The Grail Tree

by Jonathan Gash

  I wandered round the main tier of galleries where the Roman and pre-Roman exhibits were on show. Glass cases lined the ancient walls, and in alcoves Roman funereal statues alternated with cased models of scenes – the wharves, galleys, household interiors, industries, clothes and military displays – constructed by local historical societies. I popped in to see my display of model Roman furniture for old time’s sake. That was from the time when I actually made things to give away, which only goes to show how much sense I had. No change to the crummy Civil War section, I noticed in annoyance. The same two heaps of saltpetre and sulphur, the same single unmounted cannon and the dusty armour hanging askew. A breastplate had been added now, lodged unerringly on an old clock movement fixed to a wall. A bloody disgrace. I told an apologetic attendant so, but they haven’t a clue and you might as well talk to the wall.

  By the time three o’clock was approaching I’d made an estimate of the number of attendants the curator had put on duty this festival day. Eight. I hadn’t forgotten to include the old lady at the bookstall, who was doing a roaring trade in reproductions and postcards. There is always a nighttime caretaker, but he was lodged in a little office in a large house at the edge of the Park gardens, which the Castle had taken over as an art gallery and additional museum for household items of post-Georgian times. After an hour or so’s concealment I reckoned I’d be safe.

  The Civil War Gallery is on the second tier. As the Castle Keep is basically rectangular in shape each gallery is identical in area and has more or less the same margins and alcoves as all the rest. Four galleries to each of the two tiers, one gallery to a side. I only wished you couldn’t see all the way across the central space. Still, I consoled myself, even Tarzan couldn’t leap across a gap that size. I peered over into the central area below. The drop from the square glass ceiling to the floor I guessed was about a hundred feet. Without pacing it out, the galleries seemed maybe half as long again. A staircase split into symmetrical curves runs up to the first tier, too showy but essential for the crowds we get. My mouth was already drying when I noticed the Castle attendants beginning to signal across the space that time was getting on. My big moment.

  Apart from the background blare of the distant bands and the murmur of the crowds outside, the chatter in the museum was deafening. That’s the best of museums where antiques are placed in their original settings – the atmosphere, the antiques themselves, the customers, everything becomes so much more relaxed. In those brand new mausoleums the antiques know they’re entombed for all eternity in unloved glass coffins made without a thought as to what a precious object, lived with for centuries and loved as it deserves, actually needs. It beats me why councils believe that a plate-glass cube glaringly badly lit is exactly right for displaying a Viking shield, a jewelled casket of Saxon design, Victorian spectacles, Georgian enamelled or gold toilet sets, and an array of Queen Anne ladies’ shoes. They ought to remember that a glass box may look very swish and modern, but it’s the only permanent home a precious antique will ever have once it gets stuck in there for us to gawp at.

  The crowd was thinning noticeably as I reached the bookstall and bought a couple of postcards.

  ‘Have you a postcard of Bishop Odo?’ I asked Mrs Tyler across the counter. I’d seen the rack empty.

  ‘All gone, Lovejoy,’ she apologized. ‘You’re the third that’s asked.’ That was no good to me. I needed remembering, not to say remembrance, I thought uneasily.

  ‘Er, then I’ll have a reproduction Viking galley, love.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. They’ve all gone too. We expected some more –’

  ‘Er, then a copy of History of the Local Bay Industry, please.’ I drove my demand home with a breezy grin.

  ‘I’m out of those, too, dear,’ she said helplessly.

  ‘Pull your socks up, cock,’ I remonstrated. ‘Nil out of three.’

  ‘Well –’

  I pulled her leg some more till she was smiling and scolding, then said I’d see her in the car park if her husband wasn’t around and melted swiftly back into the drifting tide of humanity certain she would remember my departure. I strolled round the postcard racks until I was near the spiral stairwell. A casual look about told me no attendant was in sight. I crouched down, quite offhand but seeming interested despite myself, to feel the surface of the Mithraic figure in the mosaic by the opening. One more casual glance and without rising I slipped my leg on to the lowest iron stair tread I could reach, drew in the other leg and slowly strolled down the narrow iron staircase with as little speed as my nerves would allow.

  The lights in the underground temple were still on, naked bulbs placed every few feet to hang from the arches just above head height. The first dungeon’s door was ajar. Nobody around. I trod the sloping sandy floor along the row of sealed dungeon doors, almost giving myself a heart attack when I peered in through the grille of one and came face to face with a wax image of a terrified dummy prisoner stuck at the bars, evidently rotting away in punishment for very little. My cry of alarm echoed along the subterranean vaults. Mercifully, there was nobody there.

  I’d cut it fine. They were calling closing just as I settled behind the arch’s pillar second from the end. The very farthest would have been a mistake. I was near the Mithraic altar at this end. It was cold but I drew myself flat against the upright and checked the ground and walls for revealing shadows cast back to show my silhouette. None.

  The calls on the main floor above were becoming more frequent. Families added to the racket. Children were being assembled and last-minute purchases made. Keys rattled as the single wooden bars were locked in place along the sections of each gallery. The attendants’ calls and pleadings approached the head of the spiral stairs. If one came down and walked conscientiously along the length of the Temple I was done for. I’d a notebook and a black drawing stick with me just in case. My pose would be of an absent-minded artist drawing the altar if I got found out. Earlier, though from memory, I had drawn a rough sketch, partly completed, to lend more conviction.

  ‘Thank you,’ a voice called, too near. ‘The museum is closing now.’ A boot sounded on the iron stair. Steps and the same call. ‘Three o’clock closing, please.’ A pause. Scuffling steps on the floor. A door, chains going. My heart lurched again. Please God, there wasn’t an iron manhole cover or anything to go over the stairwell, was there? I’d be entombed in this bloody place. I almost cried out in fear but held myself back. Surely, if there was I’d have noticed it on my way in. I told myself this a few times for encouragement, and was bathed in a sweat of relief when finally the steps receded up the staircase with no further sinister rattlings. I was clear. Still scared, I stayed rigidly behind the pillar until the main Castle door slammed with a dull booming echo overhead. Clear. And safe. A few boot-shod feet clashed on the paving above but my confidence returned. Naturally the attendants would make one last check for stray infants. They’d set alarms at the windows, switch on the central alarm. Then the round of the glass cases. Then lights off in the crypts, the Temple, the dungeons, the alcoves. Then the signatures to say they’d done the security check. Then the bookstall to be locked after signing the ledger. Then the phone call to the caretaker at the distant house.

  Then, blissful silence as they departed and locked the main door with an utterly final boom. The echoes hummed and throbbed gently, and silence. I almost yelled with delight. I’d done it. The entire Castle was mine, the entire Keep crammed with precious antiques for which you could only feel reverence. The silence waited all about me, obedient and attentive.

  Chapter 20

  THE TROUBLE is there’s silence and silence.

  For the first couple of hours it was great. True to my original plan, I waited behind the pillar in the semi-gloom until the stiffness in my legs threatened to fix me irrevocably on the spot. My back, bum, knees, even my shoulders were cold. Down in the Temple the temperature was much below normal, a factor I had reckoned with. I’d thoughtfully put on a pullover and some socks
Margaret once knitted for me, so I was frozen but movable.

  In case I’d misheard the attendant’s calls on the main level, when I eventually began to move I did so stealthily, working first one leg up and down, then the other. Arms, knee-bendings, rotations at the hips and touching my toes. I was scared at the coming attempt on my life, but not so stupid I would confront even a geriatric killer when I was stiff in every limb.

  Sunshine was streaming obliquely from the windows, quite resembling the interior of a still, kindly cathedral, when I climbed at last from the vaults on to the main central floor. Curious what a sense of power being alone in a building gives you. When that building is a genuine castle’s main keep and you are the only person on earth inside, the boost your ego gets is breathtaking. Nobody can come in unless you say so. We tend to forget these elementary but obvious points when reading history. No wonder the knights and their women wanted possession of these places. Once you’re in, there’s no doubt who’s boss.

  The bands outside were still at it. I could hear the roundabouts and the organs piping away. Crowds were arriving still, pouring past in the late afternoon sunshine. Twice, teams of morris men danced jingling by, fiddle and drums going. I danced whatever steps I could remember, skipping and trying to do the foot-waggle along with them, but it’s never quite good enough without the bells on your legs and trailing hankies. The Queen Anne coach stopped me dead. The sounds, fife and drums, the delighted screams of the passing children as the team’s Fool chased them with his painted bladder, the faint crash-crash of the bells and the cracks of sticks, all receded.

  Then I noticed the hubbub was beginning to lessen. It was still considerable. The music, the fairground. It was all there, including the giant deep murmur of the crowd nearby, but not as nearby as all that. The silence inside had changed in character somewhat. Whereas before it was large and friendly, a personal sort of silence very much belonging to me, so to speak, now it seemed . . . well, not friendly. A moment ago I coughed gently, to clear my throat after dancing. The silence never went away at all. It stayed there, retired a step back and then shuffled back around me. Still protective. Of course it was still that, but not so much my own personal silence as it had been before. My control of it had gone, been lifted and folded away. Nothing sinister, but a bit disturbing because it went without asking.

  After the crowd’s all in they close the Castle Park gates so that folk can’t wander out into the main street when it’s dark and traffic becomes careless. In a way it’s a good idea because wandering children can’t suffer road accidents this way. I began to wish they weren’t so careful. The Castle where I waited is situated close to the Park gates. Maybe, I hoped, they’d left somebody on duty there.

  I climbed the stairs to the first, then second tier of galleries. A recess near the riverside corner, once used as a prison for religious offenders, leads to a few steps and a door set in the wall. It was easy to go round switching off all the peripheral alarms because there was a map of them by the bookstall in the porter’s glass booth. The central one was just as easy. And by the recess door the key was hanging on a nail. Tut-tutting and shaking my head at their useless security I unlocked the door and stepped out on to the roof.

  For some reason this action brought considerable relief. It wasn’t that I was really very scared or anything, being alone in the Castle, because that would have been stupid. A grown man isn’t that daft or that easily swayed. I’d checked every corner of the place as soon as I’d got going, and unlike the attendants I’d done it properly, inch by inch, until I became certain nobody else was inside but me. I’d even inspected the waxwork figures, palpating their arms and wagging a hand in front of their eyes. They were wax all right. I’d swung round a million times to surprise anybody tiptoeing along behind. Nobody. But the roof was pleasant. Slanting sunshine, birds, crowds below the ramparts and a perfect view to the north where the hills sloped up from the river and houses could be seen clearly – full of lovely normal people. The river plain below was ornamented by imitation decorated castle walls and – scaffolding. Tiny figures moved along the pantomime ornaments, probably workmen responsible for the fireworks. They had a tableau for the big finish, as always. I could see the royal coat-of-arms in outline on the poles, and an immense crown and flags.

  To one side the fairground glinted. Maybe fifty thousand people on the Castle mount’s slope were facing the field. It was a lovely, cheering sight. Every one of them faced away, looking intently down into the plain. Well, they didn’t want to stare at an empty castle, did they? And it would all happen down below. Marching regiments, bands, dances and then the bonfire. Fireworks. By contrast nothing was going on inside an old museum, so what’s the point looking? I walked round the roof, carefully avoiding the central square, glassed over. The Park gates on the townward side were closed, as I’d suspected. Clinging tightly to the rampart railing, I peered over as far as I dared. Nobody on duty. Brenda had gone, the selfish woman. She could have stayed. Only she didn’t know where I was. She’d assumed I was among the rest waiting for the spectacle to begin. Anyway, if any bobby was on duty at the gate he’d gone for a quiet smoke to one side among the trees. This sort of thing makes me bloody angry. I mean to say, no devotion to duty these days.

  I went back inside. Stood there, thought a second, then locked the parapet door and replaced the key. How long had I been outside? I never carry a watch because they always stop, so I unlocked the door again and went out to look for the town hall clock. Five-thirty. How long till dark? I’d distinctly told him dusk, and I’d said in the Castle Keep. There could be no mistake.

  Back inside. What time is dusk, actually? Absolute pitch black is too late for what people can call dusk, and late afternoon like now is too early. Anyhow, I’d told Lisa to see me at dusk as well. She’d be my witness. And I’d said on the drawbridge by the main door. Lisa’s the sort who’s never late. She’d be on time.

  The interior really did seem dark now. It had somehow gathered up a dusk of its own while I’d consoled myself on the roof with the sight of so many thousands of people nearby. My steps echoed slightly, yet with a muffled echo I found distinctly unpleasing. The silence was developing an unnerving solidity I hadn’t bargained for. It was just not mine any more. From being in possession I was now a mere visitor. If not an actual intruder. The feeling was hard to shake off.

  Keep busy. That’s the thing, people always say when you have an attack of nerves. I moved briskly about, putting up with the disturbing muffle my footsteps had developed. Inspection time again. It took me the best part of forty minutes to examine the entire museum again, inch by inch. I switched on the alarm circuits and descended to the Temple, but its vaults were still empty. Nobody doing a Lovejoy behind the arch’s pillars. Nobody in the Queen Anne coach. Nobody except wax dummies in the clothes of Bess and her entourage. Nobody in the Egyptian mummy’s case there shouldn’t have been, and nobody in any of the huge earthenware granary pots lodged in the alcoves along the walls. Humming noisily, I poked the figures themselves to make doubly sure.

  To make trebly sure I went downstairs and crossed the main central area to look again into the huge fireplace. Nobody. I peered upwards. The flue ascended, narrowing to about a third of its starting width, to open in the wall near the roof. The light was faint but convincing. When I turned in again the sudden contrast between the pale sky’s reflected sunset inside the chimney flue and the darkening interior of the museum made me momentarily myopic. I walked back across the central mosaic straight into the Galileo pendulum, almost knocking myself silly. I picked myself up, staggering slightly. My nose was bleeding. No hankie, naturally. I dabbed my nose on my jacket sleeve, cursing inwardly at my stupidity. You’d think I’d have known about the pendulum. It’s only been there a couple of centuries. I held the lead weight until it stopped swinging. The less movement the better when some bloke was coming to make an attempt on my life. At last I moved off, wondering what to do next.

  Attempt on my life. The
words have a final ring to them. Attempt’s not so bad, but life is a finite and terribly temporary thing. I sat on the stairs leading to the first gallery and thought what I would do if I were old Thomas. Of course, he had some advantages over me. A doctor. Educated. Therefore poison was a natural weapon, I supposed, and you could stretch a point by assuming that you could make a sinister kind of arrow from syringes. And a surgeon’s instruments start off pretty sharp and lethal. But somehow all of these seemed unlikely. When the chips were down and he stole the Grail Tree from old Henry it had been with a crude and utterly devastating vulgarity. A saw for the hawser. Petrol for the barge. Physical assault for poor Henry. That was it. The message seemed to be that Thomas, faced with the necessity of killing a fellow human being, spurned anything which hinted of his profession. I didn’t like that word necessity, so tried desirability instead, which was as bad. Wanting. He wanted to kill me. That was more like it, because I wanted to kill him right back.

  So it would be direct. Sudden. I glanced round the museum. That bloody pendulum was swinging, almost imperceptibly it was true, but definitely swinging. Maybe half an inch, side to side. I made myself smile. Try to stop it. A chunk of lead on a string hung from the ceiling’s centre will carry on swinging however small its amplitude. Every small breath sets it going. School kids are forever chucking toffee papers at it to move it. Anyway, I had better things to do than stand holding a plumbline. Count the weapons, for example.