The Bell Tower

by Sarah Rayne

All set in motion by ordinary people, ordinary citizens made furious by injustices. They seized the law into their own hands and meted out justice so rough it is engraved on history. And tonight it seems as if the people of this community are about to attempt the same thing.

  The invasion of our small remote monastery would be a minuscule affair in comparison with any of those events, but if Theodora were to die it would not be minuscule to us. The thought of her death is like a spade turning in my stomach.

  We have huddled together in the common room, but whether it is for safety or comfort I do not know. Theodora is hunched in a corner, not speaking. I do not dare to talk to her or even to sit next to her, because I am afraid my feelings would betray me.

  A few moments ago, Father Abbot said that he would go out to reason with the people.

  ‘They will listen to me,’ he said, but his words rang false. None of us has ever encountered violence before, and I do not think any of us knows how to deal with it on this level.

  I said, ‘Father, they’re beyond reason. They won’t listen to anyone.’ I tried to keep the impatience from my voice, but when I looked across at Ranulf, I saw we were both thinking the same thing: even if those people were in a mood to be reasoned with, Father Abbot – thin, elderly, accustomed to a quiet and ordered monastic life since he was in his twenties – would be useless.

  ‘They’ve listened to the Glaum ladies,’ said Wilfrid. ‘They might listen to Father Abbot.’

  ‘The Glaum family has been ordering the people of these villages around for centuries,’ said Ranulf. ‘And tonight the villagers will listen to Gertrude and Margaretta, just as they listened to the old man, and they’ll do whatever those two want of them.’

  None of us voiced the thought that what those two ladies wanted was punishment for the woman they believed had murdered their father. They wanted her dead. Hanged.

  ‘The practical thing,’ said Wilfrid, ‘and the immediate solution is surely to get Miss Eynon away from here.’

  ‘How?’ I said. ‘And where would she go?’

  For a moment no one spoke. Then Ranulf said, ‘Father, doesn’t the Order own some property in Oxford?’

  ‘Quire Court,’ said Father Abbot, nodding. ‘It’s curious you should mention that, though, Brother Ranulf, because—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Because that piece of land in Oxford, and whatever buildings are on it now, once belonged to the Glaum family. Oh, centuries ago,’ said Father Abbot, as several of us looked up in surprise. ‘I believe one of my predecessors acquired it from the Squire Glaum of the day.’

  Ranulf said, ‘Was that the infamous Abbot Seamus Flannery, by any chance?’

  ‘It was Father Seamus, as it happens. I have no idea how he acquired it. I don’t think anyone at the time dared ask him.’

  ‘But,’ said Ranulf dryly, ‘however the land came into our possession, it has to be said that our Church has always had an eye to acquiring valuable possessions, whether it’s gold, silver, or, indeed, parcels of land.’

  ‘Well, yes. I am not a venal man and I do not really understand such things,’ said Father Abbot, humbly. ‘But it’s possible that Quire Court might be a place of safety for Miss Eynon.’ He looked across to Theodora, still huddled in her chair. ‘It’s a long journey, though. And she would have to be got away from here at once. Tonight.’

  ‘We can’t send her out into the night on her own,’ said Wilfrid at once. ‘Apart from her state of health, which is fragile, she’s never been outside Rede Abbas in her life.’

  ‘We can’t risk keeping her here.’ As Father Abbot spoke, there was the sound of glass breaking somewhere.

  ‘They’re smashing windows,’ said one of the older monks, in alarm, and several of them started up, clearly much frightened.

  ‘We’re safe in here,’ said Egbert. ‘We’ve locked the doors.’

  ‘That won’t keep them out indefinitely. It’s Miss Eynon they want,’ said Ranulf. ‘And if they do break in here …’ He looked at me very directly.

  That was when I said, ‘I’ll get her away. I’ll take her to Oxford.’

  And now I am preparing for our journey with as much haste as possible, and in a little while Theodora and I will slip out of the monastery by way of the cloisters. Brother Ranulf will let us out through the garden door, and once he is sure we are safely beyond the grounds, he will lock the door after us. It’s a door that we believe is unknown to the village people and the two Glaum ladies, who will not be familiar with the layout of our grounds. We think it will be safe to use it. Once Theodora and I are outside, we shall go across Musselwhite’s Meadow, which will be dark and deserted. It’s an odd feeling to remember we shall be treading in the footsteps of other travellers there, because Musselwhite’s is the home of gypsies each summer, and we will be able to walk the track they made over the years.

  From there we will be far enough inland to begin the journey to Oxford, and to this place, Quire Court. I have no idea what it will be like, but Father Abbot thinks it is a small conclave of quite modest buildings.

  There is a task I would like to carry out before leaving, but I do not believe it will be possible. That is to find the two music scores for ‘Thaisa’s Song’ and destroy them – burn them and tear the words to unreadable shreds. One copy – Theodora’s copy – is at Cliff House. We dare not go out there, for we should certainly be seen by the Misses Glaum and the villagers. The other copy is the one I made that night, which is in the library, here at St Benedict’s. But I dare not go there either, for it means crossing the inner courtyard, and I think I would be seen by the villagers. I am trying to believe no one will find it, though. I put it on a shelf bearing several books about early Ambrosian plainchant.

  And perhaps somewhere in the future, I – by which I mean Theodora and I – will be able to return and I can find the music then, and tear it to unreadable shreds, then burn the shreds to cinders.

  TWELVE

  Incredibly and infuriatingly, Andrew’s notes finished there.

  But you did make it to Quire Court, thought Nell, staring at the pages, aware of a feeling of loss. You were there, Andrew, you and Theodora. You must have been, because I found Theodora’s scribbled message:

  Pray for me, for it will mean the dead bell has sounded and I have suffered Thaisa’s fate …

  Had Theodora known by then that her mother might have been alive inside her coffin? Had Thaisa indeed been alive, though? Andrew had not been sure. But Adolphus Glaum had certainly been sealed up in the mausoleum while still alive, and Nell thought Andrew’s account of that could be trusted. There were enough accounts of old coffins being opened to reveal twisted, agonized bodies who had been consigned to the grave in some kind of deathlike coma. Squire Glaum had sounded like a lascivious Victorian thug, but he had certainly not deserved the appalling fate he had suffered.

  It was easy to imagine Andrew in that long-ago monastery, absorbed in his work and his prayers and his music. He had copied Theodora’s music that night, but it did not sound as if he had taken the copy to Quire Court – he had left it in the monks’ library. And Theodora’s copy had been at Cliff House. So whose was the brittle, faded score Beth had found?

  Thaisa’s Song. Copied from the original.

  The lyrics on that copy had not been in English, but having read Andrew’s journal, Nell thought they might be a form of Celtic, perhaps an old version of the Welsh language. But whatever they were, she was glad she had stopped Beth playing more than a few bars.

  She turned back to Andrew’s account of hearing the song in Cliff House. He had not set down the actual lyrics, but he had referred to the start of an understanding of them.

  ‘… an unknown person asking for admittance to a tomb – something about the tomb’s occupant, blind and deaf, trying to call out to know who was there …’

  This was a deeply disturbing line, however you looked at it. Taken in conjunction with those two macabre deaths – of Thaisa Eynon and Adolphus Glaum –
it was chilling. There could not be any link though. Or could there?

  Theodora had seemed to fear the music, but she had played it that night. To impress Andrew? To lure him to bed? If so, it was a wildly bizarre seduction technique. Or had she played and sung it from sheer bravado – a kind of, ‘See how unafraid I am’ gesture?

  Nell replaced the pages carefully in the display cabinet, rather sadly aware of the door to Andrew’s world closing against her. Or had it closed? The copy of the song was still at Quire Court. Might it provide a pathway back into Andrew’s world? She could not, for the moment, think how that might be done, but she saw that it was six o’clock and time she was back at The Swan for her early supper.

  She thanked Gerald Orchard for his help, returned the gloves, then found herself drawn into a discussion about Rede Abbas’s past, which was unexpectedly enjoyable. Gerald was knowledgeable and interested in local history. ‘I suppose because my family have lived here for … well, for generations and generations.’

  Nell said, ‘There’s a reference to someone called Orchard in the document I’ve just been reading – it’s part of a journal from the old monastery, but it quotes from a sixteenth-century paper. That mentions a Job Orchard. Would he have been an ancestor?’

  ‘I should think he might. How interesting,’ said Gerald, eagerly. ‘I didn’t realize we went quite that far back. I didn’t really look at those documents, you know – I just picked out the best-preserved ones for the display. But I’ll read that one without delay. Thank you very much. The third cabinet along, did you say?’

  ‘Yes. Brother Andrew from St Benedict’s. Mid-1800s. It makes fascinating reading.’

  As Nell went out, Gerald was already heading towards the museum section, and there was the sound of the glass-topped display cabinet lid being lifted.

  She was determined not to crowd Beth, who would want to be with her schoolfriends, and Nell was perfectly happy to have a quiet meal on her own, then wander along to the square to find a seat for the evening’s entertainment. She did not in the least mind sitting by herself for that. But on her way back to The Swan, she met Beth’s teacher, Chloe Carter, whom she knew fairly well.

  ‘Are you on your own?’ Chloe asked. ‘Because, if so, I’m about to supervise that wild gang over a meal and then hand them over to the hostel manageress. She’s very good and trustworthy, so I’m going to leave her in charge while I go along to the morality plays. Would you like to join me? It’d be much nicer to have company.’

  ‘I’d enjoy that,’ said Nell, who liked Chloe and was pleased to be asked.

  ‘Your Beth and the rest of the unruly cherubs don’t want to see the morality plays,’ said Chloe. ‘It’ll probably be over most of their heads, anyway. And in fact the wicked little imps are planning a midnight feast. They think I don’t know, but of course I do. Providing they don’t stuff themselves sick or get too raucous, it won’t hurt them, though, so I’m turning a blind eye and so are the hostel people.’

  ‘Probably the best idea,’ said Nell, not wanting to admit to the birthday cake Beth had so gleefully smuggled in. ‘How about if we meet in the square at quarter past seven and take in the Seven Deadly Sins over a glass of wine?’

  ‘What a good idea. Sinning is always better for a glug of vino.’

  Nell enjoyed the performance of the morality plays depicting the Seven Deadly Sins of the early Christian teachings, and she enjoyed Chloe’s company and the wine, which they drank out of disposable plastic cups.

  I can forget you for this evening, she said to Andrew in her mind. But I’ll tell Michael about you tomorrow. There was great satisfaction at the prospect of relating everything to Michael and knowing he would find it deeply interesting. Nell might even take him into the library so he could read Andrew’s journal for himself.

  Each morality play was quite short and Nell thought they paid appropriate and enthusiastic tribute to the spirit of the occasion and the revived tradition of the Revels themselves. The plays capered their way through the sins, kicking off with Gluttony, portrayed by a well-upholstered gentleman who dined not too wisely but well, and brandished chicken legs in the manner of Charles Laughton in his famous Henry VIII role, before sliding into an overfed stupor. Sloth came next and featured an actor in a caterpillar-like costume, snoring on a mound covered with what looked like snooker-table baize. This was followed by rather indeterminate depictions of Pride, Wrath and Envy, with Envy suitably clad as the green-eyed monster of jealousy, to a slightly unexpected soundtrack of Queen’s Jealousy.

  At this point Nell had to smother a fit of giggles, which was probably as much due to the wine as to the portly lady, swathed in too-tight green satin, stomping majestically across the stage, beating her breast and tearing her hair. The discovery in the festival programme that the portly lady was none other than the authoritative Olive Orchard, and the further discovery that the wispy Gerald was in the front row wearing an expression of disgruntled embarrassment, discomposed her even further.

  ‘I know it’s hysterical,’ said Chloe, in a muffled voice, ‘but specifically …?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Nell, struggling for composure. ‘I was just imagining Michael’s reactions.’

  ‘Ah, the Byronic Dr Flint. Is he joining you here?’

  ‘Yes, he’s arriving tomorrow.’

  ‘Half my sixth form swooned over him after he came with you to Beth’s end-of-term concert,’ said Chloe. ‘They think he’s half gothic, half romantic, or something. I think he might unknowingly have started a trend. I suspect Oriel College will see a hike in applications next spring. By the way, Beth says you’re starting a series of workshops in the New Year. The head’s quite interested in that – she thinks we might sign up a couple of batches of students. There’s a section of funding we can call on.’

  The antique workshop project seemed to be catching fire of its own accord. Nell, pleased, said, ‘I’d love to have batches of your students. I’m intending to have some professionals to speak and demonstrate – lecturers in the history of furniture, but restorers and cabinetmakers as well. And I’m going to buy in pieces that need renovating, so it’ll all be quite hands-on. I’ll let the head have details as soon as they’re printed.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  The finale of the morality play series was Lust.

  ‘Which,’ murmured Chloe, ‘is the one everyone is here to see, of course.’

  The festival organizers’ idea of Lust owed more to the Carry On films or a Henry Fielding Tom Jones romp than to the early Christian precepts of a mortal sin, but this did not matter in the least. Scantily clad girls were chased by grinning gentlemen, and a virginal and white-draped heroine was rescued by a knight in Bacofoil armour.

  Nell and Chloe thoroughly enjoyed it, and the audience cheered and catcalled. People at the back stood up and shouted ribald comments. The actors took somewhat sheepish bows, the stately Olive Orchard kissed her hand and curtseyed, diva-fashion, the Bacofoil knight brandished his lance enthusiastically, and the audience finally dispersed.

  ‘Great fun,’ said Chloe as she and Nell walked back to their respective hotels. ‘Thanks for your company.’

  ‘I’ve enjoyed it. I hope the midnight feast isn’t too disruptive,’ said Nell.

  ‘I’ll only intervene if they start breaking up the furniture.’

  Nell left Chloe at the hostel, and walked back to The Swan. It sounded as if the revels were still going on in various parts of the square – there was laughter and delighted squealing from one of the little side streets, and it sounded as if someone was still singing one of the pieces of music from the performance of Lust. Good thing it isn’t ‘Thaisa’s Song’, thought Nell with an inward smile. That really would spook me tonight.

  She was just walking up to The Swan’s oak-beamed front entrance when a new sound shivered on the air, and she paused, and turned her head to listen. What had Andrew written? ‘A pulse beating on the air – a sound felt, rather than heard … The sounds struck the air
dully, each one seeming to leave a bruise …’

  It’s a church clock chiming, thought Nell, determinedly. Ten o’clock. That’s all it is. I’ve been reading too much Gothic prose at the hands of a nineteenth-century monk. And I’ve had a few glasses of wine into the bargain.

  Once inside The Swan the sounds vanished. Nell made a thankful way to her own room. It was quite early, and she considered whether she should type a few notes about Andrew on to the laptop before going to bed. But it had been a long day, and an early night would be good. She would read for half an hour or so – she had brought a couple of books with her. She opened Dorothy L. Sayers’ Gaudy Night, which was a good travelling companion and always made her think of Michael.

  It was after eleven before she finally put down Sayers’ and Harriet Vane’s gentle scholarly world of academe. As she switched off the bedside light she wondered if Beth’s midnight feast had started yet.

  From: Olive Orchard

  To: Daniel Goodbody

  Daniel –

  It’s 11.30 p.m. – but I had to send you a quick email before going to bed. A pity you couldn’t accept my invitation to come in for a nightcap after the evening’s events, but of course you have a great deal to do at the moment, I understand that.

  Didn’t our Morality Plays go well! Such enthusiastic applause, and we were all positively smothered with compliments afterwards. I think Gerald is a real old nit-picking killjoy to say the first four rows laughed aloud when Pride forgot his lines halfway through and had to be prompted by Gluttony. It’s a gross exaggeration as well, because Pride only stumbled a bit, and Gluttony was swigging down a pint of beer at the time anyway.

  Now then, the big news is that Gerald thinks he’s found a definite clue to ‘Thaisa’s Song’. Apparently there’s an old nineteenth-century document from St Benedict’s monastery which refers specifically to it. The writer was a Brother Andrew, if that means anything to you …? The monastery’s choirmaster, I think. His memoirs or notes or something were actually in the current library display, only Gerald hadn’t read it in full – he says he hasn’t time to read every word, for goodness’ sake, and he had simply set out some old documents as corroborative detail to give artistic verisimilitude to an otherwise unconvincing narrative. (W. S. Gilbert?). It seems someone came in to see the exhibits and asked if that particular display cabinet could be opened to allow her to read the entire document. They had quite an interesting discussion about it – Gerald says she’s an antiques dealer from Oxford. Her name is Nell West, and ’twixt thee and me I think Gerald was rather smitten. I don’t mind in the very least bit, of course; Gerald and I have our separate interests – have I told you that before? Quite separate.