by Sarah Rayne
‘I found most of them in the old cellars here,’ said Gerald, eagerly. ‘A lot of stuff was brought from the old monastery when it was demolished in the 1960s – the contents of the monks’ library, I think – and everything was left here. There’s never been time to make a proper catalogue of it all, but every so often one of us goes down there to see what we can find. What’s there is in fairly good condition.’
‘I’d love to have a closer look at one of the documents in your display,’ said Nell. ‘The one written by Brother Andrew in the 1800s. There’s a report of how the monks transposed a much older document, but it looks as if there are other pages underneath.’ She saw him hesitate, and said, ‘I have an antiques business in Oxford, so I do understand about treating old things with care – hold on, I’ve got a card somewhere.’
Gerald Orchard, presented with the business card which Godfrey Purbles had helped Nell design, beamed. ‘I’m sure we could let you loose on the rest of that exhibit for half an hour,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what’s in there, although I’m intending to read it all as soon as I find time. But I’ll unlock the cabinet for you. Only – would you mind very much if I asked you to—’
‘Wear white cotton gloves? Of course not.’
‘You have no idea,’ said Gerald, getting up from the desk, ‘how refreshing it is to talk to someone who understands. Hardly anyone does, you know. I’ll fetch some gloves for you, Miss – sorry, Mrs West.’
‘Nell.’
‘Nell. I’m Gerald.’ He shook hands solemnly, provided her with the gloves from a box in a nearby drawer, then unlocked the cabinet and drew out the papers.
‘I’ll put them over here in the reading section, shall I? It’ll be more comfortable.’
‘Thank you,’ said Nell, as he carried the pages to a small table and chair in an adjoining alcove, after which he returned to his own desk, where he again became absorbed in the school books.
Nell, grateful for the ease with which she had been given access to Andrew, pulled on the gloves, and prepared to step back into the monastic world of the nineteenth-century monk.
With the first few lines of the now-visible pages, it became obvious that Andrew had been the monastery’s Precentor. The music master.
Friday
Created an arrangement for a Bach cantata to celebrate the Feast of St Cecilia next week. As patroness of music, it seems fitting we should have a really splendid, fully choral Mass in her honour. The Bach is quite complex, but I think with some practice we can achieve a beautiful tribute. After some thought, have added the Caritas pater est, which will make a good contrast and is just as beautiful, along with one of Handel’s solo recitatives …
… A local landowner by the name of Adolphus Glaum is to attend our St Cecilia’s Day service, in company with his two daughters. Father Abbot says Mr Glaum, who is a Justice of the Peace and regarded as the local squire, comes to many of our services, and we must make him welcome. However, Brother Ranulf tells me Father Abbot only suffers Glaum because his family has always contributed generously to the Order, and our hospital is always in need of funds. He adds that he knows this to be an uncharitable remark, but says Glaum is two-faced and double-tongued and well able to afford the donations, being richer than Solomon and all his sultans put together. According to Ranulf, the Glaum family have all been much the same, all the way back to the sixteenth century. Drink and women, says Ranulf, gloomily …
Father Abbot has asked if I could re-arrange the music for St Cecilia’s Feast Day so that it is simpler. We do not, he explains anxiously, want to overwhelm our guests with pageantry – Squire Glaum in particular prefers simpler worship – and do I not think Handel can be somewhat theatrical?
Have said I will consider his suggestion.
Have not said I have absolutely no intention of pandering to the preferences of this man, Glaum, who is clearly the guest Father Abbot means. I do not at all like the sound of Adolphus Glaum, and the music will remain as I have planned it; in fact if I thought I could coach the Brothers sufficiently well to sing Israel in Egypt, complete with battle sounds and all the effects, I should do so.’
This page of Andrew’s notes ended halfway down, and for a moment Nell thought there was no more to read. But when she turned the page over, using extreme care, she saw that the journal continued, as if Andrew had deliberately left the blank half page to indicate a pause. As she began to read again, she had the sensation that she was stepping into a darker segment of the monastery’s past.
St Cecilia’s Feast
My arrangements were splendidly sung by the monks at the church service.
Adolphus Glaum was present along with his two daughters – it is the first time I have seen any of them. Glaum is a jowly person, thick-necked, with skin the colour and consistency of raw dough. There are deep furrows on each side of his mouth, suggesting he is more inclined to turn his mouth down, rather than to smile. It’s curious how mouths can be far more an indication of character than eyes.
Glaum’s two daughters accompanied him. They are Miss Gertrude, tall and acidulated in black bombazine and feathered bonnet, and Miss Margaretta, who is as thick-set and coarse-featured as her sire, and who was wearing gabardine trimmed with plush. (For anyone reading that and wondering, I shall admit that I am perfectly familiar with the styles and fabrics of ladies’ garments, from the choosing of them, and the donning of them, and also – at times – the discarding of them. I have only been at St Benedict’s for six months, after all.)
‘No Madam Glaum?’ I said softly to Ranulf as we left the church.
‘She died many years ago.’
‘A happy release for the lady, I dare say.’
‘Uncharitable thoughts, Brother.’
‘I’ll do penance later.’
Andrew had certainly delivered a few surprises about religious life. Nell, leaning back for a moment to assimilate what she had read so far, glanced at the time and saw it was not yet four o’clock. Gerald Orchard was still absorbed in tutting over his sheaf of papers and unlikely to interrupt.
The temptation to go on reading Andrew’s journal was irresistible.
NINE
Before I entered the Order, I did not know that there are warning signs that precede many of the significant events in life. I know it now, though. It’s as if a signpost juts out of the landscape. You don’t always recognize it for what it is at the time – it’s only when you look back that you realize – that you think, ‘Ah yes, that should have warned me.’
The first of my signposts came on the morning that Father Abbot asked if I would arrange for the choir to sing one, perhaps two, suitable chants at a local funeral.
‘It’s the woman at Cliff House,’ he said. ‘All very sad – a widow, so I believe, and she died three or four days ago, quite suddenly, leaving a young daughter. The funeral is tomorrow and I understand they’ve already taken the coffin into the church. I’ve only just heard about it, though. The daughter is completely alone, no family whatsoever; it seems a charitable thing for us to contribute what we can to the service. I know it’s very short notice, but—’
‘Of course I’ll arrange something,’ I said at once.
I thought we could sing the seventeenth-century setting of the Psalm, ‘O Bless the Lord, My Soul’, and also Wesley’s ‘Come, O Thou Traveller Unknown’ for the service. Apart from anything else, the choir already knew them, so no rehearsal was necessary. But I needed to look over the music that evening, to remind myself of the phrasing.
It was annoying to realize, later, that I had left the score for the Psalm in the church – we had sung it at a St Luke’s Day service for the village, and I remembered putting the music in the organ loft cupboard. But it was only half past eight – not so late that I could not go along to the church there and then and collect it.
I murmured an explanation to Brother Ranulf, received a nod of permission from him, and set off.
The church was only about fifteen minutes’ walk from the monast
ery, but it was an unfriendly night, dark and rainy. Several times my oil lamp flickered and was almost quenched. The wind tossed the trees from side to side so that they looked like giant hands flexing and unflexing, and I could hear the sea below the cliffs as I walked. There are times when it sounds benign and gentle, but tonight it was angry and restless – almost as if something deep inside it was sobbing and struggling for life.
As I neared the church I heard a different sound – a steady, inexorable sound, but so faint and faraway I could not be sure I was actually hearing it. It was like a pulse beating on the air – a sound felt rather than heard. I stood still for a moment, vaguely puzzled, but the wind was too strong for me to identify the noise or where it came from. Then it stopped and I went on towards the church, but I had only gone a few paces when it began afresh. And now, the sounds were slow and measured, and I knew what I was hearing. The chime of a bell. At first I wanted to believe it was from the small local church to which I was heading, but that bell was small and sweet and quite high-pitched. This was a massive sound, ugly and somehow warped.
The only other bell within miles was the ancient Glaum bell in the old cliffside tower. The dead bell that had been silenced more than three hundred years ago. But it could not be that, or, if it was, it would be due to a freak of the storm disturbing the disused mechanism. An animal might even have got in and found its way up to the bell chamber. Whatever it was, it was eerie to hear those flawed chimes sounding through the storm.
There’s an old legend about the bell tower – I daresay there are old legends about all the ancient towers the length and breadth of England, and probably of most other countries as well. But the Rede Abbas tower is said by the superstitious and the credulous to be a tomb. They tell that, on occasions, whatever is buried in there wakes and tries to get out. At those times it activates the bell to call for help.
I had never believed the tale, of course, and I had never met anyone who had heard the bell actually sound. But walking through the dark storm, I had the sinister impression of a sentience – an awareness – within the chimes.
Then two things happened. The chiming stopped, as suddenly as if someone had slammed a door.
And, ahead of me, I saw a light burning inside the church.
There was no reason why someone should not be in there tonight, perhaps spending time in prayer or in remembrance of a loved one. Most likely it was someone connected to the Widow Eynon – I remembered Father Abbot telling me her coffin was to lie in the church overnight, ahead of tomorrow’s funeral. It seemed strange for anyone to hold a vigil in such weather, but grief is unpredictable.
The storm was increasing. Clouds scudded across the moon and rain dashed into my face. The oil lamp flickered, then went out, and I gasped, repressed a curse, and went towards the church, thinking that if nothing else I could probably re-light the lamp in there.
I reached the church, pushed open the door and stepped inside. The interior was partly lit by candles burning near the altar. They washed over the old stones and archways, leaving deep pools of shadow between. Their light fell across the coffin resting on its bier before the altar, and upon the girl bending over it.
I stood looking at her. The bereaved daughter. There was no one else it could be. I wanted to believe she had come out here to pray at her mother’s coffin – I wanted to believe that very much – but I could not. When I entered the church she had been bending over the coffin, and I saw with cold horror that she was intent on levering up the lid.
She gasped when she saw me and backed away, putting out her hands in the classic gesture of defence. The candlelight flared up, turning the tumble of pale hair into melted honey, briefly making her into something fey and wild and strange.
I said, as gently as I could, ‘Don’t be frightened. I don’t mean you any harm. I’m Brother Andrew from the monastery – I’m arranging some music for the funeral tomorrow.’
She absorbed this, then said, ‘Andrew,’ slowly, as if trying out the name. ‘Yes, I know who you are.’ There was a faint lilt to her voice, not quite foreign, but not entirely English, either. ‘You’re the Precentor.’
It’s not often that rather ancient title is used nowadays, and at such a moment it was absurd and irrelevant of me to feel pleased that she knew it and that she had used it.
‘I am. And I think you must be Miss Eynon,’ I said.
‘Yes. Theodora.’
Theodora. The strange, fey creature who was the second of the dreadful bloodied signposts along that grim road. The one who was to change my world for ever, and tumble both of us into chaos and tragedy. And if she had said her name was Mab or Rusalka or Faye, I should not have been surprised.
But I said, ‘You were doing something to the coffin? Theodora, I know it’s tragic and terrible that you’ve lost your mother, but you must hold on to the knowledge that she’s at peace. Tomorrow we shall commit her body to the ground and send her to God. You will get over this grief in time, I promise you will.’
‘It’s not that,’ she said, with a touch of impatience, but her eyes were wide and fearful.
‘Then what? Tell me.’ As she hesitated, I went closer to her. ‘You can trust me,’ I said.
Theodora said, ‘I don’t think my mother’s dead. That’s why I’m trying to open the coffin. To stop her being buried alive.’
I had no idea what to do or say. I don’t think anyone would have had any idea what to do or say in the face of such a statement. I’d better set down here that I did not believe her. She was disturbed – grief-stricken, refusing to believe her mother was dead. I think it’s not an uncommon reaction.
Eventually, I said, ‘I understand your fears, Theodora, but they’re groundless.’
‘Are they?’
‘I’m certain they are.’ She stared at me, then shrugged, turning away, indicating as clearly as if she had spoken aloud that she had not expected me to understand anyway.
The small gesture sliced into me, and I said, ‘I really am certain, Theodora. But let’s make assurance doubly sure.’ Even as I said the words, I wished I had not chosen to quote from Macbeth, so dark and so laced with macabre superstitions.
‘You’ll help me?’ She looked at the coffin, then put her hands out to me. Instinctively I took them and held them firmly and, as her fingers closed around mine, I was aware of a startlingly strong response. You forget, after even a short time inside a monastery, how soft and gentle – but also how strong – a woman’s hands can be. Velvet over steel. Thin fur over hard bone.
I hesitated, then I heard my voice say, ‘Yes. I’ll help you.’
I was deeply reluctant – of course I was! – but it would have been a cruelty to walk out of that church and leave her alone. I could not do it. Nor could I see any other course of action. So I hunted in the vestry for a suitable implement, and found a couple of screwdrivers and a chisel, which I brought back to the altar. She had managed to loosen several of the screws fastening down the lid, but clearly she had only just begun the task, because most were still tightly in place. I am not a very practical man, but I could see it was going to take some time to work them free.
‘You sit on that pew,’ I said to her. ‘I’ll do this.’
‘I must see – I must know …’
We looked at one another. ‘I understand,’ I said. ‘And you will see, Theodora. But let me do this part.’ In truth, of course, I wanted to prevent her seeing her dead mother’s body in its coffin if I could. The other truth was that I was simply intending to reassure her that her mother was dead and peaceful.
Theodora sat where I had indicated, and as I worked the candles burned lower and the shadows edged closer. It was more difficult than I had expected. Several times I had to pause and, each time I did so, Theodora leaned forward, her hands tightly clasped as if willing me to go on. Once, when the chisel slipped and fell clanging to the ground, she gasped, but she did not say anything.
Did I realize I was probably breaking several laws? I don’t know.
I think Theodora and I had entered a dark half-world, where normal rules no longer had any meaning.
The sound of the wood scraping protestingly as I lifted off the coffin lid is, I think, one that will walk through my nightmares for many years to come. And there, wrapped in a thin muslin shroud, was Theodora’s mother. Clearly dead.
‘It’s perfectly all right,’ I said. ‘She’s quite peaceful.’
But before Theodora came to stand by my side, I reached into the coffin, doing so as quickly but as unobtrusively as I could. The body’s eyes were wide open – they were staring up at me. But it was probably not unusual – who knows what physical changes take place after death?
There was, though, something else, something I shall always be grateful I managed to conceal – something I know I will never tell Theodora. One of the hands was clenched and raised. As if she had tried to push open the lid of her coffin after it was screwed down.
But it only took two seconds to slide the eyes shut and push Thaisa Eynon’s clenched hand down by her side.
Thaisa, thought Nell, abruptly jolted out of Andrew’s nineteenth-century world. Thaisa Eynon. Thaisa and Theodora. The names that were written on the wall at Quire Court.
Theodora. October 1850 … If anyone finds this, please pray for me, for it will mean the dead bell has sounded and I have suffered Thaisa’s fate …
It can’t be coincidence, she thought. How many Theodoras do you encounter in the space of a few days? And even more so – how many Thaisas?
The ink of the last few pages was in a slightly different colour. This might indicate that pages had become detached or that Andrew had not written anything for a few days. Or these pages had been left in sunlight and the ink had faded. With this thought Nell had a sudden vivid image of stone mullioned windows with sunshine streaming through them, lying across a sheaf of pages covered with slanting writing … Of a blurred distant view of an ancient bell tower. And the dark head of a young monk bent over the pages as he wrote.
