House of Shadows

by The Medieval Murderers

  He’d waited until the next call to prayer (the life of the priory continuing as normal) before searching out the spot first described to him by Andrew. He had a kind of licence to wander and investigate, yet he preferred to do it more or less unobserved. He had a particular reason for descending to this subterranean chamber. It was as a result of the hints dropped by Mistress Morton and Andrew the mason and a conversation with the cellarer, Brother Michael.

  The monk who went by the name of Michael was a significant figure in the life of the priory, responsible not merely for overseeing provisions and fuel supplies but also for the upkeep of the house. The individual who held the position of cellarer or bursar had to be capable – and preferably devout – since his job entailed frequent absences and therefore exemption from other monkish duties. He was out and about in the world, dealing with suppliers and carriers. Chaucer had noticed the cellarer at supper the previous evening. Brother Michael conformed to the traditional, slightly hostile picture of the monk. He had a generous shape and a round, cheerful face. Chaucer was reminded of a tavern-keeper he knew in Southwark, a man called Harry Bailey, who was all teeth and smiles on the surface but shrewd and watchful underneath.

  Later in the morning and after the discovery of Adam’s body in the monks’ cemetery, Brother Michael had sought Geoffrey out, no doubt under instructions from the prior. It was wonderful, thought Chaucer, what having a foothold in court – or being related to a royal mistress – could do. People became so willing to help.

  ‘The prior says that you wish to know about Adam, Master Chaucer. I don’t know much but I will tell you what I can if you come with me.’

  They entered the cellarer’s building on the western side of the cloister, and Brother Michael ushered Geoffrey upstairs to a well-appointed chamber. Chaucer was surprised to see there the lay person who’d been standing by the outer gatehouse and who had teased the simple Will. He was hovering in the region of a table piled with papers. He seemed about to speak to the cellarer when he observed Chaucer entering the room behind Brother Michael. The monk didn’t trouble to keep the displeasure out of his voice when he said: ‘What are you doing here, Osbert?’

  ‘I thought I dropped something when I was here earlier, master, but I must have been mistaken.’

  Osbert brushed past Brother Michael and left the room, without looking either man in the eye. ‘Insolent fellow,’ said the monk. Then, without asking his guest whether he wanted a drink, he poured red wine into a goblet, which he passed to Chaucer, indicating that he should make himself at ease in one of the chairs. He filled his own goblet and sat down with a plump sigh opposite Geoffrey. Chaucer noticed a black cat extended on the windowsill, probably the one he’d seen earlier in the inner court. He waited. He was interested to see what approach Brother Michael would take.

  ‘Of course, I took the man on only as an act of charity,’ were the cellarer’s first words. ‘He said he had been working at one of our sister houses, St Pancras of Lewes. He said that his hand had been crushed by a falling block of stone.’

  ‘You say “he said”,’ said Geoffrey. ‘It sounds as though you didn’t believe him.’

  Brother Michael shrugged and spilled some wine on his habit. He didn’t appear to notice. Like blood, the wine stain would hardly show. ‘Master Chaucer, I am not a man of the world as you are. If someone tells me something, I tend to believe it. If a man comes to me desperate for employment and claims to have received an injury while working in the service of our order at another house, then it is almost my duty to see that such a person is accommodated. He had already applied to me once and I had turned him down because, to be truthful, I didn’t much care for his looks. But when he asked again and since we were short-handed on account of sickness, I took him on.’

  ‘Shouldn’t it have been the responsibility of the Lewes house to show him charity in the first place, Brother Michael? And why did the dead man end up here in Bermondsey?’

  ‘I don’t know, Master Geoffrey, if I may call you that. The man hinted to me that he had a falling-out with someone in St Pancras, and in view of the tragic events that have occurred here I think that that is more than likely. As for why he finished up in the priory, well, some men prefer to wander where their feet take them…and his feet brought him to Bermondsey. Another drink?’

  Chaucer shook his head. The cellarer poured himself more wine. His large fingers were loaded with rings. Geoffrey was reminded of the ring still in his pocket, the one handed to him by simple William together with the comment about bones. Something about Brother Michael’s story didn’t altogether convince Geoffrey. Whether it was the cellarer’s claim not to be a man of the world, a sure sign (in Chaucer’s eyes) that the speaker was the opposite of unworldly, or whether it was his defensive readiness to explain why he’d taken on Adam, he couldn’t say.

  ‘We needed another man, you understand. One of the masons – what’s his name? Simon – he was sick. Still is, I think.’

  ‘I understand that Simon Morton fell sick with a fever after working with his brother in a cellar below here,’ said Geoffrey. He was surprised, and gratified, at the change in Brother Michael’s expression at these words. The broad, cheerful face closed up. Chaucer was again reminded of the Southwark tavern-keeper, the way Harry Bailey’s expression would alter if there was a dispute over a reckoning. To conceal the change, Brother Michael carried the goblet to his full lips once more. When he brought it down again, he’d recovered.

  ‘That’s true. He caught a fever after working in the cellar. Post hoc sed non propter hoc, though. You understand me?’

  ‘It was a coincidence that Simon Morton got sick, and nothing to do with what he was working on in the cellar. Yes, I understand. What were he and his brother doing, by the way?’

  ‘Some stonework had given way down there. They were repairing it. They are masons, Master Chaucer. That is their job.’

  ‘I hear there are tales told about the place.’

  ‘This is an old foundation. It is built on dead men’s bones. Of course, there are tales told about every corner of the priory. There is nothing remarkable about the cellar, nothing at all. Is there anything more you wish to know? I have a heap of business to attend to.’

  Brother Michael gestured towards the table laden with papers and parchment. At some point during their conversation the black cat had removed itself from the windowsill and settled itself among Brother Michael’s papers. Noticing this, the cellarer tut-tutted but made no move to shift the animal. Chaucer would have wagered heavily that the cellarer was not really concerned about the business he had to attend to. The cat would remain undisturbed as a paperweight. But he took the hint and got up to leave, thanking Michael for his time.

  Yet when he was in the open air, he wondered what he’d achieved despite the undercurrents of the interview. The only help to an investigation was the ring which was still in his pocket and which might have been discovered in the underground room. So he armed himself with a lantern from his room and went in search of the entrance. It was easy enough to find on the western end of the cloister.

  He descended the steep steps. At the bottom was a stout door. Half-hoping that it would be locked and so frustrate his search, he tested the iron handle. But the door wasn’t locked, and it opened smoothly and silently to his touch. He jumped when he felt something brush against his leg. But it was only the cat, the large black cat he’d recently seen stretched at ease on Brother Michael’s windowsill and among his papers. Now it was eager to get into the vault ahead of him. Be my guest, he thought. There’s no accounting for taste, especially a cat’s.

  Holding up the lantern, Geoffrey emerged at one corner of what seemed by the uncertain light to be a long, rectangular chamber. Old sacking and fragments of wood were strewn along one side, while on the opposite side man-sized niches had been cut into the walls. Nothing at present seemed to be stored here, perhaps on account of the damp. It struck chill, and he could hear the drip of water. He should not stay
down here long. The air was bad, bad enough to have put a man on his sick-bed. Geoffrey Chaucer felt uncomfortable. Was it because he felt like a trespasser even though the prior had given him permission to wander? Not just that, he decided. It was as if a weight was pressing on his shoulders. No wonder the masons didn’t enjoy working here.

  Nevertheless, now he’d got himself down here he ought to have a proper look for…for what? After a few moments of investigation with the lantern, Geoffrey thought he’d discovered the spot where the Morton brothers must have been doing their repair work. Most of the niches in the wall were veiled in cobwebs but a couple were clear. The mortar appeared fresher in these recesses, and there were crumbs of stone on the ground. He wondered why repairs were necessary, since nothing of value was stored in this place, then supposed that there was a risk of ground water breaking through the skin of stone and rendering the chamber quite unusable in future.

  Geoffrey walked the length of the chamber, which was solidly vaulted. The cat accompanied him, then lost interest and went to investigate something in a dark corner. As Chaucer drew towards the further end, the sense of oppression grew stronger, and by the time he’d reached the wall he was almost gasping for breath for all that the chill in the air was increasing. He gave a cursory inspection to the wall that closed off the room. Curiously, it appeared to be of a later date than the other stonework. No, not later, he decided, looking more closely by the lantern-light. But finished more quickly and carelessly – the blocks were not so neatly aligned and the mortar was slightly crumbled. Lantern in his left hand, he put the palm of his right to the wall and at once removed it, as though the surface was either very hot or very cold (but it was neither). It was curious that the masons had not been instructed to carry out repairs here as well as on the niches in the longer wall. The only reason could be that there was no danger from water seeping through from the other side, and that therefore whatever lay beyond this wall was not earth but a hollow space or cavity. Geoffrey might have confirmed this by rapping on the wall, but something kept his free hand by his side. In any case this was not the area of the chamber which concerned him. There was no more to see at this end.

  Thankfully, he turned back towards the entrance. His eyes were absorbed by the circle of light as he picked his way across the flagged floor, but he was abruptly aware of a dark flicker in the area at the bottom of the steps by the half-open door. All at once it occurred to him that he’d been foolish in descending to this chamber by himself, apart from the cat. But it was human company he had now, not company inside the chamber but beyond the door, which thudded to with a draught of air. Chaucer ran towards the door, but it was firmly shut by the time he reached it. He heard the scrape of a key being turned on the other side and then feet – very rapid feet – ascending the steps.

  He rapped on the solid wood and called out. The black cat joined him and miaowed loudly. One of the brothers or lay workers must have been making a tour of inspection and observed the open door to the crypt. Without bothering to check whether anyone was inside he’d closed it and turned the key. Yet even as this innocent explanation ran through Chaucer’s head, a more sinister one was keeping pace with it. This action was deliberate. Anybody coming to lock up would surely have glimpsed the light of the swaying lantern or heard the sound of steps within. But the decisive evidence was the running feet. No one honestly engaged on fastening doors would run away from the scene as if his life depended on it.

  He tried the door again but it was well secured. Then he called out more loudly. Not a cry for help but ‘Hey!’ and ‘Is anybody there?’ He paused and waited for the sound of descending feet and rattling keys and the breathless apology that would follow.

  No sounds came.

  Geoffrey took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. He felt his skin crawling. Ever since childhood he’d had a fear of being shut in. He did not relish being imprisoned in this place even for a few minutes. For it would only be a few minutes, surely, before someone heard his cries?

  Then he recalled the thickness of the walls, built to last, built as if to muffle sounds. No one knew he was down here either, no one except the individual who’d locked the door on him. Geoffrey’s absence would be noticed after a time, certainly. But would anyone come looking for him? And, if they did, would they trouble to explore a deserted, unused crypt? Wouldn’t it be assumed that he’d simply decided to quit the priory, perhaps unsettled by the day’s events? After all, he wasn’t bound by the rules of the place. He was free to come and go. If he didn’t appear at mealtimes, would Richard Dunton conclude that he had got fed up with his Bermondsey sojourn and returned to his wife and family across the river?

  A sudden, grim vision flashed through Chaucer’s overactive brain. The discovery of a starved, desiccated corpse after some weeks. It was an absurd image, yet not so absurd as to prevent him breaking out in a sweat. He renewed his pummelling on the door and his shouting. He listened. Nothing, apart from the drip of water somewhere in the depths of the chamber and the bell for prayer resounding distantly – very distantly – outside. He might as well save his breath. There would be no one around to listen to him for the next half-hour or so.

  He examined the candle in its socket inside the cylindrical lantern. It was reduced to a stub. It was the candle he’d been reading by in bed the previous night, transferred by him from a candleholder to the lantern in preparation for this little expedition. It would have been prudent to have equipped himself with a fresh candle. Too late now. Unpleasant as it was being stuck down here, it would be many times worse being without any illumination at all.

  Well, no doubt someone would appear in answer to his calls sooner or later, but in the meantime he must explore his temporary prison. The door was immovable but perhaps there was some other way in and out of the chamber. If he hadn’t noticed it on his first inspection, then that would be because he hadn’t been searching for it. And if he was going to find it, he needed the few remaining minutes of light from the candle stub. He made a more thorough tour of the vault, running the light over the walls and fetching up once more at the end wall. Again the sense of airless oppression grew stronger even as the candlelight began to give ominous flickers. Geoffrey was on the point of giving up and returning to the main door – the monks must surely have finished their prayers by now – when he felt a draught at knee height.

  Geoffrey dipped down with the lantern and his heart leaped to see what he hadn’t observed before, a small aperture at the base of the wall. He got down on hands and knees, observing that the black cat had rejoined him.

  ‘Is this a way out?’ he said to his companion.

  Depositing the lantern beside him with care to keep it out of the draught, Geoffrey pushed his head into the opening. It was a little wider than his shoulders. A waft of dank, odorous air met his nose. The hole gave on to a kind of shaft, sloping down at an angle. He held the lantern over the hole to reveal ancient stonework. He could hear nothing but had the sense of water below. Probably the aperture gave access to the priory’s drainage system. Somewhere, the descending shaft would connect to a system of channels which would eventually emerge into the open. The prospect of slithering down the shaft and then making his way like a rat through a besmeared and confusing network of underground passages, perhaps for hundreds of yards, did not appeal.

  He had a choice. He could make his way back towards the main door and resume his attempt to get noticed, or he could launch himself down the stone shaft. At that moment the candle in the lantern gave a final flicker and went out, and a blanket of dark fell on the chamber. Geoffrey was still on hands and knees, debating. He felt the whisk of the cat’s tail against his sweating face.

  At the same instant, and to Chaucer’s overwhelming relief, he heard a banging on the door and a voice calling: ‘Is anyone there?’ He shouted in reply and there was a jingle of keys and the sound of the door swinging inwards. A figure stood at the entrance. It was one of the brothers.

  Geoffrey le
vered himself to his feet.

  ‘Who’s there?’ said the monk.

  ‘Geoffrey Chaucer, a visitor to your priory.’

  ‘What are you doing down here?’

  By now Chaucer had reached the door. He recognized the monk. It was the revestiarius, the young man who was assistant to old Peter and whose name was…what was it now?…ah yes, Ralph. The brother also recognized Chaucer as he drew closer to daylight, which reached the bottom of the steps.

  ‘Why, sir! I did not know it was you.’

  ‘A foolish error. I was exploring the place and stupidly got myself trapped in here somehow.’

  The cat appeared and shot past the two men. Brother Ralph smiled and said fondly: ‘Magnus, you foolish thing.’

  Chaucer reflected on the appropriateness of the Latin name. It was a black barrel of an animal, well fed on kitchen scraps. He’d been on the point of describing how he’d been deliberately locked inside but something checked him. Better to treat it as an accident.

  The young monk stood fingering the bunch of keys. He said: ‘Someone reported shouting from down here. I dismissed his words, then thought I’d better make certain after all.’

  ‘I’m glad you did.’

  Brother Ralph glanced at the lantern which Chaucer was holding. ‘You were searching for something?’ he said.

  ‘No, I was only curious to see this place. I have heard stories of it.’

  ‘Stories?’

  ‘Of spirits and hauntings and suchlike,’ said Geoffrey. He was truthful enough in claiming he had not been searching for anything in particular, but he grew a little uneasy to find himself blathering away about spirits. Brother Ralph said nothing but stood aside to allow Geoffrey to pass him and then secured the door to the underground chamber. They climbed the steps to the outside. It was early afternoon. The sun shone full into the inner court, giving Geoffrey a better glimpse of Brother Ralph. He was a short young man whose pale complexion was emphasized by his black habit. He had a bland, amiable look. Chaucer noticed the sacrist and librarian, Brother Peter, passing in the background. The sun caught Peter’s spectacles, making them glint under his cowl. It was hard to tell but he seemed to be looking with curiosity at Geoffrey and Brother Ralph.