Grey sensed a movement behind him, and threw himself to the ground, as Yarrow lunged at him with the knife. The churchwarden missed, but recovered himself, grabbing a handful of Grey’s hair and dragging his head backwards to expose his throat. Grey, with his hands bound, was helpless to defend himself. He screamed as the murderous blade flashed in the candlelight, but before it could bite into his flesh, the canon caught the churchwarden’s wrist, dragging the knife upwards.
‘No! I will not permit this sacred chapel to be desecrated by bloodshed. Besides, there is no need.’
Yarrow backed away, his head bowed. The canon crouched down and pulled Grey into a sitting position, though he did not help him to rise.
‘I neglected to mention, Master Grey, that before we consecrated this place, it once had another use when Newstead Priory flourished. It was used as a carcer, a place of correction for those among us who broke the rule.’
He gestured towards the cave wall nearest the tunnel to the Hutt, from which dangled a set of heavy iron chains.
Then he beckoned to two of the other canons. Before Grey could grasp what they intended, the men rose, lifted Grey on to his feet and dragged him over the rough floor to the chains.
Grey twisted and fought with every ounce of strength he had, but it was useless. They threw him once more to the ground and hauled him into a sitting position against the sharp jagged wall of the cave. The two men pinned him there while a third forced his neck into an iron collar and manacled his hands above his head to the chains on either side.
The prior stared down at him. ‘Do you wish to make your confession? If you do so in all humility I will absolve you.’
Grey stared up into the face, seeing only the lips move. The eyes were still masked deep in shadow.
‘You . . . you can’t mean to leave me here like this. It could take days for my men to find me.’
‘If they ever find you,’ the prior corrected.
Grey was still pleading desperately to be released as the canons busied themselves packing the crucifix, chalice and other items of value into their packs, which they distributed among themselves before each one kneeled and kissed the reliquary of St Beornwyn. Finally they wrapped her in woollen cloth and stowed her away in a plain wooden box. The canons quickly changed into clothes of beggars, merchants and pedlars, hiding their own robes in their packs. Each kneeled for a blessing before their prior, who dispatched them two at a time along the tunnel towards the Hutt, carefully leaving a few minutes’ gap between each departing pair.
The prior was the very last to leave. Even then, even as the Black Canon stood over him, Grey was sure he did not mean to leave him there. Now that the other canons were all safely dispersed, the prior would surely release him from the chains.
The prior bowed his head gravely. ‘I shall leave the candles burning. They will be a comfort to you until they go out.’
Grey tried in vain to wrest his arms from the chains. ‘No, no, please, I beg you. You can’t leave me here. This cave is so far beneath the ground, no one will hear me shouting for help . . . You can take my horse. By the time I manage to walk back to the village you’ll be long gone. Please . . . I give you my word, as God is my witness, I will not hunt for Beornwyn’s relic. I’ll report that it has been destroyed. I’ll be no more threat to you. I swear it on my mother’s grave!’
‘You and all of Cromwell’s men are a threat to every true servant of God. If you cannot destroy St Beornwyn, then you will hunt down other relics, destroying the holy things that God has sanctified and through which he works his miracles in this dark world.’
Grey could not believe the man could sound so calm, yet was preparing to leave him helpless, trapped in the cave.
‘But you said you did not want this consecrated chapel desecrated by death and I will die if I am not found!’
‘Desecrated by bloodshed,’ the prior corrected. ‘And there will be no bloodshed. If God chooses to save you then you will live. If he decrees you will be punished by death then you will die and your spirit will guard this holy place until another comes to take your place. That will be your atonement. Your fate lies in God’s hands now, not mine. I suggest that if you hope for a miracle, you should pray to St Beornwyn to save you.’
The prior bowed his head, and to his horror, Grey heard him softly chanting ‘miserere nobis’ – ‘Have mercy on us’ – and realised he was reciting the prayer for the dying. Then the Black Canon turned and walked away down the tunnel, still singing softly, until it seemed as if the rocks themselves were whispering the prayer as they closed around the chained man.
Grey’s screams and pleas echoed through the cave, but the prior did not return. In the distance, he heard the hollow grating of a stone being pushed back into place. And knew he was utterly alone.
The candles flickered in the draught that rushed down the tunnel as the stone fell into place. Then they steadied themselves, burning steadily again. The soft yellow light filled the great empty cave. But even as the full horror of what the next few hours and days would bring filled Grey’s terrified mind, the first of the candles guttered and died, leaving only a wisp of black smoke that rose momentarily into the shadows above and dissolved. Darkness snuggled a little closer to poor Roger Grey.
Outside, though Grey couldn’t hear them, the midnight bells in the distant churches rang in the Christmas morn. And as Edward had predicted, the first flakes of snow began to fall, covering tree and stone, footprints and tracks. It would be a white Christmas.
Historical Note
Newstead Abbey was built between 1164 and 1174 by King Henry II to atone for the murder of Thomas Becket. It became a priory of Austin Canons, known as the Black Canons from their robes, who were not monks, but ordained priests living under monastic rule. King Henry VIII drove the canons from the abbey and on 28 May 1540 sold the lands to one of his loyal supporters Sir John Byron who promptly converted the abbey into his family home, demolishing most of the priory church to reuse the stone for farm buildings.
The romantic poet Lord George Gordon Byron inherited the title and estates in 1798. The house was in such a ruinous state, thanks to his great-uncle stripping it of its valuables, that the poet could only afford to refurnish a few of the rooms, where he lived amid the ruins. He excavated the North Cloister in the hope of finding the fabled treasure of the Black Canons to restore the house, but found only skeletons.
The Royal Hutt was built around 1400 just outside the present entrance to Newstead Abbey as a shelter for the Forest Wardens who patrolled Sherwood Forest. Legend has it that there is a tunnel stretching for about a mile from the Hutt to Newstead Abbey, which was still in use up until the seventeenth century. This is quite plausible as the whole area is riddled with underground caves. The tunnel from the Hutt is said to be haunted by the ghost of a man who died of starvation, having been chained up in it. The tunnel has since been blocked off and ‘The Hutt’ is now a popular pub and restaurant of that name, where you can still see some of the ancient features of the buildings.
The Church of St Mary of the Purification in Blidworth is one of the few remaining churches in the country to hold the ancient rocking ceremony at Candlemas, in which a baby boy of the parish born closest to Christmas Day is rocked in an ancient cradle during the service. This is thought to bring great blessings to the child and family. The churchyard is the legendary burial place of Will Scarlet, one of Robin Hood’s men, and Maid Marian is said to have lived for a time in the village. Only the west tower of the original medieval church survives; the rest was later rebuilt.
Epilogue
Boris Malenkov gazed from his top-floor window at the high summer clouds. He glanced again at his Rolex, then stared out of the window once more. Young Deverill was late by all of eleven minutes. When he arrived, Boris would give Mikhail . . . he would give him . . . He struggled to remember the right English expression. A piece of his head, was it? Or maybe it was a piece of mind? Anesha could have told him which one was right. He always
relied on her to correct him when he made mistakes in his English. But Anesha was no longer here to put him right.
Boris Malenkov’s thoughts turned from his wife and back to his visitor. His irritation at Mikhail was tempered by a reminder of what the young man was bringing. If he really was carrying it – the text message had been no more than the single word ‘BUTTERFLY’ – then there would be no reproaches for his lateness, none at all.
There was a tap at the door. Boris trundled round expectantly but it was only Eric Butler.
‘Excuse me, Mr Malenkov, but is your guest staying for lunch?’
‘How did you know I had guest?’
‘Sonia mentioned someone was coming to see you and I thought that you might be requiring me to cook for two.’
‘No guest for lunch,’ said Boris, and then corrected himself. ‘I mean, no lunch for guest.’
‘Very well, Mr Malenkov.’
As Eric Butler made to close the door Boris raised his hand. ‘I do not want lunch myself. And please find something to do yourself downstairs. In fact, take afternoon off.’
‘Thank you, Mr Malenkov.’
After the door closed, Boris waited for the clank of the lift taking Butler to the ground floor. While he waited, he looked at the icons arrayed on the walls of this top-floor room, part of his private quarters. He looked at the icons without really seeing them. The autumnal glow of their background was as natural to him as the sun, while the elongated, clear-cut features of the saints were familiar, like the faces of his long-dead parents. The exterior wall with its windows giving a view across the treetops of Eaton Square was the only one not covered with icons.
He heard the soft thump of the lift as it reached the ground floor. Boris had not even been aware that Eric Butler was up here on this level, in his little kitchen at the back. Generally Boris liked his unobtrusiveness. He liked the people who worked for him to be quiet and discreet. Sonia should not have mentioned to Eric Butler that a visitor, a guest, was coming to call. He would have a word with her, he would give her a . . . suddenly he remembered the expression he’d been searching for. It was ‘a piece of his mind’.
If Boris Malenkov had eavesdropped on the scene now taking place on the ground floor, he would most likely have given both Sonia Davies and Eric Butler a piece of his mind. Eric strolled over behind the desk where Sonia sat working her way through a book of sudoku puzzles. He waited to catch her attention and when she did not look round, he reached down, pushed his hand inside her blouse and gave her right breast a friendly tweak.
‘Eric, no,’ said Sonia, dropping the book and wriggling away from him, but not doing so especially quickly. ‘What if he’s watching? You know he doesn’t like that kind of thing. Thinks I’m still a virgin, probably.’
She nodded towards the CCTV camera tucked below the elaborate cornice over the door and angled directly at her desk. Another camera covered the entrance porch and a third surveyed the small walled garden at the rear of the house. All of them fed into a composite picture on a monitor on Sonia’s desk as well as to another screen on Boris Malenkov’s floor.
‘It’s never switched on these days upstairs,’ said Eric, taking his hand out of her blouse but not moving from his position behind Sonia. ‘Or if it is on, Boris never looks at it. Why should he? When was the last time he had a visitor?’
‘He’s expecting one now,’ said Sonia. ‘The gentleman is a few minutes late. Mr Malenkov will not like that.’
‘That’s the mysterious gentleman visitor, the one you won’t tell me about.’
‘Because I don’t know much about him, except he’s young and good-looking. Get away, Eric. I don’t like you behind me.’
‘You don’t?’
Eric Butler moved around and stood in front of Sonia. He was a small man, with deep brown eyes. Sonia was a round blonde. She and Eric had started sleeping together about three months ago. Coincidentally or otherwise, that was about the time it became obvious that the Anesha Foundation was on the skids. The purpose of the Foundation, named for Boris Malenkov’s late wife Anesha (which means chaste in Russian), was to restore purity to the motherland. It was an almost missionary enterprise, one set up when Boris decided on London as his home after making his money – and making enemies – in the newly liberalised Russia. Now in his early seventies, Malenkov had once been no more than a Soviet Party bureaucrat working in the gas industry. Luck and a little arm-twisting enabled him to earn a fortune after the old system fell apart.
But Boris Malenkov was no oligarch in exile. Once in England, his latent spirituality emerged, spurred by the death of Anesha. He set up the organisation in her name, using the Eaton Square house as office and residence. Yet the fortune he brought from Russia eventually dwindled until only a small deposit remained. Where once a dozen or more dedicated young men and women – some English, but most of them expatriates – had prepared pamphlets and flyers, organised appeals and meetings, and liaised with similar organisations, all for the sake of holy Russia, now there was no one left at the house. No one apart from Eric Butler and Sonia Davies. Not that these two engaged in any missionary-style work, they simply held the fort. Eric Butler did a spot of cooking, as well some tidying up and sorting out of papers. Sonia Davies was the receptionist, although there was rarely anyone to be received these days. In between the ground floor and the top one where Boris himself worked and ate and slept, there were rooms full of slightly out-of-date office equipment, printers and filing cabinets, whole floors where the lift never stopped.
‘Where’re you off to then?’ said Sonia.
‘Going for a walk,’ said Eric. ‘He doesn’t want me up there, he doesn’t want me to do lunch for him and his mysterious visitor. Just as well, since there’s nothing in the kitchen. The cupboard is bare. I’d have to break into the petty cash if he wanted food.’
‘You’d be lucky,’ said Sonia.
‘Why doesn’t he sell some of those religious pictures?’ said Eric, reluctant to leave Sonia’s company. ‘He’d get more than petty cash.’
‘Mr Malenkov will not sacrifice the icons,’ said Sonia. ‘Not unless he’s up against it, and probably not even then.’
‘It’s real, is it, this religious thing?’
Eric Butler had been working for Malenkov only since the beginning of the year. Sonia had been with the Anesha Foundation almost since its inception. She knew that the Russian, of whom she was fond, had been motivated to found it partly by his distaste, even outrage, at the way in which his homeland was sinking into a mire of materialism and corruption. Also, there had been the unexpected death of his wife, who happened to be half-English. Malenkov had sunk all of his fortune into the Foundation. Now the money was running out. Of course, he could sell some of those strange golden pictures on the top floor but somehow Sonia didn’t think that he would. It wasn’t worth explaining why to Eric.
Instead she said to her lover: ‘Stop staring at my chest.’
‘Who’s to see?’ said Eric Butler.
‘I am. Besides, you never know if he’s . . . ‘She nodded again in the direction of the CCTV camera. ‘Later, you can look as long as you like.’
‘Good. Let’s have a takeaway. Pre-shag? Or post-shag?’
‘I don’t understand you when you use vulgar terms, Eric. Or foreign ones either. Pre-this, post-that.’
‘Indian, Chinese?’
‘Decisions, decisions.’
‘Your place or mine?’
‘There’s a new Thai restaurant round the corner.’
‘That must be round your corner, Sonia. So it’ll be your place, then.’
‘Get out now,’ said Sonia, her eyes flicking towards the monitor on her desktop. ‘I can see Mr Malenkov’s visitor has arrived. Oh, and we’ll be having that Thai takeaway pre-shag, if you don’t mind.’
Meanwhile, on the top floor, Boris Malenkov was again staring at the high white clouds in the summer sky. He looked down just in time to observe Michael Deverill emerging from a taxi and autom
atically casting an eye up at the very window where Boris stood. Was the young man carrying anything? From this angle, he was unable to see properly.
Deverill disappeared under the portico entrance. Moments later Sonia buzzed to indicate that the visitor was on his way up. Boris sat down at a writing table in the corner nearest the windows. His back was to the door. He picked up a pen and examined it. When the tap at the door came, he waited a moment before answering and also before turning round. Then he pretended to be surprised.
‘Ah, it is you, Mikhail. Kak vashi dela?’
His visitor paused for a moment as if trying to recall the right response to ‘How are you?’ Then he answered simply: ‘Yes, I’m fine, Mr Malenkov. You got my message?’
Boris said nothing. He rose from the chair. His heart beat a little faster as he noticed that Deverill was carrying something before he realised that it was only a plastic bag from a supermarket. Some surprise or query must have appeared on his usually impassive face for Deverill said: ‘Don’t worry, Mr Malenkov, I haven’t brought my shopping with me. Instead I have the item that I mentioned, the one we discussed. The one I texted you about.’
‘That is good.’
‘I often carry around valuable things like this. No one is likely to mug a person with a Sainsbury’s bag.’
Boris Malenkov thought there was something a bit cheap about such deviousness, something almost sacrilegious, if his visitor really had the genuine ‘item’.
‘My father sends his regards,’ said Michael Deverill.
‘You make good side, Mikhail, you and your father Patrick. No, that is not right, not good side. I mean you, you . . .’
‘Make a good team, Mr Malenkov?’
‘Yes, good team.’
For a moment, Michael Deverill looked uncomfortable at the idea of making a good team with his father. Malenkov seemed not to notice. He went on: ‘Come now, Mikhail. Show.’
They were standing on opposite sides of the Chippendale dining table in the middle of the room. Michael Deverill reached into the plastic bag and brought out something wrapped in what looked like a strip torn off a sheet, none too clean either. He laid it gently on the shiny surface of the table and peeled back the folds of cloth. Inside was an unmarked wooden box with a sliding lid, the kind of box – it occurred to Boris – in which you might keep chess pieces. Michael Deverill removed the lid and handed the box to Boris Malenkov.
The False Virgin Page 37
