what they do when they get here. If it fell down tomorrow I don’t think it would bother them.’
The wind seemed to increase in intensity. Channing shivered.
It was definitely getting colder.
Through a gap in one of the boarded-up windows he saw the moon appear momentarily in the sky before a bank of black cloud swallowed it up.
One of the hurricane lamps flickered and died, then glowed again.
Channing looked across at the window.
A dull thud reverberated throughout the church, the sound carried on the stillness.
He must have forgotten to secure the church door when they’d first entered, he told himself.
‘Leave it for tonight, Cath,’ he said.
The thud came again.
Twice in quick succession.
What the hell was going on here?
Twenty-Six
Charing looked around towards the door which led into the chancel. Perhaps the main door of the church had been slammed shut by the powerful wind. He crossed to the chancel door, opened it and peered out, his torch beam cutting a swathe through the gloom, picking out the main door.
It was shut tight.
Another thud, this time from above them.
In the belfry.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Channing said, his voice catching. ‘Come on. I think we’ve done enough for tonight.’ Had she detected the note of fear in his voice? He didn’t really care if she had. He was tired, cold and something else he didn’t care to admit. No, what the hell? He was frightened. The place made him uneasy at the best of times and now these bloody noises ...
‘Let’s go, Cath,’ he said again, more forcefully this time.
She was still gazing at the window, moving towards it as if she had spotted something in the glass which Channing couldn’t see.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ he said. ‘We’ll come back in the morning.’
That thud again, and now he knew it was coming from above them.
A rational part of his mind told him it was the door which led into the belfry. The wind must have blown it open and now, with each fresh gust, it was slamming it back on its hinges. That was the answer. He suddenly felt angry with himself for even entertaining any solution but the most logical one. Lack of sleep fuelled the imagination, he told himself, thinking how late at night it was for home-spun philosophy.
Cath was kneeling beside the window now, looking more intently at the face of the child held in the clawed hand. She wiped more dust away from it.
‘I’ll wait for you in the car,’ said Channing irritably, and she heard him clatter through into the main nave.
Cath looked at the face on the window, running the tip of her index finger around it, trying to make out the features.
Something ...
Channing muttered to himself as he tripped and almost fell over a pew in the nave.
... familiar ...
He heard a strident screech ahead of him as the church door opened.
For fleeting seconds he blinked in the gloom, the wind roared outside and the moon broke free of the clouds.
... about the face ...
A dark shape filled the doorway of the church.
Dark and massive.
‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ murmured Channing, fumbling for his torch.
‘Cath,’ he called, flicking on the torch, swinging it back and forth.
The church was filled with a smell unlike anything he’d ever encountered before.
A stench of decay.
And it was drawing closer to him, filling his nostrils.
He heard footfalls, sensed movement.
‘Cash.’
He backed off.
In the chancel, Cath squinted as she continued to trace the features of the child in the window.
She knew that face.
She heard her voice being called. She smelled the vile stench.
As she heard the scream from inside the nave she looked around.
‘Mark,’ she called, getting to her feet, taking one last look back at the window. At the face of the child.
As she did the breath caught in her throat.
The face of the child was contorted into an attitude of terror. The child was screaming.
But it was no longer a child.
It bore the face of Mark Channing.
Twenty-Seven
She called out his name as she sat up, her body sheathed in sweat.
As she was flung from the nightmare she let out a low gasp, a combination of fear at the images which had invaded her mind and also of relief that the experience had bee
n within the confines of her subconscious.
Now she sat forward, one hand to her throat, feeling the sweat on her fingers.
She almost screamed again when she saw the figure standing beside her bed.
In the semi-darkness, her mind still reeling from what she’d dreamt, she was unable to focus on the figure and the newest intrusion sent her heart pounding even more furiously.
It took her a second to realize that it was Channing.
‘Jesus,’ she murmured, her hand falling from her throat to her chest. She could feel her heart thudding against her ribs.
‘Are you ok?’ he asked, looking down at her. ‘I heard you shout.’
She swallowed hard and nodded, looking at her watch.
2.14 a.m.
‘I’m ok,’ she said. ‘Just a bad dream. I haven’t had a nightmare since I was a kid.’ She sucked in a couple of deep breaths, aware that only the sheet around her protected her nakedness from Channing’s gaze. She pulled it higher, up to her throat in a gesture of exaggerated modesty. The gesture seemed somewhat inappropriate, considering they had once been lovers. The thought was pushed from her mind rapidly. The images of the dream returned and she switched on the bedside lamp, as if the coming of light would hasten the banishment of those images.
As it illuminated Channing’s face she saw how pale and drawn he looked; the rings beneath his eyes were so dark and deeply etched as if a manic tattoo artist had been let loose with dark ink around the blood-shot orbs.
‘You look pretty bad, Mark, if you don’t mind me saying,’ she said, aware of how clumsy the words sounded. ‘Sorry if I woke you.’
‘I was already awake,’ he explained. ‘Bad dreams too.’
She shrugged.
‘I dreamt I was in the church,’ she told him.’ I could see it as clearly as I can see you now.’ She looked up at him and he squatted on the edge of the bed.
‘What did you see?’ he wanted to know.
‘The window. Uncovered. At least another part of it.’
‘A clawed hand,’ he said flatly.
She nodded.
‘A clawed hand holding a child,’ he continued.
She looked at him, a frown creasing her brow.
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