by Mary Burns
Mr. Gravely showed us to a staircase which led down into the lower level of the building—the morgue, I assumed. A preternatural chill shook me, and I felt John’s warm hand on my shoulder as we descended. Unlike Persephone, however, I was not being forced against my will into the realm of the dead, and knowing I would be able to rise again to the sunlight and air gave me the courage to continue downwards.
The air grew cold and dense as we walked slowly down the steps, our way lighted by coal-gas lamps set at intervals in iron sconces fastened to the walls. A wide hallway of white tile led to a large and very cold room at the end; it had white marble floors and appeared to be spotlessly clean. I’m not sure what I had imagined, but it was not this white-on-white, immaculate marble walk-in tomb. I shivered again, and John put his arm around my shoulder.
Mr. Gravely brought us to a slab table on which lay a shape, covered by a sheet. Lord Parke started at the sight.
“Gravely! Surely you’ve not done…an autopsy!” His astonishment swiftly turned to anger. “How dare you? By what right…” He turned to me, taking me firmly by the elbow. “Miss Paget, I cannot allow you to continue here, or to view your dear friend’s remains, in this condition—this is intolerable!”
Shocked, both John and I turned to Mr. Gravely, who spoke up, though softly.
“Begging your Lordship’s pardon, but Mr. Crickley was very explicit to me about wanting an autopsy if…when he died,” said the clearly imperturbable coroner. I caught the change of the conditional article. Intriguing.
“He was very interested in scientific advances, you know,” Mr. Gravely continued. A small, sad smile flitted across his features as he gently touched the still form under the sheet. “Despite all that Arthur nonsense.”
I gently extricated my arm from Lord Parke’s grasp, although it was not easily done.
“I understand that the purpose of an autopsy is to determine the cause of death,” I said, speaking in my most assertive tones. I had no notion of allowing His Lordship to whisk me away on the pretence that my female status rendered me unable to either understand or stomach the notion of the medical examination of a corpse.
Mr. Gravely nodded.
“And what can you tell us?” I said, bracing myself for the worst.
He sighed, just a short breath, but enough of a reminder that this body before us had held the soul of a friend, and it caught me up short as well. John’s hand slipped into mine and held it tightly. Lord Parke had moved away from me; I could not see his face.
“Reverend Crickley’s body was found at the bottom of his staircase, dressed in his nightclothes,” he said. “There were bruises on his arms and his knees, consistent with a fall down the stairs. He had a cut on the side of his head that bled a considerable amount.”
“As Doctor Langley said,” Lord Parke interrupted. “He fell down the stairs and broke his neck.”
“His neck was indeed broken,” said Mr. Gravely. “But I am not at all satisfied that he…simply fell.” He moved to the far end of the marble table, and uncovered the legs of the body.
“There are unusual marks here—and here,” he said, pointing to a thin red line, a welt really, crossing the front of both shins horizontally. “I’m not sure what to make of these,” he said. We stepped a little closer to see for ourselves—I admit I did feel some qualms upon viewing the thin shanks of this poor vulnerable body.
“One can presume that he scarred his legs on the railing, or the steps, as he fell,” said Lord Parke, in a voice that brooked no demur. “Or that it is an unrelated injury.”
John and I both turned to look at His Lordship, but not at each other—we would compare our observations later, in private.
“That is possible,” said Mr. Gravely, but he was shaking his head. “But I don’t believe it’s likely.”
“And what does Doctor Langley think of this observation of yours?” Lord Parke almost sneered the word. “He is a medical man, trained in Edinburgh. His diagnosis is more to be trusted than yours.”
Mr. Gravely looked up sharply at His Lordship, then lowered his eyes. But not before he flashed a glance at me that told me of his contempt for the local gentry.
“As you say, my lord, Doctor Langley was trained up at Edinburgh. He will review my report.”
“Well, see to it that you get it to him in good time,” snapped Lord Parke.
I was feeling provoked by this rapid and somewhat hostile exchange, and took a moment to draw a deep breath before I spoke.
“May I, Mr. Gravely,” I said, placing my hand on his arm. “May I see my dear friend’s face one last time?”
He nodded, and led me gently to the top of the table, John at my side. Lord Parke stayed where he was; I sensed him struggling not to intercede.
The white sheet was lifted away and I looked into the lifeless, grey face of my dear old friend and mentor. His head wound had been washed and there was no blood to be seen, but there seemed to me to be a pained expression on his features, as if he were trying to grasp how this had happened—this death, in this manner. I felt sure in that moment that his death was not an innocent accident.
I vowed I would find out, so he could be at peace.
6
This grey King
Showed us a shrine wherein were wonders—yea—
Rich arks with priceless bones of martyrdom,
Thorns of the crown and slivers of the cross,
And therewithal (for thus he told us) brought
By holy Joseph thither, that same spear
Wherewith the Roman pierced the side of Christ.
–Idylls of the King
31 March 1539
Glastonbury Abbey
Feast of St. Dominic
The last bell of Compline faded in the night, and the monks of Glastonbury shuffled to their beds, some to restless dreams fraught with fear, others dreamless with the sleep bestowed on the pure of heart by Providential grace. Arthur was wakeful, and alert to every sound. Two nights from now it would be Holy Thursday, and all the house would be awake, watching—as the disciples had failed to do—throughout the long vigil before the dreadful Good Friday passion would play out. For now, he and the Abbot waited, silent and praying, until the scarred moon was an hour lower in the sky. The Abbot motioned for Arthur to step softly to the window. Looking out, he saw the two faithful brothers slip through shadow and faint moonlight to await his signal. This would be the fourth time they had met secretly.
A single candle, lighted, he thrust through the window opening, then pulled it back. He set the candle on a table, then walked silently to the door, waiting for the others to make their stealthy progress up the staircase.
Unbeknownst—he hoped—to any in the monastery, and at the Abbot’s behest, they had gathered certain sacred items over the past days, to hide them and perhaps, eventually, to spirit them away to safer quarters, should the need arise. And it was more than clear that this need was fast upon them. The Abbot had the means of communication—Arthur did not know how—with the other great abbeys, and the King’s Visitors were making their greedy way from Canterbury across the southern counties. There just might be time enough to save the most important, the most sacred things. John and Roger, as treasurers, would be able to make the appropriate modifications in the lists of the Abbey’s property, should the Visitors bother to request them. Arthur felt his heart swell with joy to be part of this holy conspiracy, and couldn’t resist the flame of excitement at the deep adventure of it.
A tap on the door frame told him his brothers were come; he let them in and closed the door, a warning finger to his lips. They must not speak; human voices carried far on the still night air.
He motioned to them to follow him to the great stone hearth, a magnificent fireplace some six feet high, its sides and mantle decorated with previous abbots’ arms and heraldry. No fire was burning—indeed, stone cold was the grate that held only traces of the ash of wood burned two nights before. The Abbot stood waiting for them at the side o
f the hearth; he pointed to the iron grate, indicating it should be taken up. John Thorne grasped it on either side, and soundlessly lifted it, though with a breathless grunt at its weight. He settled it a little ways behind them.
The two monks watched, curious and half-fearful, as Arthur walked inside the curved bow of the mantle and, crossing himself, began to push against the center stone at a high point of the back wall. With a sound like the rattle of death in an old man’s throat, the entire wall of the hearth moved away, and slid some three feet into darkness. The Abbot had shown him this hidden door some days ago, but it was new to the other monks. The sacred items that the brothers had brought secretly to the Abbot’s chambers had been carried by the young novice monk down the dank passageway and hidden in dark recesses.
The Abbot pointed to the candle—the only light in the room—and Roger James fetched it, his hand cupped as it wavered in a faint draft that came from the darkness. He followed Arthur into the passage. John Thorne once again hefted the iron grate back into place, the last of the three of them to step into the hidden space. The wall rolled back, silently this time. A moment later, anyone coming into the room would see nothing to show that a midnight journey had begun in the recesses of the hearth—only that the Abbot was deep in prayer, and his fireplace prepared for the privations of Holy Week, when no fire burned until the Sacred Flame was lighted on Easter morn.
Down the length of the passage the three monks trod softly, their only light the single candle that Roger James carried. At a turn in the tunnel, they saw a low wooden door set in the stone wall. Arthur held up a hand to signal a halt, and he touched the iron bar across the door.
“Where are we?” John Thorne asked, his lips almost to Arthur’s ear.
Pointing upward, Arthur mouthed the words, “The high altar of the Lady Chapel.”
The other two nodded. Arthur unbarred the door and swung it inward on silent, well-oiled hinges. Stepping inside a low-ceilinged room about ten feet square, he gestured to Roger James to hand him the candle, then shone it on a mound of the many chalices, monstrances and reliquaries they had all been surreptitiously collecting in the past week—many of them decked with precious stones embedded in the gold and silver, canny Celtic craftsmanship of great beauty, used on the highest holy days. Arthur picked up a leather bag and started filling it with the sacred items. The other two monks followed suit, and working with the utmost care to keep the precious metal vessels from clinking against each other, they soon filled their bags.
At the farther end of the little room, a half-dozen or so wooden steps led up to the ceiling, in which was embedded a trap door. With a half-apologetic glance, Arthur indicated that John Thorne should be the one to open it—it was thick and heavy, being part of the chapel floor behind the altar, as they realized once it had been moved aside—there was a thin slab of tiles inset on the top of it, well-fitted to match the surrounding floor. Once inside the chapel, Arthur blew out the candle—the faint moonlight from the high windows was enough to guide them—and led them to a back panel of the altar. He pressed on the symbol of two circles overlapping, crossed by a sword, carved in relief on the stone, and a hidden spring unlocked the panel so it could slide sideways. Hollowed out inside, the space was large enough for all three of the leather bags they had brought from the passage.
A sudden sound echoed in the long, shadowed chapel, and the three monks froze in place. Situated behind the high altar, they knew they would be unseen from the front of the chapel, but if someone were to approach from the side…
Footsteps could be heard, slowly making their way up the main aisle. The three held their breath, and Arthur felt a trickle of sweat down his back, creating an agony of itching, but he held himself still as stone. Then came the soft swish of robes as someone, it seemed, knelt down before the altar. A troubled monk, perhaps, his sleep broken by temptation or fear, come to fight back the dark night thoughts by fervent prayer.
After what seemed hours, they heard the person rise, the sound of straw sandals brushing against the marble floor retreating, a far door closing.
All three let out their held-in breath simultaneously, and exchanged relieved glances. They quickly finished their task, slid back the panel, and retreated to the underground room. Arthur re-lit the candle once the trap door was in place, using a flint in the small room, and led the way back to the Abbot’s chamber.
There were other doors to areas of the Lady Chapel and the great church, Arthur knew—the Abbot had confided much to him in the past week—that he alone had traversed to hide sacred items, and in other parts of the Abbey—the refectory, the chapter house, even in the Abbot’s kitchen. The Abbot had become increasingly anxious for what remained being hidden away tonight, as if he knew that time was running out.
Back at the secret door in the fireplace, Arthur listened intently for any sound in the Abbot’s room that might indicate he wasn’t alone, but all was very still. The door swung open in silence, and the Abbot’s eyes glistened in the darkness as he nodded that all was well. He blessed the two monks, who then stole away into the night. Arthur went to his alcove and lay upon the straw-stuffed mattress there, trying to quiet his mind and heart to allow him to fall asleep.
The Abbot’s voice carried lightly to Arthur’s fading consciousness: We have been good and faithful servants, my boy—the rest is up to the Lord.
7
Rain, rain, and sun! a rainbow in the sky!
A young man will be wiser by and by;
An old man’s wit may wander ere he die.
–Idylls of the King
Brampton, Cumberland
There seemed no more to be done at the mortuary. We bade farewell to Mr. Gravely, and walked in silence to the Brampton Arms, where our luncheon awaited us. I had little heart for eating and drinking, or so it seemed to me at first. Once in the lobby, we decided to repair to our rooms for a bit of freshening up, and agreed to meet in twenty minutes. I had noticed that John had tarried behind His Lordship and me as we had left Mr. Gravely’s domain, and he and the coroner had exchanged a few words. As John and I mounted the staircase together to seek our rooms, leaving Lord Parke behind to consult with the hotel owner, I asked him about that brief conversation.
“I merely inquired as to whether Mr. Gravely had been present at Mr. Crickley’s cottage when the body was examined there,” he said.
“Ah, good thought!” I approved his effort. “And what did he say?”
“Unfortunately, he was not there, but he did say he questioned this Doctor Langley closely, and was able to deduce some interesting notions.”
“Which were…?” I pressed him.
John shook his head. “There wasn’t time for him to tell me, and he mentioned we could speak with him later, perhaps this evening, if we didn’t think it an intrusion—his words. I felt he had something particular to say.”
I nodded my agreement with his assessment. We came to a junction in the hall where we would part to go to our rooms. “Very well,” I said. “This gets more and more curious every moment, doesn’t it?”
“It does indeed,” John said.
My chamber was large and well-lighted, with what looked to be a comfortable bed in a separate room of its own, and a delightful sitting room, decorated with a vase of deliciously scented yellow roses. It seemed that the inn was accustomed to His Lordship’s visits—and perhaps his female guests as well? my irrepressible mind failed not to suggest—and I was soon smugly indignant that my uncharitable notions were justified as I chatted with the talkative chambermaid. She had leaped up from a chair when I entered the room; it seemed she had been sent up to wait for me, and wait upon me as well. I asked her if Lord Parke weren’t a frequent guest at the inn?
“Oh yes, Miss, his Lordship has best rooms up top floor, with garden and terrace, Miss,” she said, as she helped me shed my coat.
“Doesn’t he stay with his cousin?” I asked, meaning of course, George Howard, the nephew of the present Eighth Earl of Carlisle,
who, sadly, was mentally incapacitated and “unable to live in the world,” as I had heard from my mother. The Earl had been a clergyman, a Rector of some parish in Yorkshire, who had never married, and therefore was now without a direct heir. Mr. Howard, as the son of the Earl’s brother (now deceased) was next in line.
“Oh yes, Miss, he do,” the girl said, with more clarity than grammar. “But yon castle be girt lonesome place for young man, Miss, and we in town are dreatful glad his Lordship do come a-staying amongst us.”
I directed a keen look at this little creature’s face, which I saw was quite pretty in a country sort of way—round without being fat, a hint of pink in her cheeks, merry blue eyes that looked like she appreciated a bit of fun. I had at first thought her very young for such service, but I gauged she must be near my own age, perhaps eighteen, although I felt decades older than this sunny child.
I drew out clean linen for around my neck and sat at the mirrored dressing table to see if anything could be done with my hair, frowsy and dilapidated from the train and the carriage ride.
“Here, Miss, begging pardon,” the chambermaid said. She took the brush from my hand, quickly and deftly undid the masses of frizz from the pins, and in a few moments had swept it all quite elegantly around my head, with a stray curl here and there at my forehead, to great effect.
“My dear child,” I said, “you are quite talented! I don’t believe I have ever looked so stylish!”
She blushed with pleasure, and curtsied as I stood up.
“What is your name, my dear?” I said, digging in my reticule for a few pence with which to reward her.
“Maisie, Miss,” she said, and curtsied again. She took the pennies with a mumbled “Thank you, Miss,” and a smile. A thought occurred to me.
“Tell me, Maisie,” I said. “Do you know the Reverend Mr. Crickley?”