Domini Mortum

by Paul Holbrook

  ‘Edward has returned to his cottage – he will be here shortly.’ I placed my hands on Anne’s shoulders in an effort to calm her. ‘Do you really have no idea where he is, Anne? It is very important; Tom was correct, there is great danger and I fear he may have done something rash.’

  The tears fell from Anne’s eyes at my words and she pushed herself into my chest, sobbing. ‘The verger, Mr Williams, came to see him in the morning; he seemed flustered and the pair of them talked for quite a while. After Mr Williams left, Tom immediately called me down from upstairs. He told me that I should not open the pub nor answer the door. I watched him as he went; he walked off towards the church. I am so scared for him, Mr Weaver. There was a look in his eyes, the like of which I have never seen before, so much anger. I have not slept all night for worry.’

  ‘Worry no longer, Anne,’ I said, holding her tightly to me. ‘Edward and I are here now and we will bring him back, I promise.’

  A sudden rap on the door caused us both to jump in fright.

  ‘Anyone home? I’m dying for a drink if there’s one going,’ came the voice of Higgins from outside.

  ‘Anne, fetch me a bottle of brandy and lock the door again behind me,’ I said. ‘Edward and I will return with Tom, trust me.’

  I unbolted the door as Anne fetched a bottle from behind the bar. As I opened it, I saw Higgins standing there, a look of confusion on his face.

  ‘What’s going on? Where’s Tom?’ he asked.

  ‘I shall explain on the way,’ I said. ‘Remember what I said, Anne. Do not open the door until our return.’

  She nodded and, when I had joined Higgins outside, slammed the door shut. Higgins’s face was the picture of bewilderment, only altered when I uncorked the bottle.

  ‘Here, Edward,’ I said. ‘Have a drink – you will need it, we are going to church.’

  ***

  The door to the church was locked also and I began to get the impression that the entire village was shut away behind bolted doors. This did nothing to reduce the fears I had regarding what had made Tom become so agitated before he disappeared. Something must have changed to make Tom act so. He would have known that Higgins would be returning to the village with me by his side and I wondered what he had been told by the verger that could be so important.

  I banged hard on the door, but with no reply I found myself walking around the church and peering through the windows as I had done before on my last visit. There seemed to be no sign of movement within and I thought of the secret passageway leading to Surrenden Manor. If both Tom and the verger had travelled through this passageway then they could be a full two miles away from here, under the ground.

  ‘Any sign of them?’ asked Higgins, who had remained at the door to the vestry and was a full quarter way through the bottle of brandy.

  ‘None,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, Edward, are you a religious man?’

  He smiled a little before replying. ‘I would think, Sam, that everything that I have heard of or seen in Pluckley would make me the most religious man in the land but no, religion is and will always be a mystery to me; all that kneeling and faith in the invisible, it stretches even my imagination too far. Why do you ask?’

  I took the bottle from him and took a swig before passing it back.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t want to offend you, old man, that’s all,’ I said as I took a step back and kicked at the door hard. The wood around the lock splintered and the door gave way, swinging inwards; I stepped into the church followed by my dumbstruck companion.

  There was indeed no one to be seen inside and I strode forwards to look in the vestry, which was also empty.

  ‘Higgins,’ I said, as we approached the doorway to the crypt, ‘how are you with the dark?’

  His face blanched and I could see that we would soon be coming to the point where I would be on my own. We descended.

  Candles were lighted in the crypt, causing the tombs of the Dering family to cast large shadows upon the wall. The soft glow from the candles revealed what I knew would be there. On the wall underneath one of the arches, beneath the yellow shield with the black cross belonging to the House of Dering, a doorway now stood – a doorway which I had not seen on my last visit. As I neared it I could see that a piece of false wall had been pushed aside at the entrance to a tunnel. The passageway was dimly lit by candles in sconces, heading down into the depths as the tunnel dropped steeply deep into the earth. Behind me, Higgins cleared his throat.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, Sam,’ he said, looking at the floor. ‘Perhaps it would be better if one of us stayed here at the entrance, to guard the rear, so to speak. I would hate for us to disappear in that godforsaken place without anyone being left behind to raise the alarm if we didn’t return.’

  I smiled at my friend, taking one more sip of his brandy, and I clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Very good, Edward. I was thinking the very same thing myself. I shall head into here and see if there is any sign of Tom or the verger. If by the time I reach the manor I have not found them, I will return immediately. How far do you think it is from here? One and a half, maybe two miles?’

  ‘Two, I would think.’

  ‘Perfect. Then shall we say that if I do not return within two hours then you are to return to the Black Horse immediately and call for assistance? Contact the local police, it doesn’t matter too much what you say, as long as they come to the manor looking for me. Tell them that an intruder is heading to Surrenden intent on burning it down or something; that should bring out enough of them.’

  ‘Damn me for a coward, Sam,’ Higgins said, taking the stopper out of the bottle once more.

  ‘Do not give it a second thought, my friend,’ I said. ‘We both have a role to play here, Edward. Yours will be as important as mine should things not go our way. I shall see you shortly.’ Head down, I stepped into the passageway and began walking.

  The tunnel was bricked and seemed sturdy enough; I picked up one of the larger candles and carried it with me as I went. The walls were damp and running with water in places, which made the floor puddle at some points and muddy in others. Lighted candles were set into the wall at twenty-feet intervals and I could see the wax from many candles past, melted and covering the sections of the wall where the small alcoves stood. There was no sound other than that of my own footsteps and I began to feel not a little nervous the farther I travelled into the darkness. There was a damp, mildewed smell to the passage and a cloying heat which only made my nervous perspiration worse the further I walked.

  After about fifteen minutes of walking I saw ahead of me a widening of the passageway into what looked like a small room. It was well lit and I heard a small noise as I approached. I slowed to a creep, extinguishing my candle, and began to edge along the moist wall.

  I stopped as I reached the entrance, my back pressed hard into the side of the tunnel, my breathing deep and controlled. There was certainly someone up ahead. Cautiously I peered around the corner and found the verger, Mr Williams, sitting hunched over a desk; he had not heard me approach. I stepped into the room.

  Williams immediately jumped out of his seat and swung towards me with a letter opener brandished in his hand.

  ‘Who are you?’ he cried. ‘Tell me now or I will use this; I am on the edge!’ The short man’s dark suit was heavily caked in the mud of the walls.

  I raised my hands in submission.

  ‘Please calm down, Mr Williams,’ I said. ‘I mean you no harm. I am Samuel Weaver, a friend of Tom Finnan.’

  ‘Weaver, you say.’ He pushed his glasses a little farther up his nose and studied me intently, the letter opener still raised in his hand. ‘Tom never mentioned you. How am I to know who you are?’

  I took a step towards him, causing him to start and jump backwards.

  ‘Edward Higgins brought me to Pluckley at the request of Tom. I know of your business here in this tunnel and of where it leads; I am here to help.’

  ‘Higgins? Edward Higgins? W
here is he? If he brought you here then where is he now?’ The blade in his hand dropped a little.

  ‘Edward is back in the crypt awaiting my return. Now, where is Tom?’

  ‘I do not know. That is, I fear he has been taken. Tom and I have been travelling this tunnel for a long time now, watching the manor, recording the comings and goings. We have never seen Falconer himself; although we have heard his voice, he has always remained obscured from view. Two nights ago, whilst at the end of the tunnel, watching through the eyehole which shows the drawing room, I saw two men discussing an forthcoming party – something significant was being planned, a visit from royalty. I left immediately and returned to the village to find Tom. He became most animated and said that we should return to the manor through the passageway to find out more. He said that help would be coming to us soon, but that it was important to gather as much information as we could. Are you that help?’

  ‘Yes, I am. I am a newspaper correspondent. He asked me to come so that he could tell me all and we could expose the Lord of Surrenden Manor and all under his governance. Now where is Tom?’

  Williams looked downwards, his expression one of fear.

  ‘Well, there’s the thing, you see. Tom told me to stay here and wait for him, but that was hours ago. When at first he did not return, I made my way along the corridor towards the manor again – and that is when I heard his cries.’ Williams stopped for a moment, gathering himself. ‘I should have kept on going and tried to help him, but I ran; God help me, I ran from him when he needed me most.’

  ‘But why did you not return to the church, to the village, raise help?’

  ‘I did, but as I neared the crypt I heard the voices of men, and I knew that I was trapped here. Was there no one in the church when you arrived? No sign of any intruders?’

  ‘No, it is safe to return now I think, but I must carry on and find out what has happened to Tom.’ I took the little man by the shoulder. ‘Go back to the church and tell Higgins what you have told me. Tell him that I am headed for the manor and to raise the alarm as planned. Hopefully we will not be too late to save Tom. Now go!’

  Williams scuttled off along the corridor, muttering to himself nervously as he went. Here was a man surely taken to the very edge of madness and despair by this affair, and I pitied him.

  ***

  I continued down the corridor for what seemed like a lifetime, holding my candle out in front of me. Each drip of water, each echo of my own footsteps caused me to step warily through the darkness. I imagined that Williams had now met with Edward in the crypt and that they were currently heading off to get help from somewhere. The nearest town to Pluckley, however, was Ashford and I knew it this was over four miles away. I could only hope that the ‘people’ that Higgins knew, and their carriage, would be able to take my friend there to bring back assistance. I did not know what I would do in the meantime; perhaps if I could at least find out if Finnan was still alive then that would be a start.

  The passageway continued to wind until at last it began to slope upwards to what I hoped would be the surface, and Surrenden Manor. As I rose, the ground became firmer underfoot and the walls appeared to dry out somewhat until I came to an oaken door.

  I pressed my ear against the door, listening for any kind of sound on the other side; there was none. I slowly turned the handle, peering through the crack as the door opened. I saw what appeared to be a meeting point in a corridor of some sort. There were four exits, not including the one that I had arrived by, and each led off in a different direction. Higgins had told me that rather than just leading to one place in Surrenden Manor, the secret passageways led to concealed doorways and viewing points throughout the house, hidden within false walls and behind bookcases. It was through these viewing points that I supposed Tom and the verger had maintained a constant watch over the manor and its inhabitants, apparently keeping copious notes on the comings and goings, and of the terror which had been performed here.

  I decided to remain on the ground floor to start my search and took the path to my left. I trod carefully so as not to make any noise and, seeing that there was light ahead coming from the holes in the walls which spied into the rooms, I blew out my candle. It was as the candle was snuffed that I heard my first noises from inside the house; it was the sound of men talking.

  I crept forwards to the first viewing point and hesitantly peered through. This was the drawing room that Williams had spoken of. Now sitting in the room, as far as I could see from my vantage point, were a number of men dressed in evening wear, lounging on plush couches, drinking and smoking cigars. Their conversations were many and mostly carried out in quiet mumbles. Occasionally I would hear the odd word. It was nothing of import: discussions on articles seen in the newspapers, a sudden impromptu laugh or guffaw. It was no different from any other drawing room in any stately home or gentlemen’s club throughout the country.

  I have to say that I was a little disappointed in this; it was not as if I wished to hear tales of human sacrifice and worship of long-dead foreign witches but I had expected something a little out of the ordinary.

  As I looked around the room I found that I recognised some of the gentlemen present; I had sketched them as they came and went at Falconer’s home in Cavendish Square. For me this familiarity was further proof of how these supposed pillars of modern society were as corrupt and foul as I had imagined. They had come here, to Falconer’s country home, for a party, the true nature of which I did not dare to consider. Judges, senior policemen, lawyers and medical men, the cream of British society, were all gathered here to revel in their murderous schemes.

  There were large double doors in the far corner of the drawing room, by the side of which stood two tall men in the livery of house staff. Young women in grey woollen maids’ uniforms wandered about the room, refilling glasses and lighting cigars for the men; I had seen these uniforms before, for they were the clothes worn by the staff sent to Falconer by Marcus Tandry. The anger within me surged.

  The double doors opened and a familiar figure came into sight: Mávnos, the doorman from Falconer’s Cavendish Square home, entered slowly, dressed in a cloak of white fur and a headpiece adorned with large teeth. Despite his height he held his head high and carried himself as if he were the Lord of the Manor himself. As if to play to this charade, there was immediate silence and all eyes in the room settled upon him.

  ‘Gentlemen, thank you for coming this evening – a night that will live long in our memories,’ he said. ‘I have received word that Lord Falconer is on his way but has been slightly delayed. He sent a message to say that we should start dinner without him and that he will be joining us once we have dined and our ceremony is set to begin.’ There was not a murmur within the room; he held their gaze as by magic of some kind. ‘If you will please join me in the dining room, I have been assured by the cook that tonight’s meal will be one to remember.’ He turned sharply and walked back through the doors. Only when he had disappeared from sight did any noise return to the room as the men drained their glasses, put out their cigars and followed him through to dine.

  The doorway was to the left of the room, the same direction that the passageway followed, and so I continued walking until I came to the next thin viewing slot. Before I even reached it, however, I could hear the hubbub of the men as they entered the room and witnessed the dining table; there were cheers and laughter from the gentlemen and I rushed to look through and see what all of the noise was about. As I peered through my very worst fears were realised.

  The table was long, long enough for over thirty men to sit around it. It was dressed in a bright white tablecloth and adorned with silver cutlery, chinaware plates and crystal wine goblets. Along the dark red walls of the room hung large paintings of what I can only imagine to be the parents, grandparents and great-grandparents of the Falconer line, all dressed and posed as if they were royalty and all looking down their noses at the diners as they took their places around the table. The ceiling of the room
was high, with a fresco painting upon the plasterwork of the clouds of heaven, lined with angels all looking down and weeping as they gazed upon the world below them – and weep they should. At the ceiling’s centre hung a large chandelier, the lowest piece of which was a curved knife cut of pure crystal which pointed down at the table’s centrepiece.

  Mávnos stood at the head of the table and waited for the men as they moved their seats back and stood uniformly around the table. They lapsed into silence as they saw him waiting, their arms hanging by their sides, their heads bowing as if in prayer. In the centre of the table lay a bound and gagged Tom Finnan, struggling to free himself from his bonds, his eyes wild in terror.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ called Mávnos, picking up a large knife from the table before him. ‘Before dinner is served, let us, the Domini Mortum, the Lords of Death, in deference to our ancient mother, begin this evening’s proceedings!’ He held the knife aloft as if holding a glass to raise a toast; the men around the table followed suit, each picking up a knife of their own and raising it to point to the centre of the ceiling.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ he cried. ‘The Queen!’

  ‘The Queen!’ they returned and together, in an act of dark union and cruel allegiance, they each thrust a blade into Tom’s body and cheered.

  I could not help it, but I cried out then and banged my fist against the wall. I did not care if they heard or saw me – they could not do this without complaint.

  It would seem that the noise I created was not the surprise that I had hoped it would be; for as my anger burst free and my tears flowed, I was seized on either side by two men who had crept along the passageway behind me. I struggled and fought, but it was to no avail; the wall panel in front of me slid to one side and I was marched into the room to the further cheers of this corrupt gathering.

  ‘It would seem, gentlemen,’ called Mávnos, as the rowdy mob around him grew ecstatic in their frenzy, ‘that our guest of honour has arrived at last. Welcome, Samuel Weaver! We thought that you would never make it to the party!’