The Bell Tower

by Sarah Rayne

  I pulled Theodora against me, and we backed away to the wall facing the door.

  ‘They won’t get in here,’ I said. ‘That door will hold.’

  But of course it did not. And of course they did get in.

  Theodora and I had no chance. We were dragged out of the house, and thrust into two waiting carriages. I recall Theodora screaming, and I remember casting agonized glances to Mr Thread’s shop. But no one came to help us, and we were tied up and flung into the carriages. Then something hard and heavy crunched down on the back of my head, and my vision splintered into hundreds of jagged, hurting lights before blackness closed down.

  Andrew’s vigorous writing ended there, and the next page of his journal was in the faint, uncertain script again. Maeve felt the loss of the strong, courageous Andrew as sharply as if it was a blow.

  ‘I think I must have been unconscious for most of the journey back to Rede Abbas,’ Andrew wrote in the weak, straggling script. ‘Because I remember very little of it. There were occasional interludes of awareness, but that awareness was filled with a dizzy confusion, and with the sensation of carriage wheels bumping sickeningly over uneven ground. I had no idea where Theodora was at that stage – I do not think she was in the carriage with me.’

  She’s here with me now, though, in the bell tower. She’s below the stone steps outside this room. Only a flight of steps separates us, but she might as well be several worlds away because I can’t get to her. Forgive me, my dear, lost love, I tried to save you, but there were too many of them holding me back from you at the end.

  But I watched everything. I watched the Glaum women and the villagers thrust flaring torches into crevices in the old stones of this tower, and I saw how the flares leapt up, lighting the darkness to a dreadful and macabre life, horridly reminiscent of the medieval paintings depicting hell – of a Dante’s Inferno, portrayed by Bosch or Botticelli …

  Dear God, I’m trapped in a dank old tower with my beloved Theodora, both of us helpless, with the sea washing inexorably in, and I’m writing about medieval art and thirteenth-century visionary poets!

  I promised myself I would set it all down, though.

  They tied Theodora’s wrists and ankles, then laid her on the stone floor of the tower. Then two of the men carried in thick, solid-wood planks, which they placed over her, hammering them down. A coffin. That was what they fashioned by the light of those greasy torches. A coffin that enclosed her, and a coffin in which she lay, living and breathing, just as Adolphus Glaum had lain living and breathing in his tomb. (And Theodora’s mother? Did she live inside her coffin? Did Thaisa’s son, Anthony, at Quire Court?)

  ‘And now she’s buried alive,’ one of them – Margaretta, I think – cried. ‘Both of them to be buried alive, just as our father was buried alive.’

  ‘Murderess,’ shouted the other, darting forward and thrusting her face close to Theodora’s. ‘Whore.’

  They have the seeds of madness of course, those two. Perhaps it is something in their family – I have no idea and I do not care.

  The hammer blows fell on the long nails driven into the wooden planks. I fought to get to Theodora for all I was worth, but they held me too tightly. Theodora was screaming by then, desperately and beseechingly, sobbing my name until it spun and echoed into every shadowy corner of this place, soaking into the stones. Will it echo back in the future, so that people will hear a faint stir of sound and wonder who ‘Andrew’ might have been?

  The men finished their grim task, and straightened up. They looked at Margaretta and Gertrude, who nodded, clearly satisfied. Then the men seized me, dragging me up the stairs to this accursed room. They tied me up in a corner and hammered more of the thick oak planks across the door. They spent a long time over it, making sure the planks could not be torn down. I heard them go out through the door and slam it shut, then go off along the cliffside.

  Leaving Theodora and me to drown.

  I fought free of the ropes round my wrist and ankles fairly quickly. Then I tore my hands to bloodied ribbons trying to smash down the planks, but they are nailed too firmly and the oak is too thick. The sea is coming in – I hear it and I smell it.

  I have called to Theodora repeatedly, but she won’t be able to hear me, of course. I believe she will be dead by this time – from fear, from lack of air in that tiny space, I do not know which. My mind knows it for the truth, even though my heart cannot accept it yet. Down there, beneath those thick planks, next to the cold stone floor, she is dead. And even if a spark of life were still to be in her, the sea will snuff it out.

  I would have given my life to save her. I’d like that understood by anyone who may one day read this. But there was nothing I could do.

  The light is going now – I cannot write any more. I shall place this journal as high as possible. If I stand on tiptoe on one of the ledges I can reach just above the water marks, and there are several crevices in the stones. The journal may escape the sea’s ingress, and it may one day be found. I will wrap it in the oilskin that Brother Wilfrid uses to keep his herbal mixtures fresh, and it’s just possible that my words – or some part of them – may survive. I should like that. I should like to think that someone, some day, will read this.

  As I write these final lines, I believe I can hear ‘Thaisa’s Song’ somewhere close at hand. I would like to believe it is Theodora singing, but I know it is not.

  So, thought Maeve, laying the journal down. Theodora. She did not know if she liked Theodora or if she hated her because Andrew had loved her.

  She had not understood everything he had written, but she thought she had understood most of it. Andrew and Theodora had run away from Rede Abbas because Theodora had murdered the man called Adolphus Glaum – at least, people thought she had. But Andrew must have thought Theodora was innocent because he had taken her to a place in Oxford to hide. Quire Court. That was where he had found that little baby’s body, and the journal of that long-ago woman – Thaisa. Maeve had found that part quite difficult to understand. She thought she might read it again when she was a bit older.

  She would not use any of this for her school essay, of course. These were not things to put in an essay that everyone would read, and also—

  Also, this was her own family. She realized it with a shock. Theodora and Thaisa had both had the name of Eynon. And Theodora might have been a murderer.

  In the end she wrote her school essay on the monastery in the sixteenth century, finding some old cures and herb remedies that the monks had made and used. There was an old sketch in the library of how the infirmary might have looked in those days, and Maeve included this.

  The teacher said it was a very good essay; Maeve came second in the competition and was given a book token as a prize.

  NINETEEN

  Michael had been so strongly affected by finding the little grave in Quire Court that he almost missed the later train to Rede Abbas. He grabbed his overnight case, hoped he had not forgotten to pack anything vital, and scrambled into a taxi, reaching the railway station with three minutes to spare.

  He rang Nell from the train, but it went to voicemail again. Most likely she was watching some Revels performance and had switched off her phone. Michael left a message saying he was finally en route, and the train was scheduled to reach Axminster just after two o’clock. ‘So if you could meet me there, that would be great.’

  This dealt with, he attempted to complete the crossword in a newspaper somebody had left behind. After this, he checked his phone again. There was nothing from Nell, but there was an email from Owen. It was probably too much to hope that he had already deciphered some of the book, but Michael clicked on the email eagerly.

  Even on the phone’s small screen, Owen’s enthusiasm came strongly across.

  Michael – I don’t know when you’ll pick this up, but as you’ll imagine I started deciphering your discovery the minute you left. I haven’t got very far yet, and I think we may still need Brant’s eye on some of it, but even at thi
s early stage, it’s clearly a remarkable find. Your diarist appears to have been a female – rather a lively wench from the sound of things, because there’s reference to certain romantic passages with the Father Abbot of a monastery – one Seamus Flannery. Well, I say romantic, but I think it was a rather earthier relationship.

  Without all the tests on paper, etc., I have no idea yet how far we can trust the actual contents, but so far I’m inclined to think they’re genuine. And I shouldn’t think the inhabitants of the sixteenth century were given to writing raunchy chick-lit, should you? I suppose what we must keep in mind, though, is the possibility of a very elaborate plot behind the whole thing. The famous old device of, ‘Dear Mr Publisher, here’s a manuscript I discovered in my grandfather’s attic’.

  Michael smiled, and scrolled down to read the rest of the email.

  I haven’t found the diarist’s name yet, but I’ll let you know when I do. I’m hoping to find it – I’d like to allot her an actual identity. She mentions that dead bell again, by the way. I have no idea what – or where – it is, but if you happen to see any bells anywhere in Rede Abbas, I’d be interested to know about it. Sorry if that sounds like a cross between Victor Hugo and Henry Irving.

  This afternoon I’m going along to the Bodleian to have a better look at that sixteenth-century document written by Brother Cuthwin – you remember he was the lively sounding monk who chronicled the Revels at St Benedict’s. I don’t know how much of his scribings are extant, but I’ll certainly ransack the august shelves and scour the cobwebbed archives. It would be good beyond all things if we could tie our diarist to Cuthwin – in printed and annalistic terms, that is. I’ll keep you posted.

  Meanwhile, happy Revelling,

  Owen

  Michael smiled again, closed the email, then collected sandwiches and coffee from the train’s buffet section, and ate them staring out of the window. But he was scarcely noticing the countryside rushing past; he was still seeing the tiny body lying beneath the old stones of the floor, with the heart-rending hand reaching out …

  He finished his sandwiches, rounded them off with an apple, and reached for the unfinished crossword. There was only another three-quarters of an hour before the train reached Axminster; it was unusual that Nell had not returned his call yet, but he would try her again when they got a bit nearer. Presumably he could hop into a taxi there if necessary – it was not much of a distance to Rede Abbas. It was possible that Nell had not got his message – the phone signal might be unreliable, or her phone might be out of charge. He found the number of The Swan, and tried that.

  The Swan’s receptionist was helpful. Mrs West had gone out just after breakfast, she said. She had been intending to explore the area a bit. No, she had not come back yet, but there were all kinds of events going on, so it was likely she had got caught up in something.

  Michael said, ‘Would you pass a message to her when she does come in. It’s Dr Flint.’

  ‘Oh yes, we’ve got you booked in for tonight, Dr Flint.’

  ‘I’ve had to catch a later train, but I’m expecting to reach Axminster Station just after two,’ said Michael. ‘If I haven’t reached Mrs West by then, I’ll get a taxi out to you.’

  ‘Yes, certainly,’ said the receptionist. ‘There’s a taxi rank at Axminster, and it’s only about twelve miles to Rede Abbas. If the train’s on time you should be with us by three at the latest. You’ll have a nice drive along the coast road as well.’

  From: Olive Orchard

  To: Daniel Goodbody

  Daniel –

  I’ve left several messages on your answerphone, but I suppose you’re immersed in some part of the entertainments. Gerald says you’ve probably switched off your phone, or you’re screening your calls or something, but of course I know you won’t have done that – I know you’re not answering because you’re so busy.

  I expect I shall see you at one of the events later. I’m going to the dancing display (the ‘Bishop’s Visitation’ from the sixteenth century and an adaptation of ‘Laudnum Bunches’), then the performance of that mumming play, The Rede Abbas Tup. That’s the one people sniggered over, but actually it’s an entirely seemly depiction of the slaughtering of a ram and the making of it into presents. Perfectly suitable for children, and it could be argued that it’s very nearly ecologically friendly. We adapted the famous ‘The Derby Ram’, and crossed fingers and toes that nobody from Derby would turn up and accuse us of snaffling their tradition.

  I’d hoped to tell you my news in person, or at least by actually speaking to you – in fact I was going to suggest we might meet for a pub lunch somewhere between ‘Laudnum Bunches’ and The Rede Abbas Tup. But time’s running out, so here’s the news. Gerald has found ‘Thaisa’s Song’! (I’d put a fanfare of trumpets in there if I could.)

  Needless to say he’s as pleased as punch, and by half past nine he had rounded up the choir (well, most of them), and hauled dear old Mr Budd to rehearse them. Mr Budd is having to forgo his pie and pint at the Coach and Horses today, which is rather a pity, because he’s gone along to the Coach and Horses every day at twelve on the dot, for the last fifty years. I should think he’d totter through their door even if Armageddon had just been announced, and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were about to ride into town.

  They’re currently all closeted in the old schoolroom, trying to make sense of the score. Gerald unearthed it from a wodge of old monastery records – I’m surprised you didn’t hear his shriek of triumph all the way to your house. The score is impossibly faded and foxed, and I wouldn’t have thought it was readable, never mind capable of being sung, but Gerald brandished it at Mr Budd, and it was decided they would make the attempt.

  I went along to the schoolroom at half past eleven with sandwiches and flasks of coffee – you’d think The Fox & Goose might have agreed to send in a few of their chicken legs and a bread roll or two by way of lunch, wouldn’t you, but they’re determined to be as unhelpful as possible. But there was the choir, singing away for all it was worth, Gerald dashing around making notes, and Mr Budd conducting like an over-wound clockwork toy. For all he’s eighty-five he’s still a commanding figure, dear old Bill Budd, and if anyone can get a reasonable rendition of this peculiar song out of the choir, he will. And peculiar it is, I can’t stress that strongly enough. The bits I heard were in the strangest mixture of badly pronounced Welsh (at least, I suppose it was Welsh), and a few words of English that Mr Parry the milkman translated. Personally, I wouldn’t trust Mr Parry’s Welsh from here to that door, because he’s lived in Rede Abbas since he was three and the only bit of Welsh he knows is ‘Sosban Fach’, which he sings every Christmas.

  Anyway, do phone me when you get this.

  Olive

  ‘Hi Daniel – Olive again. I thought I’d try ringing again, but you’re obviously still occupied. I was sorry not to have seen you at the dancing display. It went really well, and I honestly don’t think anyone noticed that two of the dancers had been imbibing The Fox & Goose’s specially brewed mead earlier.

  ‘If you get this message in time, I’ll keep a seat for you for the mumming thing.’

  The Fox & Goose

  Internal memo

  To: All bar and restaurant staff

  Please ensure that no more of the home-brewed mead is served, since there have been reports of unsocial and unstable behaviour by several people who have drunk it. This is most likely due to it having been left to ferment for too long.

  If anyone does order, serve ordinary cider instead with a slice of apple and lemon. People won’t know the difference and the home-brewed price can still be charged.

  Michael arrived at Axminster on time, and was aware of a small nagging core of concern. Nell had not phoned back, and he had left two more messages. Alighting from the train he scanned the platform eagerly, hoping to see her with some tale of phone out of charge.

  But she was not there. He waited outside the station for ten minutes, in case she might still
appear, then reluctantly got into a taxi and gave the address of The Swan in Rede Abbas. The receptionist had been right about one thing: the drive along the coast road was spectacular. The tide was scudding in – huge foamy waves were lashing across the flat stretches of beach, towards the cliffs.

  ‘Quite a sight,’ said Michael, leaning forward to see better.

  ‘We get used to it down here,’ said the taxi driver. ‘But it’s still worth watching.’

  ‘Is this high tide now?’

  ‘No, there’s a good couple of hours yet. High tide’s about five. By half-past five three-quarters of the cliffs below this road will be submerged … Here for the Revels thing, are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They say it’s going really well – first time for more than a hundred years it’s been done, so they tell. Here’s The Swan now. Nice place, it is. They’ll make you comfortable.’

  Michael liked The Swan with its pleasing scents of old oak and its timeless air of gentility. He booked in, and asked about Nell.

  ‘She’s not appeared yet, Dr Flint, but I shouldn’t worry. Most people are making a day of it. She’ll be in soon, I expect. She went on foot – her car’s still in the yard.’

  ‘Is the Ramblers’ Hostel nearby?’ asked Michael, his concern switching to Beth.

  ‘A few minutes’ walk.’

  ‘Michael put his things in the big double room overlooking the square, then walked along to the hostel. It appeared the children had all been taken into somewhere called Musselwhite’s Meadow after lunch, to watch a display of dancing, followed by a mumming play. Oh yes, everyone had gone – a great time the children were having. They were due back at the hostel around five o’clock for a high tea before the evening’s events.

  At least it sounded as if Beth was all right, so Michael thought he would walk round the square. He was becoming increasingly worried by Nell’s silence, but he did notice that the square was an attractive place; there were some nice old buildings, and shopkeepers had put tubs of flowers out and hanging baskets. At the centre were a number of street stalls, all with a medieval theme. It was quite busy; people seemed interested in the stalls’ wares, and a number of them were consulting programmes, and discussing whether they would go along to see the medieval jousting and whether Musselwhite’s Meadow would be muddy enough to require wellingtons, because you never knew with meadows.