The Legend of the Black Monk

by Nigel Cubbage

  ‘What’s he looking for?’ she muttered. He was clearly seeking something specific, wasting little time. He turned and went over to a large chest of drawers against the wall.

  There was a sound directly behind her.

  Rebecca turned swiftly, pressing herself back into a shadowy recess. A footfall crunched behind a stone balustrade at the top of steps to the lawn. Rebecca ducked just in the nick of time as another figure reached the window.

  It was a monk.

  This close, Rebecca could hear his breathing, coming in long, painful wheezes, as if he had been running. She could just see the bottom of his long brown cassock just above his ankles. On his feet were toeless sandals, muddied. Rebecca thought absently how unattractive feet could be. He stood at the window, his back to her. His hood shrouded his face.

  ‘Anything?’ A guttural voice with a foreign accent growled to the man inside. Rebecca missed the response. The monk went inside. She craned forward to listen.

  ‘Were you followed?’ The black helmet shook. The monk gave a long sigh, his breathing slowing. ‘There was a gang of kids in the woods. They chased me. Why would they do that?’

  Rebecca gave a sharp intake of breath, recognising him now. The rider held up some papers he had found. The monk grabbed them, snapping on the desk lamp. He pulled back his hood and Rebecca saw his face for the first time. He was far from young, was lean and angular with a hooked nose like a buzzard. Beads of sweat stood out on his brow. What was left of his hair was wispy and grey. He had keen, piercing eyes, the whites of which flashed in the lamplight as he scanned the papers. After a few seconds he cursed and dashed the papers aside. ‘Nothing!’ he spat. ‘Is this all you have found? Useless! This information must improve. Search the other rooms!’

  Outside, Rebecca gave an involuntary gasp. She must try and warn Laura! The men had already disappeared through into the hallway and might enter the Library at any moment. As she reached the window, the door of the room opened. The two men strode in, flashing torches around. Rebecca jerked back out of sight, convinced her friend would be discovered at any moment.

  ‘Books!’ snarled the monk, waving his arm dismissively, his humour evidently not improved by the shelves and volumes in the Library. Up in the gallery, Laura held her breath. She dared not move a muscle for fear of alerting the intruders. She closed her eyes in silent prayer. On the floor below, the monk continued to rant.

  ‘Gott! Search the house he says! For what? War and Peace? William Shakespeare? No … some other way must be found.’ The monk turned to his companion. ‘I am going back. This is pointless, useless! I will meet again with our friend Johann and get from him better information. Go! I will call you when I need you.’ The monk pulled up his hood and swept out of the room. Moments later he disappeared swiftly across the lawn in the opposite direction from the woods, taking the cliff path along the coast. The helmeted rider took one last look around the room before following. The motorbike roared into life as it was ridden off at high speed down the gravel drive.

  ‘Laura?’ Laura breathed again at the sound of Rebecca’s voice. ‘Come down, they’ve gone.’

  Rebecca helped her down the last step and they collapsed onto the floor in relief.

  ‘That was just awful …’ Laura’s voice tailed off. ‘Who are they?’

  Rebecca shook her head. ‘We have to find out. I reckon they were looking for the same thing as us.’

  ‘That was the monk we saw in the woods, wasn’t it? The one the boys went after?’

  ‘Yes. He said he had seen us and been chased. He’s a fast runner for an old man, to get back here so soon. He must have lost the boys.’

  ‘He didn’t sound English.’

  ‘You noticed too? European accent, I thought.’

  ‘German?’ Laura’s apprehension was clear. ‘… Nazi?’

  ‘Don’t be melodramatic, Gilmour. German does not automatically mean Nazi. These days Germans aren’t, you know, despite the Daily Mail.’ Rebecca went over to the window and peered outside. The moon was shining brightly, lighting up the grounds and throwing ghostly black shadows where it could not reach. ‘At least they didn’t get whatever they wanted. And there is somebody else involved. ‘I will get better information from our friend’ the monk said. Who is the friend?’

  There was a sudden creak outside the Library, accompanied by muffled whispering. Rebecca motioned urgently to Laura to join her behind the curtain. Slowly, the door handle began to turn, grating unnaturally loudly in the stillness of the old Manor. The two girls held their breath. There was a click. A close-cropped head appeared round the door.

  ‘Campbell! God you gave us a fright!’ Rebecca leaped out. As she did so, she startled Drew, who jerked his head sharply, banging it on the door.

  ‘Ouch! Gaw-blimey! Rebecca! Did you have to screech like that?’

  ‘I do not screech!’

  The door opened wide and Rupert joined them. Drew stood rubbing his head. ‘We thought you were intruders. We’ve just had two, right here!’ Laura was almost squeaking with excitement. ‘One of them was the monk you were chasing!’

  ‘So this is where he got to!’ said Rupert.

  ‘Are you sure it was him?’ Drew sounded dubious.

  ‘Hood, habit, out of breath from running … sort of obvious we thought,’ answered Rebecca.

  ‘Plus, we overheard him saying he had seen us in the woods.’

  ‘And the other guy?’ asked Rupert, sitting down by the fireplace.

  ‘Don’t know. Biker, never took his helmet off, so we couldn’t see his face. But the monk we did see. Thin, scrawny, big hooked nose, getting on a bit. Where would a monk come from round here, Rupert?’

  ‘The monastery on Druids’ Rock the other side of the valley.’

  Rupert and Drew were looking at one another shiftily. Rebecca frowned. ‘What is it, boys?’

  ‘I’m not sure you’re going to believe it,’ said Rupert. ‘You’d better tell them, Drew.’

  ‘What?’ Rebecca stood with her hands on her hips, impatient.

  Drew related their chase through the woods to the Smugglers’ Chapel, the mysterious figure Drew thought he had seen and the dangling rope and tolling bell.

  ‘Do you think it was a ghost?’ Rupert sounded hopeful.

  Rebecca decided to keep quiet about her own weird experience. ‘Something strange is happening here. We need to deal with what we do know for the moment and worry about ghosts or whatever later. That means we search this room for the information the Admiral says is here; then we have to find out who our monk really is, who his ‘friend’ is and just what they are up to. And we need to get cracking now, before anybody else turns up. Right?’

  They split up, searching the shelves, scanning the books with their torches. Outside the wind was getting up, causing the open French windows to rattle and bang. Rebecca went to secure them.

  ‘Look faster, guys,’ she said. ‘We’re going to have to get back soon or they’ll send out a search party for us. We don’t want to arouse any suspicion after Mr Sky’s little show this evening.’

  They went to their task with purpose. After a few minutes of intensive searching, Laura gave a cry of triumph. ‘Ha! The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sherlock Holmes, greatest detective in England!’ She came into the centre of the room, waving a leather-bound book.

  Her companions grouped around the table. Rupert took the book from her hand and opened it, turning pages quickly, expecting to discover something. He reached the end and looked up in dejection.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Rebecca impatiently, taking the book from him and shaking it. ‘Perhaps he’s written on one of the pages?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Rupert shook his head. ‘That’s a first edition. Grandpa wouldn’t scrawl over a book like that.’

  ‘Let’s get looking again. Come on.’ Laura urged the others back to the shelves.

  ‘What’s this doing with crime?’ Drew was standing where Laura had been
looking.

  ‘First World War Poetry’.’

  ‘No idea … wait a minute – of course!’ cried Rupert, swinging round sharply. ‘The man of conscience! The conscientious objector – Grandpa used to read one of his poems every year at the Remembrance Service. How did it go?

  I knew a simple soldier boy

  Who grinned at life in empty joy,

  Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,

  And whistled early with the lark.

  In winter trenches, cowed and glum,

  With crumps and lice and lack of rum,

  He put a bullet through his brain.

  No-one spoke of him again.

  You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye,

  Who cheer when soldier lads walk by,

  Sneak home and pray you’ll never know

  The hell where youth a laughter go…’

  ‘Wow!’ said Drew, impressed.

  ‘Siegfried Sassoon, Suicide in the Trenches,’ murmured Rebecca, to a nod from Rupert.

  ‘He wrote an anti-war statement during the First World War, which was read out in parliament,’ Rupert continued. ‘It was seen as unpatriotic and he was sent to an asylum to receive treatment for mental instability.’

  ‘He was a coward?’ asked Drew.

  ‘Far from it. He was a brave, decorated soldier. He wanted to go back to the lines but the powers that be thought he would cause problems in the ranks.’

  ‘Conscientious objectors are as brave as the soldiers who do the fighting, if you ask me,’ said Rebecca. ‘War is so pointless.’

  ‘Among great detectives may you find a man of conscience,’ Laura read from the note, reaching the bottom of the ladder, clutching the book. There was a small reading table on which she set everything down. Rupert sat in the chair and opened it. His mouth fell open.

  Inside the book the pages had been cut and hollowed out to make a rectangular hiding place. Concealed in this was a package.

  ‘Not poems then?’ murmured Drew, to nobody in particular.

  Rupert took the package out but did not open it immediately. He looked at the others.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ asked Rebecca, impatient at this delay.

  Rupert smiled nervously, rolling the package over and over in his hands.

  ‘Yeah… yes of course.’ He ripped the end of the package. Out came a cassette box and a sheaf of papers. There was a small black book, which Rupert turned over in his hands.

  ‘Naval Codes,’ he said, puzzled and surprised. ‘What that’s for? Ah! Here’s a note:

  ‘Rupert – instructions on the tape. All my research’ …

  This is it, guys!’ Rupert looked round excitedly, cradling the papers, tape and book in his hand. His face clouded as if suddenly slightly afraid. ‘A tape? Not sure I’ve got anything old enough to play it.’

  ‘Anything else?’ asked Rebecca impatiently.

  Tucked into the tape sleeve was a sheet of paper. Rupert unfolded it.

  ‘A map! Pretty faded and dilapidated though.’

  The map showed a section of coastline and some islands. There was a compass drawn in the top corner and some spidery writing picking out landmarks. ‘It’s Grandpa’s writing all right!’ Excitement was apparent in Rupert’s tone.

  ‘The Horns of Lucifer, look!’ Drew pointed to some writing in the middle of the map.

  Everyone craned forward.

  ‘The Horns of Lucifer …’ read Rupert. ‘Three islands. And The Serpent’s Tongue … which seems to be the stretch of water between them.’

  ‘What’s that place?’ asked Rebecca, pointing to what seemed to be a harbour.

  ‘St Morwenna’s, the fishing port on the coast just here.’

  ‘Can we get a boat there?’

  ‘No need. Grandpa left me his boat, remember?’ Rupert looked up, nervousness gone, his face now beaming.

  ‘All the same, I’d like to speak to some local fishermen,’ said Drew. ‘I assume you want me to sail your new boat? That’s why you got me down here. I want to know a bit about the seas round here before I go wrecking it on old Lucifer’s horns.’

  ‘That’s remarkably wise of you, Campbell,’ said Rebecca, looking at him in admiration.

  ‘And touching to think you value our safety so highly.’

  Drew gave her a contemptuous glance. He looked back at the map. ‘Is there any mention of pirate’s treasure? X marks the spot?’

  Rupert scanned the sheet again. His smile disappeared. ‘There’s a cross against the Horns of Lucifer but nothing to say why. Look, it’s too late to go through all this here and now. And we don’t have a cassette player to play this tape.’

  ‘Not sure I’d know what one looks like,’ said Laura.

  ‘We should put it somewhere safe,’ said Rebecca. ‘We don’t want those men coming back and finding it.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Drew, looking at his watch. ‘The last thing we want is to get back to find Sky waiting.’

  ‘We’ll hide it all in the old barn,’ said Rupert. ‘Then when everyone’s gone to sleep, we can sneak back out and go through it all. We can get in and out without being seen through your bathroom window. It’s never closed.’

  ‘And what are you going to say when they ask you what was in the note?’ asked Rebecca.

  There was a long silence.

  ‘I’ll think of something,’ said Rupert, uncertainly.

  Chapter 7

  The Gates of Hades

  A solitary bird called loudly from high among the tall chimneys as they crossed the gardens to the gate in the wall. It was the only sound to break the silence. Rupert, Laura and Drew scuffed their way through the carpet of autumn leaves covering the path. Rebecca followed behind, lost in her thoughts.

  ‘I’m cold,’ muttered Laura, zipping up her jacket and stuffing her hands deep into the pockets. The temperature was falling fast.

  ‘Townie,’ grinned Rupert. ‘It’s just good, fresh, country air.’

  ‘Says the man with two jumpers on,’ mocked Drew, pointing at Rupert’s padded frame.

  ‘Bit of a sad style statement, there, Rupe.’

  Rupert shrugged his shoulders. ‘Clothes, schmothes,’ he grinned. ‘The world is too hung up on what it looks like.’

  ‘You could do with hanging up a few of the things you wear,’ laughed Laura.

  They reached a junction in the path. A signpost pointed towards ‘Smugglers’ Chapel’. Drew and Rupert exchanged glances.

  ‘What ?’ said Rebecca, noticing their expressions.

  ‘That’s where our friend led us,’ said Drew.

  ‘And where he lost you,’ added Rebecca, pointedly.

  ‘Yeah, all right.’ Drew was staring down the path. ‘Fancy a quick detour?’

  ‘Why?’ asked Laura. ‘Surely he’s long gone by now?’

  The others looked at Drew. ‘Something’s niggling me. That bell tolling. Something is not right about that place.’

  ‘All right but let’s be quick,’ said Rebecca. ‘We’re going to get found out if we don’t get back soon.’

  A short walk brought them to the clearing and a low stone wall around the graveyard of the old chapel. A crow squawked loudly overhead, causing Laura to start. She smiled self-consciously at the others. The chapel was silent and dark, throwing long, impenetrable shadows across the graveyard.

  ‘Spooky,’ breathed Drew, eyeing the bell tower. He pushed open a squeaky metal gate into the graveyard. The others followed.

  ‘There’s a witch’s grave over there,’ said Rupert, pointing to the far corner. ‘Outside the wall. Witches could not be buried on sanctified ground.’

  ‘How do you know she was a witch?’ asked Laura.

  ‘Another local legend. Her name was Elsinore Gubbins, a nanny at the Manor hundreds of years back, looking after his lordship’s children. All of them fell ill with a sudden fever, probably the plague or something. They died and his Lordship blamed poor Elsinore, said she had possessed them with evil spirits.
She was tried as a witch and drowned. As they would not let her be buried in the churchyard, her father dug her a grave outside the church boundary.’

  ‘How unfair!’ said Laura. ‘I bet it wasn’t her fault.’

  ‘Pretty bad if you were accused of witchcraft. They tied you up and flung you in the water. If you floated, you were a witch so you’d be burned; if you drowned you weren’t a witch, but you were dead.’

  ‘There’s an aura here, too, just like the Manor,’ said Laura. ‘A sense of hopelessness, somehow, as if something terribly sad and irreparable has happened.’

  ‘You’ve been at the ghost stories in the Library, haven’t you?’ said Rebecca, drily.

  ‘Nazis, pirate’s curses, now a murdering witch! What other delights have you got in store for us, Rupe?’ Drew stepped over a fallen gravestone.

  ‘What are we doing here, Campbell?’ Rebecca brought them all back to the present.

  At that moment, the bell rang. They looked up sharply.

  ‘Ten o’clock.’ Laura looked at her watch. The chimes confirmed this. Everyone relaxed.

  ‘Let’s split up and look around.’

  Laura and Rupert took the small path around the side of the church, while Rebecca and Drew started to examine the gravestones, gradually moving further apart. Rebecca looked up, frustrated. There seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary. She was about to call to Drew when her attention was drawn to a movement in the shadows at the far end by the wall.

  ‘Drew! Look!’ Her voice, when it came, was a croak, too quiet for Drew on the other side of the graveyard to hear.

  A hooded figure stood between the gravestones, facing her. Mist licked around his feet, the air suddenly bitingly cold. The hooded figure stared. Rebecca was transfixed, unable to move. Her heart pounded in her chest, blood pulsing through her temples. She opened her mouth but could not utter a sound. Slowly the figure raised an arm and pointed at her. A voice. Cold, harsh, unnatural.

  ‘I know what ye seek. Heed me, harken unto me. Seek it not, lest ye open the gates to Hades.’ The figure stayed for a couple of seconds before turning and disappearing into the darkness of the trees. Rebecca took a couple of steps forward as if to pursue, but stopped, realising he had vanished. She called out again, her voice suddenly returning.