Shrine

by Herbert, James

  It would be stupid to leave, Nancy told herself. Stupid and childish. She walked on, her footsteps deliberately loud on the stone floor.

  The first thing she saw when she drew level with the chest-high partition was a picture on the far wall. It was a painting of the Madonna and Child in the style of Perugino, and it hung above a fireplace. The recess, in fact, was a small room, obviously built for the comfort of the squire and his family from the huge Tudor manor house which shared the estate with the tiny church. She moved closer. The door in the panelling was open.

  A figure sat on one of the benches inside, a small, dark-clad figure.

  Nancy almost whistled with relief when she saw it was a nun.

  But the habit was strange. It wasn’t the two-toned grey she had seen the nuns in the village wearing, and the skirt was longer. The black hood was pulled forward, well over the face.

  She was sitting sideways to Nancy, her back hunched over, hands hidden deep within her lap, the loose black material flowing around her.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Nancy said quietly, tentatively, standing in the doorway of the pew, one hand on top of the panelling, fingers curled around it.

  The nun did not move.

  ‘I . . . I’m sorry to bother . . .’ Nancy’s words trailed away. There was something wrong. Oh God, there was something wrong. She moved as if to back away, not knowing why she was afraid, only aware that she was irrationally, inexplicably, in mortal dread of this thing sitting there; but her limbs would not react, would not take her away from the dark, hidden figure.

  Her legs sagged and a small trickle of urine dampened her inner thighs as the nun slowly turned to face her.

  31

  ‘Who knocks?’ ‘I, who was beautiful,

  Beyond all dreams to restore.

  I, from the roots of the dark thorn am hither.

  And knock on the door.’

  Walter de la Mare, ‘The Ghost’

  Rain spattered against the windscreen as Fenn drove through the tall iron gates. He slowed the car, expecting to be challenged, but there was no one on duty. Must be out of season, he explained to himself. The estate was probably closed to the public until the spring. He picked up speed, ignoring the sign indicating that 10 mph was the approved pace.

  Outside the clouds were low and dark, overloaded with rain, the speckles on the windows just the appetizer for what was soon to come. Trees rushed by on either side, their barren branches like petrified arms thrown out in alarm. A flicker of movement to the left caught his eye and abruptly he was braking as a deer bounded across the narrow road. He watched it disappear into the trees, a fleeting light-brown spectre, and envied its skittish grace. It was gone from view within seconds, swallowed up by the stark arboreal sanctuary.

  The hired car resumed its journey, slowing again when it reached an open gate, rattling its way across the deer grid. He frowned at the dullness in the air, the dismal weather making the late afternoon seem like evening. Winter in England could be bearable if only it didn’t drag itself through eight or nine months of the year. The road curved, emerging from the trees to be confronted by a sweeping panorama of lush fields, the misty South Downs in the distance a rolling backdrop merging into the grey puffy sky.

  The drive dipped easily, then separated, the main arm going onwards towards the grey-stone manor house, the other, narrower, arm branching off to the left, towards a levelled compound behind a group of elms, a non-obtrusive carpark for sightseers to the estate. Beyond the carpark, no more than a quarter of a mile away, stood a small church.

  Stapley Park, Barham. The big Tudor house was Stapley Manor. The little twelfth-century church was St Peter’s.

  Fenn silently swore at himself for being such a jerk; he really should have made the connection. It was all laid out for him, all there in the notes he’d taken from the archives. The trouble was he’d become too swamped in the history to give full attention to details that had not seemed relevant. Well, it didn’t matter that much now; he was pretty sure the chest in the little church was the one he had been searching for. Earlier that day, after leaving Delgard, and on the Monsignor’s advice, he had gone to the cathedral at Arundel hoping to find further documents concerning St Joseph’s, and it was there that he had learned of St Peter’s at Stapley, and of Stapley Manor itself.

  The Catholic Church had owned the Stapley Estate, in whose ground St Peter’s stood, before being dispossessed of such lands and properties at the time of the Reformation in England.

  In 1540, with the Dissolution of the Monasteries, when the lands and properties of the Church were being ‘legally’ acquired by the Crown, Henry VIII granted the manor house at Stapley and its entire estate to Richard Staffon, a mercer of London. He lived there with his family until the counter-Reformation under the new Catholic queen began its shortlived but fearsome reign of terror. Staffon was fortunate: he and his family were driven into exile with many fellow Protestants, whereas almost three hundred others were burnt at the stake as heretics.

  By devious means, the estate was passed on to Sir John Woolgar as a reward for his loyalty to the Catholic Church in Henry’s time. Woolgar was a wealthy Sussex businessman whose only son was the priest at St Joseph’s in Banfield.

  Fenn had stopped the car and was surveying the panorama, allowing the information to assemble itself in his mind. He had learned of the connection between Stapley Manor and Banfield from his research into the Sussex records, the warden at Arundel merely prompting the recall; the further information concerning the Reformation had been added by the priest he had just left at Storrington.

  This priest, a Father Conroy, as well as serving his own parish at Storrington, also served weekly Mass at St Peter’s in Stapley Park; apparently it was a duty handed down to each new priest to that particular parish. He had confirmed that there was, indeed, a large ancient chest in St Peter’s, the description matching Fenn’s, and a phone call to Monsignor Delgard (for whom Father Conroy had undisguised respect) gave him the authority to hand over the keys to the reporter. Fenn also gained permission to take away any documents he might find useful, provided he made a complete list, signed it, and allowed Conroy to examine those he had taken. The priest would have accompanied him to St Peter’s himself, but various duties dictated otherwise. That suited Fenn fine: he preferred to snoop alone.

  The priest had filled in other details concerning the Stapley Park Estate and St Peter’s. There had originally been a small village around the church, but it had become regarded as a source of infection after a mysterious plague had broken out in the early 1400s killing off most of the villagers; subsequently, the houses around the church had been destroyed. Much alteration and restoration had taken place over the years, each new lord of the manor contributing financially to the work, whether they were Catholic or not, for, like the mansion itself, St Peter’s was of historic importance and an attraction for the many tourists who flocked to the estate during the summer months. Father Conroy recalled reading somewhere that the chest had been taken to St Peter’s from Banfield in token acknowledgement of a stained-glass window that Sir John Woolgar had donated to St Joseph’s.

  A crow landed in the roadway, twenty yards ahead of the car, and seemed to challenge its further progress. It was a breed of bird Fenn found hard to admire; too big, too black. He allowed the car to move slowly forward, the tyres crunching against the gravel road. The bird calmly walked to the side and watched Fenn with one eye as he drove past.

  The vehicle gained momentum as the road dipped. Herds of black-backed deer, settled in the grass beneath trees, gazed on with stiff-necked curiosity as he approached, the stags among them, antlers high and menacing, glaring as if daring him to come closer. He drove into the branch-off, making for the empty grass carpark, and the deer in that area rose as one to move away, their flight unhurried, cautious but unafraid.

  The grass in the compound was cut short, the parking areas neatly marked by straight, narrow lines of soil, unobtrusive and neatly patterned. Bull
ocks in a field nearby bawled at him, the sound echoing around the trees, as if they, too, did not welcome his presence.

  Fenn grabbed a hold-all from the passenger seat and pushed open the door. The wind tore into him as he stepped from the car; it swept over the Downs from the sea, carrying with it a damp chill and an unrestrained force. Pulling his coat-collar tight around his neck and blinking against the wind-driven rain, he set off for the church, the strap of the hold-all over one shoulder.

  A long, straight path led from the carpark to the mediaeval church; to the right, about a quarter of a mile away, stood the daunting manor house, an impressive structure of Tudor design, yet curiously empty-looking, lifeless. Indeed, it probably was at that time, for Fenn had learned earlier that the owner had died some years before and his family only stayed at the house for certain months of the year, preferring sunnier climates in the winter months.

  As he trod the narrow path, the church loomed up like an image framed in a slow-moving zoom lens, and he began to feel very lonely and very isolated. Like the manor house in the distance, St Peter’s was constructed of grey stone, green-stained with age; one section of the roof was covered with large moss-covered slates, the rest with red tiles; the windows were leaded, the glass thick and smoothly rippled as though each pane had been placed in its frame still hot and melting. He saw now how oddly-shaped the building was and could imagine the various segments being added at various times through the centuries, each portion reflecting its own period. The path led past the church, presumably to where the entrance had to be, for he could see no doors as he approached. The expanse he had just crossed had been bare; now there were trees, mostly oak, around the church, and the wind rustled through the empty branches, an urgent, rushing sound that increased his sense of isolation. Small branches broke away and scuttled in the air before reaching the earth; stouter branches lay scattered, victims of previous, stronger gusts, resembling twisted human limbs. The horizon, just above the distant Downs, now glowed silver in a strip that was held level by the dark, laden clouds above. The contrast between broody clouds and condensed sky was startling.

  Fenn stepped off the path into rough grass to get near one of the church windows and, cupping a hand between brow and glass, peered in. There was an unappealing gloom inside and he could just make out the empty pews enclosed by wood panelling. At first glance it reminded him of a holy cattleshed. He took his hand away and twisted his neck, nose almost pressed against the glass, in an effort to see more. There were other windows opposite that threw little light into the interior, but he could just make out the shape of a font and more enclosed benches nearby. A movement caught his eye and it was so sudden that he drew back a few inches. Then he realized, the blood vessels in his throat seeming to constrict, that the action was not inside the church, but was a reflection in the glass.

  He turned quickly and saw there was nothing there. Just a swaying branch.

  Creepy, he told himself. Creepy, creepy, creepy.

  Hoisting the hold-all back onto his shoulder, he rejoined the path and headed for the front of the church. When he reached the corner the wind tore into him with fresh force, driving the rain into his face like ice pellets. A square tower rose above him, too short and stubby to be majestic, reaching no more than forty feet into the air, its rampart top almost as grey as the clouds above it. A matt, rust-coloured door stood beneath the tower, the shade drab and unimaginative, paying no dues to the history it guarded. An unlocked iron gate protected the door, only inches away from the wood surface like some early misconceived idea of double glazing.

  Before entering the church, Fenn took a walk to the other side. Beyond a flint wall was a small graveyard, the gravestones crammed in as though the corpses had been buried standing up. Here and there were more spacious plots and some headstones that appeared to have been regularly scrubbed clean; there were also one or two rotting wooden crosses laid in the grass, marking the resting places of those who could not afford better. Opposite the church was a two-strutted fence, beyond that, waist-high undergrowth, beyond that – nothing, it seemed. The land obviously dropped steeply away into a small valley, woodland rising up on the other side towards the slopes of the Downs.

  Fenn turned back to the doorway, his hair flat and wet against his forehead. He opened the iron gate, then the heavy door, and stepped into the church, glad to be away from the hostile weather. The door closed behind him and the wind outside became just a muted breathing.

  As in all churches he had visited, which wasn’t many, he felt uncomfortable and intrusive, as though his presence showed a lack of respect rather than a mark of it. The interior was certainly unusual with its enclosed pews, low barrel ceiling, and tiny altar. A raised pulpit stood near the altar, behind it a door he assumed led to the vestry. Would the chest be in there? The priest at Storrington had omitted to say.

  Then he saw it, no more than five feet away to his right. His eyes lit up and he smiled ruefully. You better be worth it, you bugger, he said to himself, remembering the experience of searching the crypt at St Joseph’s. Above it was a plaque of highly-polished wood, names and dates inscribed on its surface. He took a closer look, realizing it was a list of clerics who had served at St Peter’s. He found one that was familiar:

  REV. THOMAS WOOLGAR 1525–1560

  Thomas would be Sir John’s son, the priest from Banfield. Presumably he arrived after his father had been granted the estate, so if he had died in 1560, the service had been only for a few years. He quickly worked out the priest’s age at the time of death: thirty-five; young by today’s standards, but reasonable for that period.

  Rain lashed at the windows with a new intensity, beating at the thick glass as though demanding entry.

  Fenn rummaged in his pocket for the keys that would open the three locks. He hesitated before inserting the first one. Maybe this is crazy, he told himself. How could something that had happened – if anything significant happened – over four hundred years ago have any relevance to what was happening at St Joseph’s today? Just because a kid used an old, outdated language in her sleep and had a blemish on her body that used to be thought of as a witch-sign, it didn’t mean the answer lay somewhere in history. Was Delgard truly convinced of it, or was he just desperate? Alice, the Miracle Worker, was a modern-day phenomenon; why should the past play any part?

  The wind outside became louder as it battered against the old church walls; a fresh squall of rain threw itself at the windows like thousands of tiny shrapnel pieces.

  A noise somewhere near the front of the church made Fenn turn his head.

  He straightened, uneasy.

  The noise came again.

  ‘Someone there?’ he called out.

  No reply and no more noise. Just the wind and rain outside.

  He walked to the centre of the aisle and waited. The sound again. A small scraping sound.

  Could be anything, he reassured himself. A mouse, a trapped bird. Then why was he so sure that there was someone else in the church? He felt he was being watched and automatically his eyes went to the pulpit. It was empty.

  The sound again. Someone or something near the front of the church.

  ‘Hey, come on, who’s there?’ he called out with forced bravado.

  He began to walk towards the altar, refraining from whistling a happy tune, eyes searching left to right at every pew he passed. All were empty, but the last one disappeared around a corner, the building jutting out in that direction. He was certain that was where the sound had come from. He reached the corner and stopped, for some reason reluctant to go further. He had the distinct feeling that he really did not want to see whatever was lurking there. The noise came again, louder this time, startling him.

  He took several quick paces forward and peered over the enclosure.

  Empty.

  Fenn breathed a sigh of relief.

  It was a strange room, a fireplace at the far end, a picture of the Virgin and Child hanging above the mantel. Cushioned benches stre
tched the full length on either side. He heard the sound again and saw the tree branch outside, buffeted by the wind, scraping at a window. He was too relieved to even smile at himself.

  Going back to the chest, he knelt and turned the first key. When nothing happened he remembered the short metal rod Father Conroy had given him. As instructed, he inserted it into a small hole at the side of the padlock, pressed a lever, then twisted the key again. The padlock came away in two parts.

  He repeated the procedure twice more and laid the separate sections on the stone floor. His tongue flicked nervously across dry lips as he prepared to open the lid.

  The porch door rattled as though someone were banging their fists against it. It was the wind, he told himself, just the wind.

  The lid was heavy and at first resisted his efforts. Then it came slowly up, hinges groaning at the unfamiliar movement. Fenn swung the lid right back so that it rested against the wall behind. He looked down into its depths, a musty odour leaping out at him like a released animal.

  Old vestments lay scattered on top, their colours faded, the material no longer springy soft. He pulled the clothing out, draping them over the side of the chest. Beneath lay sheaves of yellowed paper and various books, worn and wrinkled with age. He took the latter out one by one, quickly leafing through the pages, placing them on the floor when he discovered they did not date back far enough. He felt some of the various papers would have proved interesting to a historian, but to him they were useless. Next he drew out several loosely-bound books, the covers in hide of some sort, the paper inside thin and rough edged. He opened one and saw it was a form of ledger, an accounts book for St Peter’s. In neat script it listed payments made to workmen for tasks carried out for the church. The first page gave the year: 1697. The other books dated back further, but none to the century he sought.