“Hmm? Oh, goodness me, no. Oh, not at all. But we do have a waiting list, you see. There are eight private rooms beyond that door, there.” He pointed to a wing off to the right, marked private. I wondered what it would be like to live in an eight-hundred-year-old almshouse.
“Are there ghosts?” I said, realizing as I said it that probably every visitor who had ever dropped by had asked that. Father David smiled sweetly.
“Not so’s you’d notice,” he said. “You’ll find the atmosphere is quite holy, really.” He was right. We moved into the refectory, a high-ceilinged dining room that was originally used for the pilgrim’s meals. It was now a meeting hall and library, with a thirteenth century mural on one wall. I had one of my time-travelley flashes that made my skin tingle. Seven hundred years ago, an artist had stood right here, a brush in his or her hand, a board with paint on it, probably hand-mixed, the brush made from squirrel hair, and had dabbed colour onto this very wall. The mural began at head-height and soared up to the ceiling. The artist would have had to stand on some scaffolding, and I wondered if he or she worked while the pilgrims were eating. I could just imagine the comments.
“ ’Ere, that’s a bit of orl right, that is. The eyes follow you round the room, don’t they?”
Up a flight of steps, we were led into the chapel. The woodwork of the roof was amazing—like the ribs of a boat, upside down. There was a little altar and some wooden pews so old the wood was black, and the place smelled wonderful—that spicy scent of ancient wood and incense and prayer books. The chapel was still used for evening prayer and the occasional Eucharist on festival days. It had been used from 1569 to 1880 as a schoolroom, Father David said, but was now restored to its proper use.
A bell tinkled, and Father David excused himself. “We must have another visitor,” he said and headed back to the entranceway.
“Have you seen inside the Cathedral yet?” I asked Richard.
“Yeah, I poked my head in on Tuesday,” he said. “Although it’s not really my thing—churches. I have what you’d call a secular background. It was pretty magnificent, though—architecturally, at least.”
“But you know, I like this place better,” I said. “This feels like there were really people here, crowded on the pews, bundled up in rags and glad of a warm place to sit down. People who had the kind of faith that makes you travel hundreds of miles on foot to touch a tomb.”
“That kind of faith still exists,” Richard said. “Ever seen pictures of the Kabaa at Mecca?”
“Yeah, or the Pope’s shindigs at the Vatican, or World Youth Day—I suppose it’s the same thing, isn’t it?” We sat in silence for a moment, soaking up the atmosphere. Father David had called it holy, which doesn’t mean a heck of a lot to me, but there was something, that tingling that I’d come to associate with very old things and places, the twinge of unformed excitement that I’d felt from the moment that taxi left Canterbury station and wound through the narrow, cobblestoned streets. I began to form an idea in my mind, a puppet show based on Becket’s murder, a group of ragged pilgrim puppets at the tomb, seeing a vision played out before their eyes, the knights in dull, pewter-coloured armour, and the sagging figure of the priest as the swords did their horrible work. Then the vision was replaced by a modern one—Alma, being attacked by a masked figure. I shook my head to dispel the image and turned to Richard.
“Do you ever feel you’re missing something, not being religious?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “There’s a lot to be said for having a path to follow. It’s just that the paths I’ve come across so far seem to me to be full of human rules that don’t make sense.”
“Yeah—like those Right-to-Lifers.”
“The ones who preach that abortion is murder but advocate the murder of abortion providers, you mean?”
“Yes, those ones. The ones who murder those who don’t agree with them.”
“An eye for an eye, eh? Not a very loving path.”
“I’ll say.”
It was interesting having this conversation with Richard Seth, of all people, a man I’d only just met. It was the kind of discussion I’d often wanted to have with Becker, but we’d never seemed to get around to it. Becker was not a religious person, unless you count the religion of duty and loyalty to the law. I suddenly found myself doing the comparison-thing. Becker versus Richard. If it were Richard’s baby, the Sprog nestling in my belly, we would probably have had a conversation about spiritual paths a long time ago. We probably would have discussed it in terms of the new person and how we were going to answer her big questions, like “why are we here?” and “is God real?” We’d discuss whether or not we would baptize her, whether or not the Big Guy really gave a damn about the business at all. I risked a quick look at Richard’s profile. Gosh, but he was a good-looking man. But there was more to his attraction than his looks; he had a calm about him, a kind of settled peace that made the air around his body feel like a warm bath.
Becker’s immediate presence was entirely different. It crackled with energy, a red-headed, do-stuff energy that could be irritating if you were in the wrong sort of mood. Becker’s sexuality was like that, too—always present under the surface, and I’d learned that my reaction to it was oddly connected with confrontation. I was most frequently aroused by Becker when he was being forceful and confrontational. I’d thought that this was my problem—when I’d considered it in terms of a problem, that is, usually when I was alone and yearning for a bit of pillow-buddy activity. Richard Seth’s immediate presence was, what? Comforting? Peaceful? Secure, even? It wasn’t that I wanted to feel that way. I was perfectly aware of the inappropriateness of it, both in terms of time, place and circumstance. But it was out of my sphere of control. I was developing a roaring crush on this guy, and I couldn’t do a thing about it. Awkward, very. He turned then and caught me full in the eyes with a smile that would melt rock. We didn’t say anything. Just looked. It was a lovely moment and held a kind of promise that made my chest feel full. Poor Becker, I thought. I am such a flake.
Father David returned, looking bewildered. “Nobody there. It must have been one of our residents,” he said. “Forgotten their side-door key, I expect. They do that from time to time.” He continued our tour, speaking as he led us out of the chapel. “The Hospital was probably at its peak of use in the 1380s, when Chaucer was writing his Canterbury Tales. It would have been crowded, and probably smelly.” He led us down a steep flight of steps, past another small chapel, into the undercroft, the first part of the Hospital to be built—the pilgrims’ sleeping area. They may have called it the undercroft, but it felt like the crypt of the Cathedral, only mustier, full of the smell of cold stone. There was strong lighting down there, but it did nothing to dispel the sensation of entombment. To the right were a series of low-ceilinged cubicles, like cells, divided up by stone walls and archways. Stone platforms were built against the outside walls, long, narrow benches, which would in the old days presumably have been covered in straw. Above each platform was a small, high window cut into the thick stone walls—a window that let in a chilly blue light from the outside, but in winter, in the 1300s, they would probably have been covered over with sacking and straw. The straw would have been alive with vermin, I imagined. It would have been like a barn. There would have been several people sleeping in each alcove, huddled together for warmth, snoring and farting in their sleep.
“Can you direct me to the facilities?” Richard said, suddenly and urgently, to our guide. “Sorry, Polly—the tuna baguette, I think. I won’t be long.” I patted his arm in sympathy. It’s not only in Mexico that travellers get caught by Montezuma’s Revenge.
“A touch of Becket Belly?” I said. He smiled wanly and followed Father David’s instructions to find the door on the right at the top of the stairs.
Father David, in a fine, theatrical voice, quoted from an early archbishop’s vision-statement as we made our way down to the end of the long room. “The Hospital is for the maintenance of poor pilgrims and other in
firm persons resorting thither to remain until they are healed of their infirmities—for the poor, for persons going to Rome, for others coming to Canterbury and needing shelter, and for lying-in women.”
“What on earth would it have been like to give birth down here?”
“Rather frightening, I expect. Though better than in a stable in the desert,” the priest said.
At the end of the room, we turned back to head back upstairs, but I lingered and slipped into one of the alcoves for a moment, to sit on a platform and let my imagination have its way with me. Moments later, the lights went out, leaving the undercroft in eerie darkness.
“Oh, bother,” Father David said. “The fuse has gone again, I expect. Don’t move, my dear, or you’ll come a cropper in the dark. I won’t be a moment.” He scurried out, and an utter and profound silence descended. Slowly, my eyes adjusted to the dim blue light coming from the narrow window above my head. I knelt on the platform and peered out of it—and saw a gravestone almost immediately before my eyes—a long-dead pilgrim, maybe. Maybe a lying-in woman who hadn’t quite made it, her bones mere inches from me on the other side of the stone wall, buried deeply in the Canterbury earth.
I sensed the person behind me a split second before the hand came around to cover my mouth. I struggled, but only for a moment. He was very strong, and I could smell the distinct odour of fish.
“I’m right tired of following you about,” the person hissed into my ear. “You was supposed to do the handover at the airport, and my people are sick of waiting.” The handover? I tried to speak, but he wasn’t going to let me. “No,” he said. “You listen here. If you don’t cough up sharpish, you’ll be for it, see?”
I could hear a shuffling in the darkness by the stairway. Richard’s voice pierced the dark. “Polly?” he said. “Are you okay down there?” The man tensed and tightened his hold on me, which hurt. The Sprog was squashed against the wall and kicked my kidneys in protest.
“So listen up. This ’ere’s your last chance. Bring the stuff to Greyfriars at midnight tonight. Come alone, and you won’t get hurt. Then you can go back to your bleedin’ puppets, and nobody’s the wiser. Got it?” He released me then, and I found I had been holding my breath and couldn’t speak for a moment. I heard a back door slam and then the lights came on again. I put my hand to my belly. Sorry, love. It’s all right, I thought at her.
“Polly?”
“I’m here. At the back.” Footsteps, quick ones.
“What’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Richard said. I looked at him carefully. Had he faked his sudden indisposition in order to flick a switch and plunge the place into darkness? Was this all a set-up?
“I’m all right,” I said, scrambling for something to say. “Just felt dizzy for a second. There. The lights are on again. It’s spooky down here in the dark.”
“Yeah, too much like a dungeon. Here’s the priest.” Father David had returned to us, shaking his head and making little placating movements with his hands.
“Oh, I do hope you weren’t distressed being left in the dark like that,” he said. “Quite extraordinary, really. The fuse wasn’t blown, you know. Just came loose. I can’t think why.”
“Never mind,” I said, my voice sounding a little shaky. “I got a taste of what it must have been like, you know, back in the days before electricity.”
“Of course there would have been candles,” Father David said. “Lamps and so on. It is eerie in the dark, though. Come on up out of this and into the chapel. You look a bit pale.”
“She says she felt dizzy,” Richard said. He was looking at me intensely, and I could hear his subtext of “tell me what’s wrong.” The problem was, I wasn’t sure whether or not I could trust him any more. I felt a sudden overwhelming need to lie down, preferably at the Pilgrim’s Rest, with Cedric standing guard over me with his medieval cudgel.
We thanked Father David for his kind tour of Eastbridge, and Richard popped a ten-pound note into the collection box on our way out, which I thought was sweet of him. Father David’s eyes bugged out a little when he saw it, and I remembered that the place existed purely on the basis of charity. We emerged into bright sunshine, and the horror of my encounter with the faceless thug receded a bit, though my knees still felt like water.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Richard said. “I was sitting there on the can, and then the lights went out and I got this really strong feeling that you were, you know, freaking out or something. Are you afraid of the dark? Claustrophobia?” He looked so earnest and genuine, I found it hard to imagine that he might have been in league with the thug, but before I could tell him about it, I needed a little time alone to work things out.
“Well, there was something, Richard, but I’m going to sit on it for a bit, if you don’t mind. Are you going to the body-puppet show tonight?”
“The Czechoslovakian thing? You bet. They’re supposed to be amazing.”
“Why don’t we sit together? And then I think I need to talk to you.” His brow furrowed, which, on a face that beautiful, is kind of heartbreaking.
“Can’t you talk to me now?” he said. “Is it something to do with the Cathedral thing?”
“Maybe,” I said, “but I need some space, okay?” Oh—how many times had I said that to a guy? I need some space. Leave me alone while I wrestle with something on my own. Sometimes I was so predictable, I bored even myself.
“Dinner, maybe? Let me buy you dinner, at least. You’ll be feeling better by six, eh?”
I agreed to meet him at the Moghul again for dinner before the show, and he escorted me back to the Pilgrim’s Rest, where Cedric was at his post by the front reception desk, the cudgel near to hand.
“I’ll meet you there,” I said to Richard at the door. He left in a dejected kind of way, his shoulders down, and I felt bad for sending him off like that. We’d had a great day together, up until the moment the thug had put his smelly paw over my face. It wasn’t Richard’s fault. Or was it? I needed to think.
“I’m feeling a bit tuckered out, Cedric,” I said, in response to my landlord’s inquiring expression. “I’m going to go lie down for a bit, okay? How’s Mr. Binterhof?”
“Sleeping like a baby,” he said. “Do you need a wake-up call?”
“Please. Five-ish would be great.”
“Five-ish it shall be,” he said. “And in the meantime, I’ll batten down the hatches and defend our ramparts from the advancing hordes.” His eyes glittered, and I wondered as I mounted the stairs whether Cedric had been at the sherry. I felt a twinge of regret. A whacking great beaker of sherry would have gone down sweetly at that point. But still, I had the Sprog to think about, and what we both really needed was sleep.
Twenty-One
Dreams are like funhouse mirrors that reflect your emotional state. Since pregnancy can feel like an emotional roller coaster, don’t be surprised if your dreams become more vivid and crazy than usual.
-From Big Bertha’s Total Baby Guide
I am back in the undercroft at Eastbridge, which has somehow been relocated to the Cathedral and is now part of the church crypt. I know this, because Alma, who is painting a mural on the wall, has told me so.
“It’s for all the lying-in women,” she says, busy with paint and brush, speaking out of the corner of her mouth in a reverent whisper. “For us, you know.” She is alive and well and as pregnant as I am. The picture she is painting is gruesome in the extreme—the Becket murder scene. I look down at her palette and the red paint is liquid—there appears to be an awful lot of it, and it’s spilling over and dripping onto the stone floor.
“I don’t want to have my baby down here,” I say, panicked, because I know that the row of open coffins in the corner have been prepared for us, and I won’t have any choice. We’re locked in.
“There’s a side door we can use,” I tell her. “Stop painting, and let’s get out of here.”
“I can’t stop, Polly. Look—the demonstration’s coming, an
d we have to make sure the voice of reason is heard. “Along the corridor, whose ceiling has become an upside-down boat, a parade advances. There are soldiers in armour with swords, and I can see a baby puppet being carried on a stick behind them. I know at once that the demonstration will be horribly violent. I run for the side door, chased by the soldiers. One catches me from behind and puts his hand around my face, his gauntlet cutting into my neck. He hisses into my ear. “Silly bint. We’ve got a large coffin at Greyfriars for you, and we’re expecting you to do the handover tonight. Nobody’llget hurt. Anyway, it’s better than a manger in the desert!”
When you’re pregnant and bulgy, the option of sitting bolt upright in bed is not available to you. So I sat bolt sideways instead, sweating like a cheese.
“Miss Deacon? This is your wakeup call,” Cedric said, discreetly tapping at my door. “I’ve got a cup of tea here, if you’d like it.”
“Thanks, Cedric. Just a moment.” I had curled up under the duvet fully dressed and only took a moment to rub my eyes, heave myself up and totter to the door.
“My heavens, dear, are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Cedric. Just sleepy, that’s all.”
“That’s a nasty bruise on your neck.” I reached up instinctively to touch the place where the thug’s wrist had pressed into me, his hand on my mouth. In movies, people who have been manhandled by bad guys always get up right away, shake their heads, and carry on, perhaps with a cosmetic trickle of blood coming from the edge of their mouths, but only if they’ve been punched in the face. In movies, people who have had a hand placed over their mouths simply take it as a matter of course, and suffer no ill effects. In real life, such episodes leave traces behind. I was stiff, too. Achey.
“I must have slept funny,” I said. “I bruise easily. Thanks for getting me up, and thanks so much for the tea, eh?” I smiled as best I could and closed the door gently, hoping I wasn’t being rude. Cedric was a sweet person, and while I didn’t mind his familiarity, I wasn’t about to be inviting him in for a cozy bedside chat. I went to the mirror and looked. Yes, there was a mark there—though in the dim light of the hallway, I was surprised that Cedric had been able to discern a “nasty bruise”.
Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle Page 93
