“Making a record of us all, then?”
Chambers closed the book and put it back in his bag. “Just something to pass the time,” he said.
She sat next to him. The old pew creaked with the weight of both of them. “Are you going to come on the tour?”
Chambers nodded. “I usually like to find my own way around, but it’s probably worth letting Father Traynor show us around. I’m still finding it a bit weird that he was here before us, though.”
“I know.” Karen looked around at the others, all finding nothing to do as they waited for the priest to emerge from the vestry. “Any second thoughts?”
“About what?”
“About coming here. About what we might find here.”
Chambers resisted the urge to snort derisively. “My second thoughts were ages ago, along with my third and my fourth. But you’re right. If we’re ever going to get a good night’s sleep again this is where we need to be.”
Karen’s brow creased. “Especially as . . .”
He nodded again, knowing what she wanted to say. “. . . as from the outside this looks like the place in the dream. I mean the hill isn’t as high, and there are a few buildings here and there to break up the landscape, but it could easily be the same location.”
“Lots of churches look alike.”
“I don’t think there’s a church in the world like this one, and you know it too.”
Karen held up the tape recorder. “Would you care to put that on record?”
Chambers smiled. “You know, the last time a reporter waved one of those at me they weren’t being quite so friendly, so you’ll forgive me if I have an aversion to them.”
“Journalist if you don’t mind.” She sighed. “Well you’re going to have to agree to be interviewed sometime. Lots of sometimes, in fact.”
“Okay.” He took the machine from her and switched it on. “This is Professor Robert Chambers MD, trapped in a church for four days with—” he gave her a knowing look, “—a journalist, a priest, a lecturer, a bricklayer, a fortune teller and . . . someone else.”
Karen’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t like Dr. Chesney, do you?”
“Because I’m not convinced he is a doctor, and for all his self-proclamatory spiel about the paranormal investigations he’s been involved with, he’s the only one of our group who gives me the profoundest feeling of insincerity.”
Karen had to laugh at that. “Why, Professor, I’m honored!”
“Honored?”
“That you should consider me sincere.”
“Oh you’re sincere all right—sincere that you want to be rid of these nightmares, that you need us all here to help that happen, and that if you can get a story out of it then so much the better.”
“Not just a story.” She was putting the tape recorder away. “The story, the one that’s going to make my career.”
“If you live long enough to have one.”
She laid a cool palm on his cheek. “Are you going to be this optimistic all the time?”
“Oh, no. I may well become quite miserable as the hours drag on.”
“In that case I hope the undead do appear to liven things up a little.”
“If they do I’ll assume you’ve provided them specially.”
There was a commotion at the front of the church.
“Come on.” Karen held out a hand. “It looks like Father Traynor’s ready to show us around.”
All Hallows Church was in a terrible state.
There had been a rudimentary attempt to clean the place up, but when a building has been deserted for twenty years, a few days’ tidying can do little but remove the worst of the broken pews, brush away the most bothersome dust and cobwebs, and push any fallen masonry into corners where it might be hoped it won’t be noticed.
“I wonder why all the pews are still here?” Karen had taken the lead as they made their way up the central aisle, with Chambers in tow and the others following behind. “You would think the furniture reclamation people would have had some of these.”
“They would usually.” That was Paul. “But no one wanted to take anything from here.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Chesney seemed determined to be made unhappier with every passing minute. “There’s nothing in any documented records about it.”
“Before I was a bricklayer I spent a couple of months working at the reclamation company that was asked to take a look at this place,” came the reply. “I had the bright idea that there might still be some good stuff worth having, but when I suggested it I just got looked at as if I was stupid. Turns out they had tried coming in, years ago, but one of the blokes had an accident. Something to do with the pulpit over there.” Paul indicated the dusty booth to the right of the pews, the wooden steps leading up to it looking perilous even from a distance.
“He was trying to unscrew the steps when something happened and he fell. He died in the hospital three days later.”
“Died?” Ronnie’s soft tones came from the back of the group. “How?”
“Blood poisoning apparently. He’d cut himself on a splinter and had never had his tetanus shots. Bloody awful what that can do to a bloke. That was what made me go and get mine from the doctor—there was no way that was going to happen to me.”
“Well I hope everyone here has had one.” Chambers made sure his words were loud enough for them all to hear. He took the mumbled response for assent.
“Are you all ready?”
Father Traynor, his face as gray as the surrounding walls, was standing on the edge of the single step that demarcated the border between the nave and the choir. His dark hair and gown made his skin look that much whiter in the glare of the floodlight to his left.
“Sorry, Father,” Karen apologized on behalf of the group. “It’s very good of you to show us around.”
Father Traynor’s tones were soft and he spoke almost in monotone. “We felt it appropriate that the task should fall to me. There’s not much for me to say, really.” He raised his arms and looked around him. “You can see most of what is left of this lovely old church, which has sadly been allowed to fall into ruin.”
“I wasn’t expecting it to be so large,” said Ronnie, the echo of her voice making her jump.
Father Traynor did his best to smile but there was little life in it. “It served quite a sizeable population in its day, which is why it’s easily twice the size of the typical village parish church of the period.”
“Of what period?” shouted an elderly female voice from the back.
“I beg your pardon?”
The group parted to allow Dr. Cruttenden to come to the front.
“I wanted to know what period you were referring to.”
Father Traynor looked confused. “I’m not sure I . . .”
“I had been led to understand that this church suffered a catastrophe in 1850?”
The priest nodded. “That’s correct.”
“In fact it was burned to the ground?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Cruttenden looked around her. “And prior to this disaster it was designed and built by a . . .” she consulted the notebook she had managed to produce after rummaging through the voluminous pockets of her tweed jacket “. . . a ‘Thomas Moreby,’ is that not so?”
“It is.”
“Whose dates, I believe, were 1702 to 1803?”
The priest shrugged. “If you say so.”
She looked at him over her horn-rimmed spectacles. “Oh, I do say so, young man. I do indeed. I also understand that he was a disciple of Nicholas Hawksmoor and designed All Hallows in Hawksmoor’s late Baroque style.”
Father Traynor nodded again.
Dr. Cruttenden looked around her and sniffed. “This doesn’t look late Baroque,” she said. “This looks positively medieval—twelfth or thirteenth century at the latest.”
“That’s because after the fire it was discovered that All Hallows had been built over the remains of a much older church.
The Victorian architect who supervised the rebuild thought it only respectful to base the new building on the plan of the older one.”
That seemed to please Dr. Cruttenden no end. “Well you’ve passed the test,” she said, allowing him the briefest of congratulatory winks. “Carry on.”
If Father Traynor had been at all bothered by the interruption he did not show it. “There is very little left of the choir behind me,” he said, as if the incident had never happened.
He was right about that. The choir stalls had rotted and collapsed, and there were great gaping holes in the screens on either side. To their right, a battered two-manual pipe organ looked very sorry for itself, its exposed keys clotted with cobwebs and the pipes teetering at angles and clogged with dust.
“I’d like to hear someone try and get a note out of that thing,” said Paul with a chuckle.
“You might before our time here is out,” said Karen with a grin. “It all depends on how bored you get.”
Chambers raised an eyebrow. “You play, then?”
“Only the piano,” she said, blushing. “But the principle’s the same.”
“If you look farther behind me,” Father Traynor continued, “you will see the altar. Of course it has been desanctified now, but we would ask that you nevertheless treat it and the rest of this building with respect. This place was home to many years of worship before it was closed down.”
Chambers peered over the priest’s shoulder. The altar didn’t look like anything special—just a block of pale gray as dusty as everything else around it.
“What I mean is—” the priest seemed to be searching for words, “—we would appreciate it if you did not stand or lie upon the altar, even in jest. Especially in jest.”
“Well I don’t know about the rest of them,” growled Dr. Chesney. “But I am here for some serious scientific research. And when I’m not doing that I’m going to need to get some decent sleep.”
“Yes,” Ronnie said, picking up on that. “What are the sleeping arrangements?”
“As you can imagine this building was never designed to accommodate such a number of individuals used to the conveniences of modern living for such a length of time.” Father Traynor looked at Karen. “Your paper contacted me and asked my advice on this and I suggested the following.”
He pointed to his left. “Two of the men can sleep in the south transept. There is enough room for two of the cots that have been left, as well as room for changing and small lights for reading. I would suggest Dr. Chesney and myself.” He pointed to his right. “Professor Chambers and Mr. Hale can sleep in the north transept where similar arrangements have been made. I’ve examined both areas and the drafts are nowhere near as bad as in the main part of the building.”
“Sounds all right to me.” Actually, it sounded a bit rough, but Chambers was happy to make the best of it and took the lead, doing his best to sound a lot more optimistic than he felt.
“If you don’t mind my snoring, Prof,” said Paul with a cheeky grin, “I can put up with that.”
“Well, I can’t.” Dr. Chesney appeared to be approaching apoplexy. “There’s no room over there for the amount of work I will need to have with me. I need a desk, I need filing space, recording space, and I intend to be keeping irregular hours and most certainly do not want to be disturbed when I am trying to sleep!”
Father Traynor remained calm in the face of the outburst. “In that case,” he said, “might I suggest that you take the south transept for yourself? I am sure we have been provided with sufficient materials to construct an appropriate draw curtain that will keep you separated from the rest of us when necessary.”
Not everyone was able to stifle a giggle at that, but by the time Dr. Chesney looked around it was impossible to determine who was responsible.
“I suppose that will have to do,” he said, in the tones of someone who didn’t really think it would at all.
“What will you do, Father?” Paul asked.
“There’s a small vestry off the north aisle. You’ll see the door to it when I show you where the ladies are to sleep. It’s not very clean but it will serve my purpose.”
“No way,” said the bricklayer. “You sleep with the Prof—I don’t mind getting all dusty.”
Father Traynor smiled. “I assure you I will be fine. Now, if you would care to follow me I will show the rest of you where you are to sleep.”
The priest stepped down from the choir and led them across the north transept and through a small door into the north aisle. He turned to the right, leading them past a small wooden door set into the stone on the left-hand wall.
“The vestry,” he said by way of explanation.
He continued around until they found themselves walking along the east wall.
“Now we are at the very top of the cruciform that the building forms,” he said, before pointing to three discrete outpouchings of stone. “And here, as you can see, are three small chapels.”
“Ah,” Dr. Cruttenden was nodding. “Apsidals.”
Father Traynor gave a little bow in acknowledgement. “As you say, Dr. Cruttenden. I thought these three small rooms would provide the most satisfactory accommodation for the three of you. Miss Shepworth, you will find that each has been equipped by your newspaper with a cot and appropriate accessories for your needs.”
“Please call me Karen,” she said as she drew back the heavy black curtain that hung across the first apsidal. Chambers peered over her shoulder. The stone cubicle beyond was just large enough to contain a small altar with space for three people to kneel. A metal-framed army supply cot had been set up in the space and he presumed that the Catholic Church wasn’t too bothered about the altar in here being used as a storage shelf.
“Small place but it’s home,” he said encouragingly.
“Oh believe me,” Karen replied, “I’ve stayed in far worse.”
“So have I,” echoed Dr. Cruttenden as she examined the second apsidal chapel. It was the same as Karen’s.
“I’ve been to the Glastonbury music festival five times,” said soft-voiced Ronnie as she inspected the third. “This will be absolutely fine—thank you.”
Father Traynor seemed pleased. “I therefore take it that everyone is happy with the sleeping arrangements?”
Dr. Chesney snorted. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say I was happy, but—”
“I think we’ll all be fine,” Karen cut in before Chesney could complain any more.
“Good. In that case we can move on to view the bathing and cooking facilities.”
“I didn’t spot anything on the way around,” piped up Paul. “Are they up in the bell tower or something?”
Father Traynor shook his head. “The very opposite, Mr. Hale. The shower rooms and kitchen are downstairs, in the undercroft.”
Dr. Cruttenden’s voice rang out from inside her apsidal. “You mean you want us to wash in the crypt?”
“The facilities have been constructed in the area before one gets to the crypt proper.” Father Traynor was already on the move. Karen pulled back Dr. Cruttenden’s curtain and told her to come on. “The generators are there too, so that area should be the warmest in the building.”
“What do the generators run on?” Paul had caught up with the priest as he led the way down the south aisle on the other side of the church.
“Petrol, I believe, although I could be wrong,” came the reply. “Why?”
“It means that as well as being the warmest place it’s probably also going to be the smelliest,” said Paul, “especially if the ventilation isn’t good. Plus we’ll need to be careful cooking if there are petrol cans around.”
“I can’t say I fancy taking a risk like that,” said Ronnie. “I’d rather eat cold stuff.”
“There is plenty of canned food should you feel so inclined.” Father Traynor had stopped by a small door in the south wall. It was just past the south transept and led off the part of the south aisle that ran parallel to the nave. He withdrew a heav
y iron key from his robes and fit it into the lock. With a little persuasion it turned, eventually.
“I’m presuming that will be left open?” Chesney snapped.
“It will.” The priest pulled on the wrought iron handle that had been fashioned in the shape of an upside-down heart. If anyone was expecting the door to open with a creak they were to be disappointed. A flight of stone steps led down to the right.
“Recently oiled,” Father Traynor added.
Chesney raised an accusatory finger. “What’s that other door for?”
Sure enough, beyond the opening and the steps was another door, similar in size and shape and firmly barricaded from the inside by means of bolts both top and bottom, and a heavy oak beam across its middle that looked as if it hadn’t been moved in years.
“It leads to the outside,” Father Traynor explained. “A side entrance that was used many years ago but, as you can see, has been locked for a long time. It was thought best to leave it as such for security reasons. Now, if you would all be kind enough to follow me?”
The staircase was narrow and they had to go single file. A single bare bulb suspended from the stone halfway down allowed just enough darkness remaining in the corners to be unsettling. Now Traynor had opened the door, the noise of the generator was obvious.
“We’re barely going to be able to hear ourselves think down there.” Dr. Cruttenden was doing her best not to slip.
At the bottom a narrow archway led into the undercroft—a rectangular space roughly fifty feet long. Or at least that was as far as the two bare bulbs would permit them to see. To the left were two cubicles with rudimentary water pipes leading to shower attachments. On the right was a cast iron sink complete with two dripping taps and a draining board turned a rusty orange by the leakage of water from the feeder pipes. Far away from them the generator rumbled away in the darkness. At the near end were numerous bright yellow gas cans to keep it going. Above the sink and to its right and left were a number of cheap-looking storage cabinets. All had been filled with a quantity of food designed to last longer than four days.
The Lovecraft Squad Page 11
